Greg takes us on a tour of the Eternal City and Calabria–the Alabama of Italy. The bros compare Italian and Nordic character and habits, and discuss the Afro-Muzziepocalypse. The signs are everywhere, but is there enough awareness of the problem for anything to get done. AI brings you this report from the Front.
Girls love to complain. Its a deeply cathartic experience for them. They snuggle up to you real close so you can feel their body pressed up against yours, their scent washes up unnoticed at first, but pleasant, familiar and laced with estrogen… Just when you’re relaxed and ready to doze off, she starts breathing irregularly, and shaking. She looks up, her eyes shrink-wrapped in tears and unleash a torrent of doubt and deep-seated insecurity that rocks you to the core.
“Where did this come from?”
Its hard to make any logical sense of the situation, so you just start asking questions. “What is wrong? Why this sudden burst of emotion? Why can’t we logically address your concerns and fix the situation?” In response, you of course get more tears and hysterics about how you are supposed to be on her side, and how you are a bad boyfriend.
Girls don’t want to hear you offer well-thought out solutions. They just want you to be there for them. They need a vessel to emotionally offload onto. The more unstable the girl, the more vitriol is unleashed when the floodgates are opened. You gotta talk with them too, give helpful prompts here and there, but mostly just soak it all in. At the end of couples therapy, nothing is solved, but nothing matters. She sniffles up and feels better after awhile and all is well…Until next week when the exact same biblical flood wells up and threatens to wash away your last buttresses of sanity…
I’ve noticed some parallels between weepy women and the Dissident Right. Baby steps towards moving to our goals are met with shrill cries of complaint, and accusations of being one of (((them))). “Its just a FBI honey-pot, a kike scam, or a gay gangbang.” That’s what the shills will say regardless of the organization trying to make even the slightest effort to going beyond posting Pepe Memes.
These Radical Defeatists even tried to shit on Trump in the early days. Thankfully, Generation Trump put them in their place.
The Left is similar in this sense, it is worth pointing out that many radicals on the far left are constantly pushing their agenda down the throats of moderate liberals who lack the testicular fortitude and philosophical grounding to stand up to the fringe. So they get co-opted and used by the Radical Left.
If they just kept quiet and let the liberal creep continue unabated they would have all their anti-white goals achieved within 30 to 40 years anyway. Now instead of boiling the frog softly with little complaint, they have started to cajole Corn-fed, Comfy and Complacent Middle America into making a wobbly stand against the liberal agenda.
There are elements on the Right that just want to rage, rage, rage at the jewish nightmare of a world that we live in BUT also to rage at anyone offering a semblance of a plan to dig our way out of the mess. The scorched-earth “just wait for Hitler” mentality, and its counter part, “let it all burn” brother ideology are mentalities that the Alt-Right should actively oppose.
Complaining is the first step and deeply cathartic for many Westerners. I don’t mean to knock it. It takes guts to start bitching in the West, because your whole life, you have been told that everything is fine and that anyone who isn’t ecstatic 24/7 deserves to be put on medication until they can show them pearly whites for the camera again.
I wish I was exaggerating, but travelling around and seeing different European cultures has shown me just how weird the Anglo-sphere is. In places like Russia, bitching about shit is a way of life. You meet a friend, have some drinks and gripe a bit. There’s no psychiatrist, no mind-altering pills, just some vodka and a nice bitch session.
And you know what? It works!
Americans are the only people I know that habitually cry when they are drunk. Men and women. I thought this was normal for awhile, until I realized it’s not. And it may not necessarily be a macho thing between feminized America vs rough Russia, but a mental health thing instead. Basically, repressed emotion breaking out in the only way it knows how.
So thats fine, I get it, start bitching. Its a good first step. Say that you’re pissed, and that you know why. Not self-destructive whining, or helpless nihilism, but constructive bitching. Go for it, man.
But very soon, shit is going to have to get done, and get done fast. So get your shit together quick.
I am struck by the problems that the White Army had in the Russian Civil War. They were an army consisting almost entirely of officers. It was a bloody war, and there are stories of entire battalions consisting of junior officers.
Despite the heroism (and brutality) of the White Army, they ended up losing the Civil War, mostly because they couldn’t get any of the various peasant uprising to join their cause. They had a problem reaching across class lines and rallying the masses against the deeply unpopular Bolsheviks. This was despite the marauding requisitions battalions of Red soldiers, the perceived foreigness of the Bolsheviks, and deep lingering loyalty to the Tsar…
And in the Alt-Right we have a cocktail bar problem. A class divide. Most of the people that I have met through NPI have been upper-middle class or outright upper class folks. They know the red-pill talking points, but they are often knee-deep in Bobo, SWPL society, and are divorced from the grass-roots, coarser, salt of the earth natural conservatives that they share an ideological similiarity with.
In my less sympathetic appraisal of the NPI crowd, I can broadly cast the net and proclaim that these are the types that stress the importance of “hiding your power level” and sniff at the people openly flying Confederate flags or “revealing their power level” in other ways. And it makes sense from their point of view, sheltered in their middle-class apparachtik job, and surrounded by SWPL society- to do otherwise would be social suicide.
They also tend to be the more autistic, hyper-intelligent and bow-tie wearing members of our movement. White nationalism seems to be more of an intellectual exercise for them, and not borne out of a deep feeling of love for their people. Most of these Dissidenti types are also the most concerned with PR- a legitimate concern- but one that coincides with the needs of their socio-economic position in society. Their attitude can be a bit too convenient.
Which is why I suggest a “hoodlum/hooligan/prole” outreach program.
Richard Spencer- our lord and fuhrer- may believe that 5000 dollar membership fees to elite Phalanx sekrit klubs might be the way to propel the Alt-Right into the institutions through Gramscian inflitration, but it may be the path to circle-jerking and just recreating an Alt-Right WASP-like microcosm.
But lest it be said that we here at AI are all complaint and no action, here are some suggestions that we’ve cooked up.
The last couple of NPI conferences have been picketed by Antifa protesters, so heres a suggestion: we roll in together.
We all meet up ahead of time in a designated location and form up. We bring flags…Or not, it doesn’t really matter. We come well-dressed, in suits and we hold our heads high. We don’t slink in one by one through an Antifa gauntlet.
Marching like this gives us the benefit of showing our strength and fostering a spirit of martial unity. We roll in like an army, and we roll out like a band of brothers. Speaking from experience, it can be intimidating going in blind to a conference of fashy goys, and knowing that, we should work to emulate the methods of our European brothers.
The prospect of a “march,” however small, informal and impromptu gives the younger members a feeling of “doing something.” It attracts a youthful vigor and gives us that edginess that Spencer always waxes poetically about with his Ivy league thespian lisp.
No organizations within the greater organization.
People naturally coalesce with other people of a similar socio-economic postition, thats simply human nature. But having neo-pagan types waltz around with their noses up and complain about “Storm-proles” is a disconcerting aspect of the experience.
But hey, who am I to judge. I’m just a Slav that was catapulted into Anglo-Jew society from an early age and came out feeling jaded. If I see some worrying elitist tendencies within NPI, then its not my place to judge. Only I worry about the viability of the model. Whether the NRx LARPers like it or not, we live in a mass democracy, and if the Alt-Right focuses on strutting around acting like the officers of a non-existent army, they may end up like the White Russians in the civil war.
I was going to initially just write a post about what I saw in Stockholm’s old town. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that a story about another quaint European little town with cobblestones and narrow alleys wasn’t really what I wanted to write.
It was hard to enjoy the old town because it was incredibly overpriced, was quiet as a graveyard and it was populated almost entirely by Boomers.
I call them Boomers, but I have no idea what they are called in Sweden. They are just these middle-aged Swedes with BMW’s that love to cruise up at 30 km per hour to Old Town, get the velvet rope rolled back by the Arab security and toss back some overpriced wine while decked out in blazers, pearls and artsy scarves.
They don’t pay attention to you…at all, (keeping with the old Swedish tradition of ignoring waves of foreigners descending upon your country) and just go about their business of wining and dining. At some of the more popular posh restaurants in old town, the setting is absolutely picturesque. Cobblestone streets, cherub-decorated fountains and little cafes with sprawling verandas and the latest gas lamps flickering with artful tongues of dancing flame. It takes your breath away how beautiful it all is. And in the middle of it all are these tall Swedish men with their swept back hair and shuffling little old man steps and slightly hunched shoulders. The women are these social X-rays, thin and artfully decked out in the most expensive non-descript clothing. They are a race of super WASPs.
I was struck by how differently Swedes treated us in downtown Stockholm vs the suburbs and the southern city of Malmo. Stockholm felt like prep school all over again. But in the suburbs, people were different. Less well-dressed and…coarser. They weren’t these super thin, super coiffed aliens that we had come to expect. Rather they were…normal.
There were fat white Swedes interspersed among the hordes of Hajis. The men didn’t speak English- an abnormality in a 90% English speaking country. The women were coarser, fatter, and dressed like Russians- leather jackets, boots and ripped jeans.
But back to old town.
Occasionally Greg and I would put our feet up on a bench and soak it all in. Through the windows of some 18th century french windows we could see a group of beautiful women in gorgeous dresses and jewelry dining all together in some posh restaurant. They were young, still in their twenties and absolutely radiant. Greg snapped a pic and we both grinned at each other guiltily. We felt like voyeurs getting a first row seat to something that commoners like us weren’t supposed to be seeing.
Greg, feeling more attuned to the subtle social pressure of not being seen as gawking tourists kept us moving, whereas I would have been content to slav squat a little longer. I couldn’t help but notice how there weren’t any police there, and how there was absolutely no diversity to be seen. I could have squatted as long as I damn well pleased…
I used to think that this gated community phenomenon was something confined to anglo-sphere countries where even before the teeming masses of the third world were invited in, upper-crust ruffle-collar wearing Calvinist types would self-segregate into communities of Elect and proceed to burn each other at the stake for perceived sins against the long-necked values of the community. But we saw a lot of the same phenomenon in Sweden.
This, coupled with their Preventative Politeness ™- a strategy used by goodwhytes whereby they keep distance between you and them by dialing the politeness up to 110%. You feel like you can’t breach the shield of politeness because to do so would be impolite. Its a vicious cycle and a deadly defense against pesky tourist innocently asking where the nearest pet shop is. I’ve only really ever seen it used in anglo-sphere countries, which coupled with perfect rows of gleaming white teeth makes meaningful conversation nigh-impossible.
But back to Old Town, again.
The Swedes have a tradition of getting really really really drunk. I saw more drunkeness there in my short week-long trip than in my entire time in Russia. Let that sink in. They just do it in an oh so Swedish way. They drink until they can barely walk, but they don’t make a sound. The busses are filled with bottles and bobbing heads and the stink of liquor. But they are silent as well. A group of English chav tourists broke the monotony as they ambled down the streets chatting amonst each other, looking for a place to piss. I never thought I’d be so happy to see drunken British tourists in my life.
Even they couldn’t break the eery quiet for long, however. We kept walking, turning down alleys and mainstreets, soaking it all in. I was struck by how insulated this place was. It was like a retirement community for the Swedish race. Established Boomers with property and net value probably in the low millions wining and dining amidst the disintegration of their nation.
When we moved to Malmo, we lived with a similar Swede. Like all the older Swedes, he seemed to know the country was sunk, but didn’t seem to care much about it. “Invest in property,” he advised us, “make sure to put your first million in property and wait 5 years.”
“You really can’t go wrong with property,” his girlfriend chimed in.
I nodded again with a grin on my face and said, “I wish I had invested my first million in property! What a mistake!”
“Its never too late.” He intoned seriously at me.
But what about Old Town?
I thought to myself: “What a waste.” I imagined families there, with little kids playing in the fountains and climbing the statues of heroes slaying dragons. I imagined some bottles and cigarette butts on the ground from teens out for a night of fun and danger. I imagined car horns and church bells peeling. In short, I imagined Russia, or rather I imagined what Russians would have done with a place like Stockholm’s old town. It would be dirtier, more crowded and the immaculately restored building would be cracked and peeling from neglect. But there would be life where there is now a pretty graveyard.
The Boomers, like everywhere in the West, don’t seem to care. They’ve got theirs, in Old Town, Stockholm. Its the scrap heap for the rest of us though.
Leaving Rome was another clusterfuck. I knew it would be, so I went to “Termini” central station three days ahead of time to put everything in order. Despite my efforts, the genius of Italy saw to it that there would be a last-minute fiasco.
At first, everything seemed to be working. I arrived 50 minutes early, found my train on the big board, and saw the platform number. Ah, time for a coffee. Fortunately the line was too long or did not exist, so I decided to skip the espresso and board. I went to the gate to enter the platform and showed my EURail pass to the guy, along with my reservation; of course I had my passport handy too. He scanned my papers and said calmly, “No, no no no, you need a stampa, to validate.” Are you serious? I had already traveled 5 times on this document in anal-retentive Scandinavia without anyone saying anything about a validation stamp.
The officer-guy directed me “al centro, i alla sinestra.” He meant I had to go to the biglietteria–the ticket gallery, which I had tried to use the other day. The biglietteria is a mini-DMV, except the employees aren’t black, just inefficient and insouciant. I took a number. There were at least 10 Americans in front of me and probably some Germans, and my train was leaving in 35 minutes. The women at the counter were taking their sweet time answering every moronic inquiry in Italianglish and typing. And there might be a cigarette break any moment now. I knew it was hopeless.
As I learned my first day in Rome, act like it’s a crisis and people will help you. But I could not simply push to the counter and demand a stamp before my number was called. That would cause an incident–operating in Italy takes more subtlety. So I stopped thinking like a Nord and embraced my inner I-tie. Processes here are not linear, but fluid. I dropped my pack and sprawl-prawled onto the station floor, amidst a crowd of panicked and frustrated non-Italians, pulled out my papers, and wrote my own goddamn validation. I antedated it 26.05.16 and signed my father’s initials. If some guy asked “eeeyy! La stampa! Dove e?” I would just say I got it validated in a shit-tier country like Greece. They would understand.
This time I decided to play it right. I strode up to the usher and passed him my papers hurriedly. He didn’t even ask about the stamp this time. Okayed, I gave everyone around me an earful of my unmelodic, manly American accent, “Haha, so goddamn American!”
A Lost World
Rome was just the beginning. As my train went south, I descended into the husk of the Classical world. Oswald Spengler–my God and prophet–theorized that European cultures were of two types: Apollonian and Faustian. The ancient Greeks and Romans were Apollonians–their imaginations were obsessed with static form, rootedness to the earth, the present moment and the noonday sun. Thus they were the complete antithesis of our, post-Roman, Faustian Culture, with its emphasis on thrusting motion, boundless space, and and a strong sense of time–all symbolized by the dawn. All very mystical and unprovable, but astute.
Rome is the frontier of the Faustian world. built atop the ruins of an Apollonian metropolis. On the other hand, Naples, Salerno, Sapri. with their white, yellow, pinkish-beige houses inset into hillsides might as well be Ancient Greece. My train-ride was, spiritually speaking, time-travel, now that I knew what to look for. The train (a Faustian imposition) raced by derelict houses and crumbling public buildings, often with exposed brown and grey blocks, including the well-preserved ruins of a medieval town-wall. Everywhere, the locals had built under, around and atop these as if they were part of the landscape. Even the highway bridges, despite their great height, were more notable for their connection to the earth at their bases than the air under their tresses.
Classical civilization grew and bloomed, then shriveled. Many of its former lands were subsumed by the new Faustian, Germanic Culture. But not all. According to Spengler, the Apollonian spirit clung on in some of its country backwaters, places like Southern Italy, Greece and Sicily. Fittingly, the fossils of Greece and Rome are now Europe’s bulwark against the black and brown menace. Since the last surge of hostilities during the early centuries of Islam, the front has remained virtually unchanged. It runs from Lesbos through Greece, across to Calabria, Sicily and on to Gibraltar.
As the train descended, the seats were thinned of Faustian, cosmopolitan Romans and filled with people who resembled my Calabrian grandfather. Not a one of them was speaking English. This was, after all, a people who had only recently (in the last 4 centuries) made the change-over from Greek to Romance dialects. In a few towns, in fact, there are still people who speak Greek, remnants of ancient and Byzantine colonization.
At Paola, I rendezvoused with two relatives who had been sent to retrieve me. They did not speak English either, which made conversation awkward grammatically. As we drove up into the hills, I felt a mixture of ease and a sensation like terror. Despite the language barrier, we managed to communicate–socially this was all very normal. But spiritually I knew myself to be intensely out of place. The permanence of it all shocked me–the stone farm-houses, the olive trees with their gnarled trunks, the all-absorbing landscape.
The bros recap their joyride through Malmo. What will the Swedes do once the Muzzies take over? Greg and Vince then press on to Copenhagen, where they are pleasantly surprised. Maybe not all Nords will share Sweden’s fate.
And, Greg brings you a special report from Berlin. He checks out the Reichstag, the Fuhrerbunker and Germany’s National Shrine to the Holohoax.
I was in a groggy, allergy-compounded daze for the whole train ride. My night of Danish homelessness really took it out of me. For seven hours I faded in and out, all the while conscious of the sweat and grime that seemed to have replaced my khakis. How appropriate–on my way to Berlin, my Aryan Mecca, and I was getting the full hadji experience.
Despite how I must have smelled, at least I looked human, unlike some others. The train boarded a ship to ferry us from the Danish island of Lolland (actual name) to Merklenburg-Vorpommern, and we went to the upper decks. I munched on a chocolate bar and stared out into the treacherous Baltic that had deprived me of my watch and sunglasses (stolen while I was swimming). But the thing that scared me about this boat was not the sea it transversed, but the people it bore. Some of these fuckers were Soomalii. Others had certainly been pilgrims like me, but I doubt their hadj had terminated at the Spree. Others still looked like they had been boating before. The rest were Danish.
We went back below deck and reboarded the train. My seat-mate was a healthy, middle-aged Dane named Frederik. He must not have noticed the smell, because he played along as I struck up a conversation. He was on his way to Hamburg, to settle some shipping contracts. After some niceties, he brought up Trump in the usual liberal way. Detecting his illness, I decided to offer him a very small, very purple pill–I brought up Shillery’s connections to the Judeo- *cough* neo-cons. He took it well. I then brought up, in the politiest way possible, the Afromuzzie immivasion. I made the usual rational points, which he again took well.
I am always amazed that I can still carry on such respectable, middle-class conversations. I liked Frederik, he was the sort of man for whom I had borne immense respect as a teenager, the sort of man I thought I would become. But that is no longer possible. His opinions were, logically, preposterous. Worse yet they were a profound threat to me and my–our–people. But for some reason I still admired him. He was open-minded enough to listen to my points cooly and sincerely. It seems one can be more frank in speaking outside one’s usual social circle. If there is any value in diversity, it is that. Exposure to diversity is red-pilling.
The train stopped at the first station in Germany. Some officers in peaked-caps (I got hard) walked down the isles doing a face-check. They silently zeroed in on an East African and removed him. Fredrik and I watched out the window as four or five officers escorted the subhuman along the station platform. “Poor chap!” my seatmate exclaimed. I never understood why Europeans think English means British, what the hell. Anyway, meanwhile my spine got erect, my eyes bulged, and my the left side of my mouth quivered into a smirk. I must have crossed my thighs, because no one noticed the full extent of my physiological response. “Mmm” I managed.
I arrived at Berlin, and relief washed over me. I love Germany, but until now, I had not realized how much like home it felt. The street-signs, the chain-stores, the whole material culture is familiar. Most importantly, I have a reasonable command of German. With the languages of Scandinavia my knowledge is only passive and theoretical. I feel like a moron whenever I try to say something. But speaking German is like encountering an old friend. Maybe we have not kept up lately, but we have been through a lot together.
I escalated out of the train station–one of those typically post-war glass and metal things–and found the daylight. The first thing I noticed was the goddamn antifa graffiti. The following photos were all taken right around the train station:
The lefties here must all be from out of town, because no Prussian would ever write something on a wall, even if he were a commie. I harrowed their filth quickly, because on the horizon the Reichstag appeared. Of course I know all the history. But my real excitement stemmed from how familiar I am with the building’s steps and facade, at least in the virtual world. World War II is the Trojan War for Americans. But we have no Iliad–we have Saving Private Ryan and Call of Duty: World at War. I must have played the Reichstag-level a hundred times, where you, as a Russian, reenact the Battle of Berlin, head-shooting your way through streams of conspicuously fighting-age German soldiers.
At the steps of the real Reichstag I saw the same fight. Two Germans were holding a demonstration in favor of a vaguely nationalist cause. They were getting a lot of silent attention, and a little heckling from some people who, by their age, seemed to be middle-class baby-boomers. What a shitty generation. Eager to practice my German and my politics, I asked one of the agitators what exactly their cause was. Their billboard said something about Germany still being occupied, but I could not tell if they were nationalists–political discourse is so tame in this country. The man handed me a brochure, as if that explained their position any better than the billboard. I asked explicitly if they supported a “Germany for the Germans,” to which he replied affirmatively. I guess that explains the heckling.
Perhaps one other fact explains this strange scene. Three flags were flying outside the Reichstag (sorry to any Germany-fags, I don’t recognize any other name)–that of neutered Germany, the flag of the EU, and that of Georgia. Russian Georgia. “What are these cucks trying to pull” I thought. Did the Anglo-Zionist Empire tell Mutti Merkel to make noise about admitting Georgia to some Atlanticist organization? Or is it just Georgian heritage day in Germany? Very strange, but very predictable.
I sat down for a beer and some internet. Where is the Fuhrerbunker? I asked google. Surprisingly, it answered quickly and directly. Wasn’t this information supposed to be secret, lest Nazis like me start treating the site as a shrine? I strode through the streets, past the Reichstag, the Tiergarten, not the occasional Hadji, and the Brandenburg Gate. A bunch of Kurds were lazing about amidst signs and placards. They seemed to be bitching about the Iranian Government. I could not imagine why anyone here would care about their whining, then I turned left and spotted the American Embassy.
I passed through the throngs and entered a side-street lined with more post-war blockoffices. Ministries and embassies it seemed. The street ended in a T, atop which was a parking lot, interspersed with clumps of trees and surrounded by ugly apartments. I got an excited chill. The scene must have just as miserable when The Dream ended–right here. There was a sign with a map and detailed explanations in English and German. Either the Germans had grown tired of all the inquiries, or this was all an elaborate deception and the Fuhrer had spent his final days somewhere else.
I analyzed the map in an attempt to discern what mattered most to me. Where was my Fuhrer cremated? I have to admit, like everything else about the War, most of my knowledge comes from Jewliwood movies. In Der Untergang, the Germans lay Hitler’s corpse in a pit right outside the entrance to the bunker and burn it with what must have been the Reich’s last can of gasoline. I reckoned that it all happened (if it did at all) right at the lot’s entrance. Goebbels and Magda shot themselves somewhere in what was now the middle of the street. And to think–this sacred ground is subjected to auto traffic and Chinese tourists. The site of Hannibal’s suicide was probably similarly profaned in Roman times. How dare they. It was if the whole scene was calculated induce blase, I wanted to cry–partly to trigger the gawkers–but I could not. Even that they had taken from me.
As soon as I got to Rome, everything went to shit. I deplaned, latrined and went to find the baggage claim (had to check my knife). I strode through a maze of the usual outlets–Dolche and Gabanna, Gucci, some French-sounding ones–tracking the signs for baggage claim. They led me to the wrong section. How is there a wrong section? This is Italy–go to the wrong baggage claim and you’re fucked. Only numbers 11-16, the display-boards flashed too quickly between 6 languages and were loaded with irrelevant information–trains and buses that had either departed or would not depart for hours… and there didn’t seem to be anyone to ask. I got really pissed for a second. Typical, exactly what I had expected from my ancestral people. But then my inner I-tie started to get it.
I went to the “lost baggage” desk and asked a guy in a uniform where my stuff was supposed to be. He spoke English but told me to ask the woman behind the counter. So I demanded of her where could I find it (“domandare” it. “to ask”). She said I was in the wrong terminal, that I had to exit, go around to terminal 3, pass back through security (staff security, not regular). There I’d find my flight’s carrousel. I started to get it. Just say everything clearly and frantically, and these people will make it happen.
I successfully negotiating security, ran the wrong way past a cluster of heavily armed Carabinieri without comment, and found my bag. Then I went to find a bus. Another fiasco ensued. I went to the correct bus-lane and asked the nearest guy. He did not speak English–finally, I thought, this is how I remember Europe from childhood. I broke out the Italanish and got my answer: hurry over to that counter and buy a ticket. Another guy–this one had no idea that the bus for which she was ostensibly selling tickets was late, and that I could, in fact, still buy one. She insisted I buy from another company (all the money is going to the same place anyway, right?).
And then, the operatic climax. Everyone at the airport was trying to get on the same bus. They had formed what passes in this country for a line. It was obvious that not everyone could get on. Some would have to wait another half hour. A pretty blonde girl started smoking–she had the right idea.
The bus rolled up late, and discipline broke down. A lot of people broke ranks to stuff their suitcases in the luggage compartment, but I knew better. I kept my backpack on and clutched my hobo-bag and bumrushed the main door with everyone else. In the melee, an impeccably polite Iberian lady insisted that I had been in front of her. I looked at her and shrugged. It did not fucking matter. Most of us got on the bus, and some Russian girls laughed at those who didn’t. The whole scene was nauseatingly Italian. And the grace-note–the conductor packed the bus to perfection. Everyone, and my backpack, had a seat.
Copenhagen is dilapidated. Its great state buildings have the same unearthly quality as Stockholm’s, but their broad facades and delicate pinnacles are teetering. As they crumble, they will only add to their own magnificence. The decay is clearest at street-level, where, an hour after sunrise, I saw pigeons and gypsies mingling on the rubbish-bestrewn cobblestones.
Stockholm is squeaky clean. But while the public fora of old Copenhagen look forward to their own ruin, the populace is very alive. Their most striking feature, besides their stature and blondism, is their love of bicycles. The Copenhageners are urban Mongolians. They live in the saddle–whirling around street corners in their swarms. The very streets seem to spew them out in clumps and rushes. If the city’s rotting buildings are its skeleton, then at least its bloodstream still throbs.
I decided not to get a hostel. When Vince and I arrived, it was already mid-afternoon. Because my train for Berlin left the next day at 730, I figured it would be more economical to wander the city until then. We sat down at a cafe for one final session of h8chan photo-dumping before walking to the train station to say our goodbyes. Then I was on my own. I returned to the cafe to bum internet until they closed at 11. Then I was really on my own–for the next eight masochistic hours. But I was prepared; in fact, I had packed for Europe like I would pack for a night in the woods. My lay-out was lavish. I had of course my backpack of clothes and hundreds of dollars of technology. I also carried a satellite hobo-bag containing a Mars bar, a can of Carlsberg, a Greek book and a bag of oats (in the event of hunger).
I started off wandering. As darkness set in, so did the eeriness. The bicycle hordes thinned out. As I walked through a canyon of colorful buildings, I felt myself being followed by a sickly melody. Daring to look back, I saw the gleam of neon–the lone rider had added glow-sticks to his wheel spokes. He must have also mounted speakers somewhere. He rode past, then circled about and faded back into the crevasse of townhouses. An endless ingenuity for flash is the saving grace of the Dindu.
Copenhagen has a lot of gypsies, but it also has bums–a sure sign that the government is not totally soft. I heard one of them–bundled up, lying alone under a colonnade, enjoying a bedtime cigarette–coughing and hacking. Giving in to my whiteness I offered him a couple cough drops. I hastily explained in English and German (the best I could do) that they were “for your throat.” He thanked me heartily–a sure sign that I was correct in my anthropological assessment. The gypsy has no gratitude.
I started noticing the drinkers. Scandinavian reserve at last was giving way to boisterousness. Nevertheless, the Copenhagen club-scene, from afar, feels like the tamer areas of DC. The merrymakers form little clots outside the bar-doors, or lounge about in the biergartens. Not long after it began, the drinking phase of the night ended. Like werewolves, the moon-happy Nords reverted to their usual form. I was finally, fully alone.
By this point, I was questioning my decision to give homelessness a try. I still had my caffeine pills–but that would only compound the problem. I was tired. So I gave in like a faggot and sat down on a bench. After basking a bit, I lay down, having convinced myself that I was indistinguishable from my environment. My surroundings were certainly beautiful. And here I was, at Copenhagen’s iconic house-lined harbor, LARPing as a bum. I slept for about twenty minutes and moved on, feeling invigorated. Three or four more naps and it would be train-time.
I land-navved my way back to some known streets. My stupid phone was the only thing not letting me down. Unlike at Oslo, this time I had had the foresight to take photos of google-map images of the city. But this time it was Jewgle that was trying to screw me. In Google maps, the street-names only display depending on how far you zoom in, and sometimes not even then. I kept trying to zoom in on the photos, forgetting that they were not useful maps, but defective freezes of an interactive and untouchable cyber-Jew. I still found my way because I’m not an idiot. As you can tell, my mood was disintegrating.
Time for another nap. At yet another cobblestone crossroads, I found a familiar storefront. From one corner, a half-sunken room glowed through a wall of short, continuous glass, like an enormous, boxy fish-tank. But there were no fish, only a grid of polished silver–plates, cups, trinkets, vessels–all gleaming as if they had been plucked from a Homeric poem. Copenhagen’s nicer stores keep their lights on through the night, to highlight the splendor of their wares. It was charming–bright streets, shimmering glass, and lots of designer goods. I always wanted to date a rich girl–if only to feign boredom while visiting such places. And even if Copenhagen failed to provide me that, it still satisfied me to think that the gypsies were stirred to envy at the sight of such finery.
I took my best nap here. Across from the store of silver treasures was a restaurant. The keepers had stacked their outdoor furniture and covered it in a delightfully opaque tarp, the bulk of which lay a meter from the restaurant’s facade. That meter formed a perfectly-cut slit-trench. I scanned the street–no gypsies, no cops–and slid into my hideaway. Free accommodations. I smelled, then wiped the cobblestones to satisfy myself that no one had found the place before me. I would need clean khakis and polo for the train ride. Knit cap on, knife locked-out and concealed, I recharged for another twenty in the silent streets.