Burnt Out.

For whom the bell trolls.

Copenhagen, Denmark – Stepping into Freetown Christiania feels much like peeling away the multiple layers of faded posters affixed to the walls.

The sharp edge of history is still there, but it's mostly buried beneath changing times. 

And and it's vanishing quickly.

Founded by squatters in 1971 as an autonomous hippie commune, Christiania has endured its fair share of troubles, as one might expect from a community predicated on anarchy.

Just last month, the infamous Pusher Street – home to the so-called 'Green Light District,' where illegal drugs were openly sold – was torn up, its cobblestones tucked into the corner of a construction site. A sign tells visitors that violent gangs forced the community to take action.

Skating by.

Soon, a new apartment complex will take its place.

And yet, a definite vibe still twists through the marijuana smoke. 

Mostly, it's a visceral feeling that something is different. Rough buildings and a skate park are made up in bright graffiti. Faded hippies twirl in the grass. Paintings of cameras in red circles still warn you of where you’re actually allowed to take photographs. 

It's hard to imagine anywhere being off-limits now.

Amidst the presumed chaos, there's a hipster coffee shop and several food trucks. An outdoor market sells flowing elephant pants you'd find at any North American music festival. Late-stage capitalism has entered the chat.

It seems anarchy becomes impractical with maturity.

The vibe itself has become an anachronism. Seemingly existing between two states – figuratively and literally – Christinia's time as it was once imagined seems now to have passed. And I'm not sure that's necessarily a bad thing.

But I'm certainly glad I got to see it – and feel it – before the final poster was peeled away and replaced by a shiny glass building.

A Great Dane.

Become a star flyer at Tivoli.

Copenhagen, Denmark – Obscured behind the tall walls of Tivoli Gardens, rides whirl like the flip of a poodle skirt caught in the breeze.

The Star Flyer climbs steadily, twisting as would a spider ascending to the heavens.

At one end stands a mountain of fibreglass, its tip dipped in white. The stiff flag at its peak points to the north. Opened in 1843, Tivoli is the third-oldest amusement park in the world.

The oldest is only 10 minutes away.

Rather than go inside, we sit on a green box edging the sidewalk and eat a pølser wrapped in bacon, painted with remoulade and topped with a sprinkle of crispy onions. It’s the extent of our carnival today.

But it’s a (very) good one. Even the late Anthony Bourdain raved. Yes, about a hotdog.

Anyone have a corkscrew?

So I sit with shoulders shrugged, hopeful the sunshine will erase the grogginess that comes with having been plied into an airplane seat that doubles as a straitjacket. It has been a long day of travel and we’re hanging on by an eyelash for our limited time in Copenhagen.

The only clouds are in my head, but exhaustion still feels like wool, tucked above my temples.

It’s a national holiday in Denmark and others obviously feel better than we do. For Constitution Day, they walk along the various canals, well-dressed in white with Danish flag ribbons stuck to their chests. 

Many swing open bottles of wine.

Although we typically walk everywhere, we maximize the value of our 24-hour transit passes by taking water taxis around the city, including to the Little Mermaid and the lesser-known Genetically Modified Little Mermaid. Flags rattle against silent masts, pinned to the harbour. 

Nyhavn: a box of crayons.

We pass long lines of people tanning casually along the shore and among Nyhavn's wood and plaster structures, which groove in shifts of bright colours. Most are more than 350 years old. 

Sunlight offers a bright, white exclamation mark that cascades on indifferent ripples in the water.

Turning the corner, a small boat pops out from under a shallow bridge, a table set at its centre. A bottle of wine stands sentry.

I could get used to this.