An American Jew in Copenhagen

In the mid-1970s I was the proverbial Wandering Jew. Born and raised in Atlanta, my younger sister and I had an erratic upbringing, having lost our mother to cancer when I was 10, then raised by a series of governesses. Though my mother was Jewish, my father was Protestant and a churchgoer, and consequently I never was bar mitzvahed. My sister adjusted well, eventually marrying and raising a family. As for me, after making the rounds of private schools, I dropped out of college and, after a couple of years on the West Coast, was bumming around Europe. I had seen all the trademark sights: London, Paris, Rome, Berlin, Amsterdam, the Alps. People I’d met had spoken well of Copenhagen. The few specifics that stood out appealed to me: Copenhagen was on the concert circuit, weed was easy to get and, most appealing, there were blondes. Lots of blondes.

On the surface, Copenhagen looks rather generic European, a city of brick and concrete and tile and verdigris dulled by leaden skies. It’s also a flat city, with a flat skyline pierced by church towers and the occasional high-rise. Being flat makes Copenhagen a city of bike riders. Everybody bikes here, from kids peddling to school, to suited businessmen and women peddling to work.

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From Tablet Magazine