Festival Raincoats!

Country 2: Denmark, Copenhagen. A small, uninteresting Scandinavian town on the edge of the Baltic Sea. Such clean lines despite the seemingly old stone buildings... So clean as to almost be sterile.Certainly it had it's charm: cobbled streets, tall, pale Scandics wandering, heavy wheeled bikes, free to let with an deposited kroner, released upon return.
Perhaps the fault was mine. Road weary and sun blurred from a week in latitudes further north, no darkness for days under that reversed hole, the blinding summer sun, no give, only a constant thrust of glare against my senses. But the worst part: no heat to accompany the blaze, only a bitingly chill wind.
And so I arrived in Copenhagen, bruised from the light. Walked around Rådhuspladsen (the city square), Tivoli gardens, and Støget the shopping street, nothing I couldn't see at home. All those tourist traps I was too tired to avoid, yet still, nothing my home did not approximate (or perhaps exceed). And rain. Perhaps that is something I don't see much of at home. A final cooling dark, but one that my body only recognized as foreign and therefore undesireable until my body decompressed and acclimated.Slowly but surely.
No chamber to enter, not sick enough for that; instead a deep dive and a slow surfacing. At an attempt to reach my depths I attended a football match on Saturday in the city square, surrounded on all sides by Danes blurring into red
and white: clothes, face paint, strange hats, all huddled in the grey mist which only served to sharpen the brightness of their clamouring patriotism.



Too bad they lost to Czech Republic.

A few days later, I left for Roskilde. A threateningly grey Wednesday, after a soaking Tuesday.

Day 0: Gladly, the ground wasn't too muddy when I arrived at the festival grounds. But, considering I decided to follow Marc's advice on camping - ie "Bring a tarp to cover yourself in case it rains, don't bother with a tent!"; ie I'm hardcore, I don't need a tent, because I'm a MAN! - I was less than pleased to find myself tentless with a storm looming on the horizon.
So alright, maybe Marcus is not so macho, but he is ultra hardcore, and me, not so much: I'm a wuss. So I was just a little bit worried. But, good luck sometimes likes to visit me. Not more than 50 feet away, as I sat and debated my situation, was another girl named Djinnie (how COOL is that name?!). She tentatively approached me and struck up conversation, eventually asking if I
was alone, and revealing that she too was alone too, her friends having given up for all the mud and rain, but with a two person tent - and, would I like to join her?!
Most certainly, and thank you!
So we pitched camp, settled down and hung out. It is at this unfortunate juncture however, that I found out David Bowie, sexiest man alive, ½ the reason I bought my ticket, was not going to play!!! Pinched a shoulder nerve. And a lollipop in his eye. Sadness! And even worse, who do you think was replacing him? Slipknot. WHAT?!!! How can that be a valid replacement?! How can that even be near an equal exchange?! Grr. I consoled myself with the thought that at least I still had the Pixies...
We went to bed fairly early... Or, what I imagine to be early, since the sky was only beginning to darken. Which means it was maybe 10? i have no idea.

Day 1: 5:30. Yes, 5:30am. Why, you ask, would I, who is oh so prone to sleeping in til odd hours of the afternoon perhaps closer to 5:30pm, have woken up at anti-meridian as opposed to post?
Water. Yes, an ocean in the tent, in our sleeping bags, in my clothes. yuh. So we got up, checked all our stuff into luggage check (thankfully it was free) to prevent further soaking, and walked around in the drizzle wearing only flip flops, trudging through the extremely muddy ground that would have otherwise destroyed our shoes.
Now, a moment about this mud. You might think, oh, it's just mud, who cares?
Which is what I thought at first. But, imagine: its at least ankle deep at all times... unless you get caught in trenches dug to keep the pooling rain water out of campsites, which soon enough became known as Swede traps: an unsuspecting cold dunk in a muddy pool for those inebriated Swedish unused to having liquor so freely available. Really though, it pulled in anyone and
everyone, the copious amounts rain disguising solid land from foot-deep pools of muddy water which, even if you have boots on, would probably result in very muddy, very soggy socks and feet. Even without those trecherous Swede traps, slogging through that much mud isn't the easiest thing in the world, suction causing its own difficulties. Each step you take pulls at your footwear and splashes mud onto your trousers, even if they are rolled up.And not only that, but after walking a few feet, you sniff the air, laden with some familiar pungence... Oh yes, that's right. For the rest of the year, when these fields aren't moonlighting as a festival grounds, this is a cow field!
*step* cowpat *step* cowpat *step* cowpat *step* hey mu- ...oh wait, no, that's a cowpat too.
And then you take a look around. Hey, all those walls and fences, didn't we see people pissing on them yesterday? Oh yeh, it smells a bit like that too. So there we were trudging in at least half a foot of mud, shit and piss, wandering aimlessly for lack of a dry place to sleep or really, anything
better to do.
At one point of our wander, Dj gets so fed up with the suction that in one swift motion, before I can stop her, she doffs her flips and tosses them in a bin. She declares that she is absolutely sick of them, and barefoot can only be better.
Until but a few minutes later, she slices her foot open on a broken bottle! So she hobbles through this mud and shit and piss to the first aid area (thankfully there was one), to wash and disinfect her foot. And you know what the nurse says? "Make sure you keep that out of the mud!" Right. And how were we to do that, ma'am?
So instead we went right back out and kept on trudging. It was only 6am, mind, and we were not at our sharpest.

Eventually we found a small wooden structure, looming out of the mist.
Shelter! We found it to contain: two Danish boys, one Festival Guard, and one plant. Wait. I mean: a plant that was a theremin! We chatted with the (rather drunk and sleep deprived) boys, Birk and Rolf (who reminded me a bit of an art boy from back home), and played with the there-plant. Eventually they heard our plight and invited us to their camp to get some spare shoes on, meet their fellow campmates, and sleep. Oh luck and kindness!
I don't believe Djinnie got around to taking that nap, but I shuffled in a few blessed hours in a cozy dry sleeping bag: much needed, much appreciated.Then one of the fellow campers, Mikkel, amidst mock Irish accented screaming of "Festival T-Shirts, Festival Raincoats!!" (which since became our festival battle cry) dragged us all to see the Dropkick Murpheys: a little taste of home on this distant shore.
Afterwards, Dj and I went to check out the tent, and of course were not pleased. Still sopping, so we covered our tent with a tarp to protect it from further rain (or keep what water was already in there from evaporating, as the case may be), and decided to leave it for later. Why, I don't know, except, well, we just didn't want to deal with it. Avoidance solves everything, after all. That is to say: we were still much too tired to be thinking properly.
So instead, we headed back to Camp Sgu and got to know Birk and Rolf and the rest better.



Djin and I finally moved into action as it started getting dark, and went to get a new tent and possibly new sleeping bags. We somehow persuaded Birk and Kaspar to muck through all that mud with us, which made the trek infinitely more enjoyable. In the walk over, Kaspar and I played "hit me hug me comb me."'What?' you say? Apparently there was a "glitter patrol" at the festival, giving out hugs and stickers that said <<>> That is: "hug me." But in Danish, <<>> is hit me, and <<>> is comb me. Weird, but fun stuff. Of course my favorite part of the game was getting him to tell me how to pronounce ram mig, and then hitting him, cause, well, he told me to.
Yes, I am evil.
After our walk all the way across the entire festival fields we finally got to the store. & of course they were out of 2 person tents, and the 3 person ones are quite a bit more expensive. & then we figured our sleeping bags couldn't be that wet. So we settled for air mattresses and a blanket, picked up our sleeping bags out of check and returned to our tent.

And wouldn't you just know, the water in our things did not just magically disappear out of everything. Isn't that such a surprise?! In fact, our sleeping bags and our tent were still dripping when we tried to go to sleep. Common sense should have told us better, but tiredness and procrastinating personalities didn't incite us to do anything until it was far too late. Well,
now we have first hand experience to teach us too: We have since learned not to ever sleep in a wet sleeping bag, and a wet tent. The hard way.

Day 2: We woke up again around 5:30, cold and shivering, though not from new water this time, as the mattresses worked quite nicely. But wet sleeping bags and a wet tent are a surefire way to getting very sick, very fast.

So, enough! Dj decided she'd had enough: she was feeling sick, had a gash on her muddied foot, and wanted to go home. More than understandable. I was pretty close to it too, except I really wanted to see the Pixies, and what would I do if I had gone all the way to Roskilde, to Denmark and didn't see the Pixies?!
But then I actually got up, got out of the tent and helped Dj pack up, and fully felt the weight of my tiredness, saw the mud, saw my lack of shoes... the ones I had borrowed the night before were muddy beyond repair. Well, they started out muddy, and somehow got even muddier. At least Mikkel said I could keep them, so I didn't have to feel guilty about destroying already destroyed shoes that were gifted to me. But all the same, what to do now?!
Just as Dj was about ready to go, some random guy came over and invited us to join them while they parteed. Dj had definitely made up her mind to go, so she said no, and I was still unsure where I was headed. But Dj was ready by this time, so we had a parting hug, and exchanged emails before she mucked her way out of the muddy campgrounds, disappearing in the grey misting air, leaving me behind to wonder about my fate at the festival.

There was certainly plenty else to wonder about, but I figured, one at a time: shoes. Perhaps I'd wrap them in that otherwise previously useless tarp, then sludge through, and figure it out from there? It seemed the best option at the time, the alternative being to slip on my flips, and make another go at near-barefoot slogging: No thanks.

Random Party Guy Martin, who had really only bargained for inviting a couple of girls to a party, was nice enough to help me try to tie this thick sheet of plastic around my calves with naught but regular celo tape - not even a bit of string to help us along! Finally, staring at the ungiving plastic, the useless bits of tape, and the wide gaping holes between me and the mud, we came to the conclusion that the current plan wasn't going to work.
I desperately willed for some inspiration to hit.

Cue Random Guy Kenned, running up, from the same direction Martin had just come from. He glanced down at our failed project and said "it's a bust, hey, I'll get you new shoes! What size are you?"
"Uh, 38." How are you going to get me shoes?
"Ohkei, great!"
He shot off, and a few minutes later came back with a pair of 41 sized boots with layers of caked mud, and slightly less muddy bits showing pastel rainbows and hearts peering out from underneath - boots that quite obviously did not belong to the towering Norseman standing in front of me, offering said boots. "Here."
"Who's are those?" Maybe they are his friend's boots, and he has permission to loan them out. Just maybe!
With a nonchalent shrug he said, "I dunno. Try them on."
"Wait, you don't know? They aren't yours. You have to put them back!"
"Oh I can't return them. That just doubles the chance of getting caught."
"But they aren't yours, put them back. Someone needs these!"
"Okay, okay, hang on," and shot off again. Without the boots. I stared at them, and then looked askance at Martin. Until Kenned returned. With two more pairs of boots.
Holding them out to me, he said "Well, I figured maybe you didn't like the style, or they were too big. Try these on."
I stared blankly.
"...I'll just keep bringing you shoes until you wear a pair."
Wha-! "Will you return the others if I put on a pair?"
"mmmm... ok!"

So, accomplice in theft I became. Not a proud moment - but in the end still thankful for having dry feet.
So with shiny new boots (ohkei, neither shiny nor new, but new to me and most importantly waterproof), and Martin's help, I checked in the rest of my stuff, and went back to their campsite. Though all I had wanted to do was find a place to sleep or at least figure out my next move, it seemed rude not to join their party by that point.

On the way back from check, Martin and my conversation turned to his companions at the party. "I should tell you, they do drugs. I hate it, I don't even really know them that well either. They're friends with my cousin, though. And I'm just waiting to go on shift."Apparently he was a volunteer for the festival, which meant he had to work a few shifts, but he got into the festival for free. Sounded cush.

But then the druggies. Oh goodie. It's was a bit late by then though, as we were almost
to their camp, so I joined them anyway. Of course, when Martin had said "drugs" I
was thinking, oh pot, or something. I certainly hadn't expected to see white
powdery lines, scraped together with credit cards and snorted through plastic drinking straws cut down to size.
No, coke is way past my comfort level.
And then Kenned greeted us, came straight up to me, gesturing for me to sit, his pale blue eyes staring into mine, his face close enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek, told me with intensity and dead seriousness about his 7 year girlfriend that had been cheating on him, and that was why he was doing it. He'd been snooping on her texts, and the result was those coke ridden eyes locked inches from mine.I shifted uncomfortably, and tried to make sympathetic noises. Tried to be nonjudgemental. Though I'll admit, it's a bit tough when you have a strange man over a foot taller than you and probably double your weight leaning precariously close to
you.
I stayed exactly long enough for social politeness before taking my hasty leave. Odd to think what society has ingrained in us as politeness, but I suppose they were nice enough despite their habits. Still trying to be nonjudgemental.
I tried to wander about a bit, but it was still much too early for activity around the campgrounds, nevermind at the festival.
So instead I sat and contemplated my situation. Mud and rain just aren't my style, and even with dry feet, I was tentless and admittedly a bit shaken by the Kenned's intensity... Even with a full night's sleep and warm dry clothes, it might have been a a bit much, but so early in the morning, and running on fumes, it tipped me towards deciding to leave the festival.

So with heavy steps (literally as well as figuratively) I went back to B & R's camp to pick up my very muddy umbrella and the food I left there earlier, in preparation to pack up and leave. Just as I arrived, Lise and Mathilde were stirring, and greeted me at the entrance. A quick chat later, they discerned my intentions to leave and very sweetly demanded that I stay! With the festival just beginning, I had no excuse to leave. And if I needed a tent in which to crash, well, I was welcome to stay there!
Weelllll, when they put it like that... I figured I should at least stay for the Pixies. With a dry place to sleep among friendly folk, and thick boots to keep my feet clean and warm, the muddy grey day did not look nearly so daunting, as it did after those hauntingly intense blue eyes.

Night fell, the Pixies took the stage and.... they were alright. They can still play, but there really wasn't much movement on stage. Kim Deal stayed at her mic, maybe a small smile crossing her lips every so often, but that's as much emotion as the audience experienced from them. A little disappointing. But at least they can still play technically well (I want you to know), and they did all the songs I wanted to hear. So while my high expectations weren't quite met, I wasn't too disappointed either. It's the Pixies live, for the first time in ages, after all.
Not quite the expected rush but back to the tent for drunkeness and festival debauchery which made up for it.

Of course, at this point, I was still the owner of a very wet a sleeping bag. In a bit of a drunken haze, I realized that it was time to get a new one. So Birk and I trudged over to the camp store to find... the store was already closed. So of course I realize I should have bought my sleeping bag the night before, and maybe i would have had a sleeping bag the night before, not be sick now.
Plus I wouldn't have had to accept Birk's offer to let me sleep in his sleeping bag while he stayed up all night. Oh guilt! But I've learned that, though not to be relyed upon, the kindness of strangers is sometimes the perfect answer to a situation, and to do anything other than accept is to close yourself to the gifts the world may offer you. So for the first time since I got to the festival, I had a good night's sleep.

With such a kindly crowd, and repeated insistance that I stay on through the festival, I did exactly that! After finally obtaining my own dry sleeping bag, I had a wonderful time. Thanks to Djinnie as well as Camp Sgu!
And during my tenure with Camp Sgu, they seranaded me: <<>> as in <<>> as in, you're one of us! wooo! Now I'm an honorary Dane as well as an honorary Aussie (fancy, I was in Scotland when I became an honorary Aussie too).

Days 3 & 4: Through the intermittant rain, we were occassionally graced with sun: those brilliant, if fleeting, moments of bright and shining happiness inducing sun. But even the rain was greeted with friendly defiance, as we sank into the rhythm of the festival.



Among the bands seen:
- Dropkick Murpheys = Rock! They even covered Fairytale of New York!
- Graham Coxon had the audience yelling his name "Gray-ham" in a plea for an encore. uh....? But he was really good!
- Pixies, see above
- Royal Danish Opera rocked so much! People started waving their arms at one point and one of the lead vocalists started laughing out loud. The audience certainly was not versed in appropriate times to applaud, but everyone, including the performers, had a wonderful time anyway.
- I Am Kloot are the most unoriginal and boring British bands I've ever
heard! I hate Oasis, but even they are better than I Am Kloot. (sorry Nina)
- Lali Puna could have been good, but the audio balance sucked so much it was difficult to tell. There was way too much bass, and it was really hard to hear the vox, so I left. I was getting hungry anyway.
- The Shins were pretty good, but I was also pretty drunk by then.
- Wire was pretty good. At this point I had started sobering up, but was also getting pretty tired. Some much older man tried to start a conversation with me in the middle of the set, but I wanted none of it! Who tries to talk during a concert?!
So tiredness and attempted distraction drove me to leave after only a few songs.
- Zero 7 were pretty damn good, and had lots of Danish girls guest voxing
- Ben Harper was packed, and I got to a bit late as there was a bit of an overlap with Zero 7. I ended up having to stand outside the tent, straining to hear, when it started to rain. The sound was crap outside the tent, and I was absolutely uninterested in getting wet, so I left. But the 4 songs I heard were decent.
- Muse started their set on the last day of the festival in the late afternoon. By this time I was so drunk I wasnt sure I could even stand up out of the mud. But what little I remember of it before I left as well was really good, confirmed also by my friends' recount later.

Day 5: The Morning After. The wasteland that is an emptying festival grounds is quite depressing: trash everywhere, destroyed tents, even the scent of burning plastic. But even more depressing is thinking I'll probably never see any of my festival friends again. But man what a 4 days! I'm definitely glad I went, definitely glad I stayed. (definitely grateful for those boots, even if I'm still feeling a bit guilty). On the way out, we saw a truck stuck in the mud, with planks shoved under to try to help it out. I'm not sure how the truck even got so far in before getting stuck, but shortly after being unstuck, as soon as it left the planks, the tires were very quickly remired in the mud.

...

Now I'm decompressing in Copenhagen at kindly wonderful Birk's, trying to recover from this damned cold, and trying to decide what's next. I miss home, oh sun! And I miss being able to do nothing whatsoever, and not feel too guilty about incurring travel expenses (then again I guess I'm doing that now- but only because I'm sick and I've got a place to stay)...
So - 1) soldier onward to Oslo, in which case, I'll probably have to go through all of Scandinavia and to either Tallinn or Riga before I can get a train to Munich (from whence I fly out) or 2) bus from here to Berlin, and then train to Munich (cheaper than a straight train to Munich, plus I get to see Berlin again). Onward or homeward? Oh decisions! More later, I suppose, from where I don't know.