11

When the Words of the
Song Proved Untrue

 

There was a time when the better capitals of Europe were known by the rhyming couplets of hit songs. Arrividerci Roma, I Love Paris and London Town were amongst the more popular. But one of the jolliest was Wonderful Copenhagen. It conjured up a vision of a happy, rollicking city and one where strangers were always welcome. After all, it was, as the song claimed, “the city of my dreams”.

Well, the song lied. Copenhagen does not welcome strangers and Danes are not kind to them. Their doors, even on a cold winter’s night in November, stay firmly shut. I discovered this depressing truth last week when mischance left me stranded at the city’s airport. No amount of pleading would melt their stony hearts and no matter how often I recalled the misleading words of the old song nothing, absolutely nothing, changed.

I realise that what I am about to recount is just a personal complaint and I suppose we all have similar ones. But those of you who travel frequently by air will know that mishaps at airports, like bad service on board a plane, can be particularly galling. I don’t know why it hurts so much except to guess that it could be because it costs a lot. It happened to me last Sunday and even though seven days have lapsed, I am still smarting.

I was on my way back from Barcelona and decided to break journey in London. I have always considered it the most civilised city in the world and value every second I spend there. So, being greedy, I decided to catch the SAS flight out. Because it leaves at the end of the day, you manage a few extra hours. That, however, was my big mistake.

The problem is SAS connects to Delhi via Copenhagen. Instead of flying south, you head north-east into Scandinavia. It’s definitely the wrong way home but at the time, I did not care. Copenhagen, I said to myself, is “wonderful” and I would be happy to see it if only from the airport!

The plane arrived on time and I had an hour to change to the Delhi flight. But when I stepped out, I discovered the onward connection was cancelled.

“Why?” I asked. International flights are no doubt often late but they are rarely cancelled.

“Technical problems.” The lady at the SAS counter replied before lapsing into sullen silence.

“Well, can’t you put it right?”

“We would if we could.” And then after a while she added, “Sir”.

“And don’t you have more planes? If this one isn’t working, use another one instead.”

This suggestion was greeted with silence. No smile, no sheepish grin, not even a look of helpful concern. Just cold, hard, unremitting silence.

By now, I had been joined by a handful of the other Delhi-bound passengers. Perhaps there were ten of us, perhaps fifteen, may be twenty. At the SAS counter, it looked like a small crowd. We had never met each other before and had no reason to except that we were stranded in Copenhagen for no fault of our own.

Soon a male manager arrived at the counter. He took charge and informed us that we would be booked on the first flight to a European destination with an onward connection to Delhi.

“When will that be?” Someone asked. It was 9.15 at night local time and at worst, we anticipated hanging around for another hour or two.

“Tomorrow morning,” came the reply.

“Tomorrow!”

“Sorry, but there’s no flight before that. The first one is at 6.45 a.m.”

The news was a blow. It meant that whatever I had gained by staying on a few extra hours in London, I had more than lost by the enforced delay in Copenhagen. Instead of getting back in time for work on Monday morning, I would just about get home in the early hours of Tuesday.

It took a while for the impact to sink in. A journey interrupted half way can be distressing. Worse, it can also be demoralising. On this occasion, it was clearly both.

“Well, when will you take us to a hotel?” If we had to spend the night in Copenhagen, the sooner we got to bed the better.

It was a normal question. Airline crew anywhere in the world would have anticipated it. Passengers with journeys broken against their will always want a bed for the night. But somehow the staff at SAS were thrown.

“Hotel?” They asked. “Sorry, Sir, we can’t take you to one.”

It transpired that the immigration police would not permit passengers without visas into town and as everyone stranded was enroute to Delhi, none of us had one. Why should we have? We were on our way to Delhi and could not have anticipated a break of journey in Copenhagen. More perplexing was the fact the police could not be persuaded to change their mind and, to be honest, most of the SAS staff were not even prepared to try. They were perfectly happy to let us doss down on airport sofas or possibly the floor.

Faced with such adversity, most of my stranded compatriots smiled, shrugged their weary shoulders, perhaps the odd few might have muttered into their overcoats, and then slowly shuffled off towards a bar or a corner that could provide a makeshift bed for the night. They accepted the inexplicable rudeness of the Danes with only polite demur. Whilst in my heart I applauded this, I did not have it in me to imitate them.

I shouted. I suppose I was tired but I don’t know if that is sufficient excuse. Anyway, I accused the Danes of being inhospitable, barbaric, uncivilised and boorish. The staff at the SAS counter looked startled. I quoted the wretched words of the song and told them they made me laugh.The staff looked sick. I claimed that had I been Swiss or American — two countries whose citizens, unlike those of the European Union, don’t have free access to Denmark — the police would have found a way to let me in. But because I was Indian or brown-skinned, I and the others were being incarcerated at the airport. The staff looked down at their shoes. Their faces turned red. I knew I was right. So did they.

“Sir.” One of the ladies behind the counter suddenly spoke after a long and miserable silence. There was something about her voice that made me pay attention.

“There are two staff rooms attached to the first class lounge. If you want, we can put you up there?”

She meant well and I accepted without hesitation. But it had taken a fight to get to this point. What should have been given by right was now offered as a reward or perhaps as a way of winning my silence. The room was comfortable, even well-appointed, but it didn’t make up for the insult of being refused access to a hotel. And it certainly did not assuage the anguish of being boxed inside the terminal building.

Next morning, the relief on our faces as we prepared to depart must have been visible for all to see. Not a single passenger was prepared to hide it. We weren’t just glad to be going home, we were particularly happy to be leaving Copenhagen.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” said the SAS staff at the departure lounge. “I’m sorry your stay in Copenhagen was so unsatisfactory.” One day, no doubt, I’ll be ready to accept that apology. But not as yet.