#TF. Photo by Zach Malfa-Kowalski
It is tough to come up with an unjustified hyperbole about Copenhagen. I watched a board shoot out into an old lady’s bike the other day, and she smiled it off, waved goodbye and went about her business. We were skating a playground in a place that by some Scandinavian stretch, had Bushwick playground vibes, and accidentally almost crashed into a five-year-old. The response was “try and watch out for the kids” — not “fam I’m deadass about to get all my cousins to pull up and shoot you.” The place is a perfect concoction of people not giving a shit about what you’re doing, and people caring so much about what you do because they’ll line every modern public space with some sort of perfectly skateable object.
The T.F. here doesn’t have its boxes taken away in 48 hour cycles. In the summer, you spend zero time inside a car or train. Places will serve you sexy cocktails to go. You can enjoy a beer or six, and some guy will not be far off waiting to collect your empty can moments after you finish. Every spot is parallel to some of the earth’s luckiest bike seats ♥. Even drunk street meat decisions don’t seem to be as much of a gastrointestinal threat as they do stateside. Sure, it’s expensive and cold in the winter, but we live in New York. Don’t sit here and tell me about expensive and cold when your boy just found the deal of a lifetime for a $1300 10 x 10 off the Myrtle-Broadway stop that he needs to still buy a spaceheater for, but still sleeps in his socks.