Page 77 of One Week
He surprises me. Is he a pot head? “Is that your thing?”
“Not really, but I’ve indulged. I can’t even remember the last time…” he trails off. “Clara was into it.”
Clara, Clara, Clara. I want to know more about her. I picture the tall blonde with big blue eyes. I’ve seen her when I creeped his Facebook feed — yes, I went that far back. She looks like a blonde Emily Blunt, and she was obviously tall, as tall as him in some of the photos, wearing five inch heels, I assume.
It’s hard to reconcile the image of her with me. I suppose the man must not have a type. I mentally scold myself, and tell myself to stop thinking about her. She was the love of his life, and trampled his heart. And I only have him for a week. And that’s exactly the reason I shouldn’t focus on her.
“I can’t wait to see Christiania,” I tell him, and hop to my feet — we’ve got places to go.
This place has rules. I didn’t think a hippie commune would have rules, but there’s a big sign at the front. No photography or running in the Greenlight district, no private cars, no weapons, no hard drugs, and quite a few other ones. Apparently bullet proof vests aren’t allowed. “So glad I left my bullet proof vest at home,” I say to Eli. He laughs — he totally gets my lame sense of humor. John doesn’t — never did.
Floyd and I are instantly fascinated by the place. It is beautiful chaos; stunning street art seems to cover most surfaces, lodging made out of recyclable materials, and marijuana leaf signs abound. Everyone seems so relaxed, as if they don’t have a care in the world. People are smoking, chatting with friends, with dogs in tow. The smell of marijuana permeates the air. There’s an artisan who is working on chairs and tables which appear to be built entirely out of junk. There’s a sign of a happy face on his wall.Smile More, it simply says. A mother laughs with her young son, and two teenagers hold hands, mismatched clothing and torn jeans. I study them, and wonder if they’re happier than those who have chosen a conventional lifestyle; a day job, a mortgage, and a white picket fence.
In the market, there are racks of vintage t-shirts; Bob Marley t-shirts, pot leaf shirts, and the like. There are lovely handmade purses, jewelry, wallets, belts, vests, and all kinds of stuff, all of it colorful. I’m eager to buy something and support the community. I flip through the shirts and settle on an oversizedThe Doorst-shirt. Jim Morrison’s gorgeous face stares back at me and I smirk. Gabriella Moore would never wear this, not in a million years, but me, whoever I am, wants this. I used to loveThe Doorswhen I was younger. My college boyfriend introduced me to them — we used to listen to the greatest hits over and over. I’ve even been to visit Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris.
“That would look great on you,” Eli says, “with nothing but your panties on,” he adds, a little too loudly. Anywhere else and I’d be embarrassed, but we’re in Christiania, the land of the free, of choice, of free love too, I’m sure.
I buy the shirt, five very cool leather purses (one for me, one for Maeve, Corrie and Kayla, and a small one for Emma). I also buy a cool old watch, which I’m sure doesn’t work, for Theo — he’s obsessed with watches these days. For John, I buy a flask — the man loves his brandy. “I didn’t know you were a shopaholic,” Eli teases. He’s eyeing a gorgeous vintage leather satchel — it has his name written all over it. It is pretty pricey; a cool sixty dollars, we’re told. It breaks my heart to see him walk away from it. I dig into my purse, hoping I’ve brought enough money. “Can I have it for fifty-five,” I ask. “It’s all I have left.”
The old man with the dark mustache studies my bag of goods — he must realize that I’ve contributed generously to their little economy. “Sure, love,” he says with a toothless smile.
I’m giddy when I catch up to Eli. I hand him the satchel. “It’s yours. I bought it for you.”
He looks surprised, and a little uncomfortable. “You… you didn’t—”
“I wanted to,” I tell him. “You got me the poetry book, the little mermaid, that beautiful painting, and that pretty paperweight. You’re spoiling me, and I wanted to get something for you too. I can’t repay you enough for all you’ve done.”
He winks. “Oh, you’ve paid me enough.”
Dirty boy.
He’s beaming as he pulls the satchel over his shoulder. “How do I look?”
“Pretty hot hipster, I’d say,” I tease.
He laughs. “Let’s go walk through Pusher Street,” he suggests, and I happily tag along, completely clueless.
There are tons of pot dealers — cannabis, hashish, I’m not sure what you call it. They wear scarves over the bottom of their faces. Eli tells me it’s to not be identified in case they’re raided by the cops. That’s also why there’s no running — because if you take off running, people might think there’s a raid, and it would be chaos. There’s more pot memorabilia. I don’t know what eighty percent of the stuff is, and I feel so uneducated. We stop by a colorful candy store/bakery, but I have a feeling there’s more to this place than what the eye sees. They have cookies, brownies, and lollipops. A playful smile traces Eli’s lips. “You want a lollipop?”
“Are those special lollipops?” I ask.
He grins.
“So I guess I shouldn’t buy any for the kids?”
“Definitely not,” he says. “Would you like a taste?”
“Yes,” I whisper with a glimpse back, as if Mr. Berton, my junior high school principal were right behind me. He caught me smoking once, and I’ll never forget how stupid he made me feel. Gabriella Moore has never done drugs in her life, but this person, the wild, new person I am right this minute, is curious, and just might.
Eli buys us two lollipops. They’re pretty big and they look very tasty. I feel like a kid. “We’ll save them for later,” he says.
We continue our journey through Freetown and take in the sights — this place is like nowhere I’ve ever been to. Tons of graffiti, little houses on unkempt wild gardens. There’s street art of a giant bunny, and a giant bee with the wordsHoney over Bitchesunderneath. I try to decipher what the hell that means. We walk up to the canal. It’s peaceful up here.
I set my large bag of goodies next to me as we take a seat by the water. Floyd settles down right beside me. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
He grins at me and I know that I could never ever tire of that smile, even if we had a million years together. “I thought you might find it interesting.”
I look out into the distance, over the water. “It’s so nice here.”
