An Afternoon at the Gravens Rand

Visiting the off-the-beaten places where communities thrive in København.

I generally dislike taking pictures of people. It’s always been a struggle to capture those moments “ just so” that seem to result in the best of humanity on display. Perhaps it’s the unnatural poses or the artificial nature of telling people how to act such that a “ perfect capture” can happen but, whatever it is, I’ve sworn off of it for as long as I’ve managed.

There are moments, though, where people become the scene to capture. Where their texture, presence, and purpose are so intertwined with the setting around them that there is no divorcing the two. People are the subject and the setting and ne’er shall the two be separated.

I suppose this is why, on a Sunday afternoon in Copenhagen, in the district of Fredericksberg, I found myself with Emma in the little pub called Gravens Rand, surrounded by Irishmen, Danes, and others. Pints were passed around, instruments were aplenty, and the trad session was in full swing.

These are the moments that generally get ascribed to the Irish: boisterous singing, pub trad sessions, and drinking. What they fail to capture is that heady nexus between identity, purpose, and community. We do the Irish a disservice by only thinking shallowly about these moments for they are, almost to a single note, much, much more than just a rowdy singalong.

You see, for every instrument, bottle, and person, there’s a story of origin, of identity, of place. They are the diaspora, the visitors, the welcome and not. There are the hearts that bleed from Mayo, the stalwarts from Cork, and the boisterous from Donegal. They represent the four provinces of Ireland in a way that you’d never find elsewhere.

Intertwined in the mix are the heady songs of Americana, the Deep South longings of a bygone era, the colloquial tunes of protest and agitation, and the inescapable lines of perhaps the age to come. It’s a mixture of all things sacred and sacrilegious, of quiet and the storm yet to come, of power and repression. It is, to a word, us.

And yet, in these moments, there is more than just the Irish at play. There are the Danes, the Americans, the diaspora from other countries both near and far. There are the celebrations of spirit, of the joy that comes from a rousing chorus or a melancholy longing for the one who was lost. It touches on every single part of our humanity regardless of race, creed, religion, or gender.

So, finding ourselves in the Gravens Rand on a Sunday afternoon, chilled by the weather outside but warmed by the fires of song and drink, we were carried for hours across time and place, from heart to heart, one broken soul to the next. It was as if we escaped the stream of time for only a moment and were raptured to the next.

I don’t know what your week holds ahead but I know this: as much as you can, seek the rootedness that comes from being a part of community. Seek out the opportunities to lay your differences aside and join together in purpose and possibility. I’d hazard a guess that in those moments, you’ll find an incredible story that you would’ve never found elsewhere.

May it ever be so.