2022 (Den)marks the third time I’ve actually been to the Danish capitol of Copenhagen. The first time was for a couple days and nights on business for a concert and video shoot and the second was simply in transit to Malmo Sweden. With four days and three nights in this trip, I intended to make the rounds, renting a bike in the number on bicyclist city on this planet.

Watch closely and you might catch 2014 me cheers-ing with a bottle of red wine while directing a music video in the May Day/Worker’s Day/Labor Day Parade.

A nearly-month long, three years coming country hop jumps off (after a one night stopover in Amsterdam) here in this 10th century-established Viking fishing Village. Copenhagen. Shit even sounds cool. I’ve splurged on an apartment in Indre By — the “inner city”. My bike is a modest cruiser. The infrastructure is bonkers. 40% of residents utilize the bicycle to commute to and from work or school. Countless others use it for fun or exercise or off-work transit. Cyclists are everywhere. At every red light we all ignore each other, but we know we’re on the same team. We’re like a moving energy field between the vehicular and pedestrians traffics, both of which have measurable numbers. But like KRS-One, we’re still number one. Like Queen we’re the Champions. Bicyclists that is. In case somehow neither musical analogy landed. In case I’m not be clear.

It’s like riding kilometers and kilometers for days around a Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock joint-comedy show (plus Ali Wong and Donnell Rawlings) isn’t enough, because I am now — like right now, here in the happiest of spaces in a city that hates hipsters and yet likely created them — eyeballing this gorgeous Italian bartender slash DJ slash fetish model slash student slash slash or slaj or something. Let’s call this particularly muse Lucia. It’s down a flight of stairs. This cantina that is, not the PYT working here. Yeah, I’m pretty sure Lucia doesn’t identify as “it”. Anyhoo… I’m in the space between the space and it’s a space that’s happily spacey. For real. I got the smokiest mezcal on the menu. Soundtrack is enacted through an old turntable behind the bar and a crate of 12” vinyl records, curated by the aforementioned hostess with the mostest. She’s in her early twenties and is rocking Pink Floyd. The Police. Silk Sonic comes in out of the static filled needle noise – she flexing on knowing some good contemporary tunes as well. Then she puts on Thriller. The gawd dong girl is mine, Paul McCartney. This year Halloween fell a month early, like Oktoberfest. Or didn’t it? Copenhagen is the truth if one could afford it. I meet all sorts of folks who work here. From Italia. Turkey. Pakistan. And — as it’s given to me from the businesswoman sort of on holiday — “Korea, south”. I try my hardest not to LOL, but the truth is that the agave plus bicicleta concoction has me tuned the fuck in and turned the fuck up like MJ in those 80s contacts lenses breaking it the fuck down. Actual fact. To snack on and chew. I chat with Lucia about tips. Just the tips. Gratuity, ahem. She tells me she’d rather get a good salary rather than rely on tips. And she gets one here. I say “well, why not both!” And tip 20% — enormous in Europe, where a tip is usually 0%. Ultimately, I get my Pharcyde on and pass on by the 20 year old muse and the 30 something couple from Boston and cruise off into the night with my two wheel motion. Bikes and cacti bitch.