I ♥ KBH

Here are some sweeping statements about Copenhagen, all of which are probably entirely untrue and more about my willingness to buy into cultural stereotypes of Scandinavians:

1. Everyone in Copenhagen is gorgeous. I have been continuously agog at the constant flow of beautiful, healthy-looking blond people. Everyone is well-dressed in a clean-cut-with-a-funky-edge kind of way. Young Copenhagen men have good hair.

2. Everyone in Copenhagen is under 40, even the people over 60 who seem to keep fit by riding bikes everywhere.

3. Everyone in Copenhagen rides a bike. After a fabulous afternoon (and a boozy night) getting round easily and efficiently on a bike, I can understand why. This is a city that respects cycling and cyclists. Cycling all the time keeps everyone fit and gorgeous (see points 1 and 2).

4. Everyone in Copenhagen is pregnant or has a baby. There is a serious baby boom going on. Pregnant Danish women are all gorgeous and ride bikes, and gorgeous young parents ride their gorgeous young children around in box-carts attached to the front of bikes.

5. Everything is well designed and stylish – hotels, cafes, bars, the metro. The influence of mid 20^th century Danish design is everywhere. I even rode past a McDonalds with armchairs by furniture guru Arne Jacobsen.

Needless to say, my stay in Copenhagen has featured a number of visits to bars, which were fun in a fairly standard international-gay kind of way, except for the very special Café Intime – a tiny, over-decorated old piano bar. On arrival, a strong smell of 1970s perfume (Paco Rabanne?) mixed with cigarette smoke dominated. This may have been connected to the drunk 50-something straight couple at the next table spilling their drinks, or the hilarious, very happy and very drunk 50-something woman propping up the bar, haranguing the barman, and trying to sing along to the old-time French chansons playing on the stereo. At 10pm, an absurdly talented young guy started playing the piano and singing, hovered over by the drunk woman trying to find a rhythm. He too ignored her, but she seemed to be having a ball. Meanwhile, a couple of groups of 20-something hipsters turned up. In a place where the dark red walls are lined with mismatched plates and pictures and where miscellaneous bric-a-brac goes to die (including a faux-Grecian statue wearing a pink lei and a silver bead choker), everyone and everything fits in. I, on the other hand, felt oddly exposed; I finished my beer and made a quiet exit. It was, however, something of a highlight.