Singing is not his strong point (he sounds like Max Groucho doing the opera) and he has constantly resisted my numerous amorous advances. But, I think he’s pretty hot … at least while I am away from home and in urgent need of someone on whom to channel my ‘frustrations.’ Haha. No, but really.
Anyway. Cute Bhutanese aka Copenhagen Distraction wrote the article below. Interesting writing. Reminds me of my first encounter with the Holy Weed.
By Mitra Raj Dhital
‘Everything is but an apparition, perfect in being what it is,’ the great 14th century master Longchen Rabjam said.
‘Since there is no good or bad, acceptance or rejection, one may well burst out in laughter!’
I hear this teaching on non-attachment in many different forms but learn what it means on the calm streets of Copenhagen.
The lesson comes to me in the heart of the city, at the end of a narrow lane called Pusher Street, off the easy going free town district called Christiania (built on the barracks of Badmandsstraede, on the island of Amager in Copenhagen).
As I navigate the throngs of laidback revelers, slinky, over-painted and faintly odorous women accost my arm and purr, ‘Hashish.’
I head straight for the small group of rough looking men standing around a cluster of brightly hissing lamps, like the crew of an ancient ship. The head priate has dirty blond hair tied in a ponytail and when he grins, he reveals a perfect set of uneven teeth. On his arm a tattoo depicts the quintessence of Scandinavian machismo, the roaring tiger engirdled by a blazing dragon.
Somewhat frighteningly, the leering head pirate throws back his head and nods at his wares.
‘Wiss one you want? You want? Don’t want?’
‘Yes want,’ I say, somewhat timidly, pointing at my selection. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse other patrons already indulging themselves. My pulse quickens.
From the table next to me a tall sultry woman with drooping eyelids and her ‘boyfriend’ – a much older man with a large beer gut, safari shorts and unsightly legs – gets right to business, smacking their lips while biting a black bar from Morocco.
At first the sounds the couple make distract me from the dish I have in front of me. But presently, all caution gone with the wnd, I too abandon myself to the sensual pleasures of Christiania, traveling via my lungs to the rest of my body.
I begin to float in a delirium. I drift above the blaring music and garish lights blinking from the late night bars, the entire river of life flowing uninterrupted below me.
I transcend the ripe smells from the drains, the collective messy odours of humanity and myriad excrements of the city. I enter a state I can only describe as The Bliss. I am transfigured in the throes of herb-induced ecstasy.
Finally, it settles as a deep fulfillment somewhere in the nether regions of my heart. I am drenched from all I have supped, physically and spiritually.
In an instant of satiation, I understand why Buddha is sometimes described as a lotus blooming in a dirty pond. That this exquisite experience comes to me from the free city is proof enough of the potential for the sublime to arise from the profane.
Afterwards, I make a deep and humble gesture to the tattooed pirate Buddha with his uneven teeth. He smiles a cosmic smile that immediately unites him with all the other Buddha faces I have seen. Then, unexpectedly, he reaches over and pats my back and says, ‘You find Morocco here. Christiania very good.’
Staggering to my feet and surveying the impressive stack of cigarette butts, I have to agree.
‘Yes. Christiania Very Good.’
I want to return the following evening, but I am warned about a likely encounter with the Danish police.
The government is not particularly sympathetic with the tax free hippie lifestyle of the 800 or so Christianians, I am told.
Nearby, the Church of Our Savior looks majestic with the gold spiral towers.
I don’t exactly burst out laughing, but I can’t resist a smile.