in a new record this afternoon, i was hit on by a forty year old man in a suit. all i was doing was walking up str�get — purposefully too, not ambling or batting my eyelashes at passersby; purposefully, like the natives; i know the drill — and he sidles up to me in danish. “sorry?” i say and he promptly translates his pick-up line into english: “isn’t it nice that the weather’s getting warmer?”
yes, i agree (though it’s maybe 12 degrees out, still green wool coat weather). small talk progresses til it’s revealed that i come from dc and have an interest in political science. oh, says my companion, that’s interesting: i work in the government, for the ministry of immigration. a policy person. i query him re: his involvement with the current government and he claims to be both “neutral” and a “humanist,” launching into a lecture about the failures of w./nordic europe to live up to the challenges of globalization. this takes us to gammel torv where i’m tempted to part ways and go to dis, where andrea’s waiting. but my writerly instincts win out.
“would you like to go for coffee?” can’t, i’m meeting a friend … but if he wants to keep talking, i’m up for continuing the stroll. reluctantly he agrees and we walk another couple blocks, buoyed by his discourse, until we reach r�dhusplassen, the city hall square. he gestures towards one of the many open-air cafes: “are you sure i can’t get you a drink?” i shake my head. he starts to look pitiful: “even orange juice?”
we compromise on a bench. awkardly he asks me a few questions. while i answer, he looks at not-my-face, then down at his lap; in a flash i make the mental shift from writer and woman, and it is time to go. i stand up.
“can i have your phone number?” i cloak my refusal in the logic of my leaving in a few weeks, and as a last resort he offers me his name. you can look me up, he says. you know, if you ever need material.
material all right. just not the kind he had in mind, i’m sure.