It didn’t take me long to learn that in Danish parties and nightclubs, there was a window of time, roughly from 1am to 3am, where social interaction was possible.
Before 1am, Danish men weren’t drunk enough to talk, and after 3, they were too drunk to talk.
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Long ago, before I ever thought of living here, a Danish woman told me that her country was a place with a lot of sex but not very much love.
“What you do,” a Danish girlfriend explained to me, “is you get trashed and go home with somebody.On my very first night in Copenhagen, I went with an American girlfriend to a downtown discotheque. I think Zulus or spacemen would have found some way to communicate with us, but this was apparently beyond the capability of three well-educated Danes.I’m a blonde, and she’s an attractive black woman, so you could say we had something for every taste. Three men sat across from us, a distance of approximately 25 centimeters. Finally, fortified by gin and tonics, we spoke to them first, and they turned out to be nice guys.But that was a lucky night: Since moving here, I have been to many a discoteque where women shake their booty with their girfriends for hours while men watch with pretend disinterest from the sidelines, their eyes radiating invisible beams of desire: Please, miss, ask me to dance. I know it happens; the streets are full of Danish babies.But much like other reported miracles, such as Christ walking on water or an American president delivering a speech he wrote himself, it’s something I’ve never seen with my own eyes.