Siobhan is mad at me and has gone off in a huff.
I leave to go into a student pub. It is early evening, in Copenhagen, young people crowding the bar.
At the back are the toilets, three stalls and when one comes free I check it out. Surprisingly it has clean white walls, and enough toilet roll, though the paper is grey. Then another comes free so I check to see if it is better. More rolls, white paper this time, also clean. And the last comes free so I check it too… I’ve been in student bars before. I need to be clean before facing the music and toilet dreams never end well.
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Back at the first stall, I lift my travel pack and suit jacket onto a hook. The space is huge. Paper lines the bowl, thoughtfully. There is room to set everything down but when I start to sit, the liner slides off. A bright red foot tray is under the paper, follows the rim of the seat, in case you want to squat, feet balanced on the bowl. It is clean too, so I forget about the liner, remove the foot tray and sit directly on cold ceramic.
Outside it is bright enough for sunglasses, a beach town with a whitewashed glare; I haven’t been to Copenhagen, but I swear I am there. 1920s cars with gold headlamps on stalks gently meander and squawk, but the taxis are the black London cabs, they honk and are in a hurry. When I cross the road the old fashioned cars are the ones to stop, even when I am not at a cross road.
I climb a road curving up and to the left, past T-shirt stores, buckets of ice cream and Threshers, souvenirs stands selling rubber rings and air filled dolphin floats.
Across the road, Siobhan is eating at a restaurant, a covered terrace, balcony enclosed by a white picket fence. She is by the pavement’s edge and sees me, so I cut across the road and step through the gate, squeeze towards her table. A waitress carves the route, through tables crammed with people shoulder to shoulder.
Once I am by her side I ask Siobhan, What are you eating? but she is not talking to me. I tell the waitress, I will have French fries, Siobhan, the house salad.
Just as I am settling down, two young women also take their seats. We are packed tight, elbows touching, two round white tables pressed together, jostling for space, neither big enough for lunch.
The closest woman is blonde, short spiky hair, heavy black mascara traces her eyes.
Our plates arrive. She pulls out a deck of cards and deals a hand to her friend. She fans her cards, holds them up and away from my gaze.
“Stop shaking your carbs,” she says, only half amusingly, and I am at a loss for words.
“I can itch them instead,” I reply. But my joke falls flat.
She and her friend turn their noses up at at me, and Siobhan looks away.
Postcard by Hagens World via Flickr
