Lyngby (or Notes on the Educated Cleaner)
There’s something eerie about a place that seems to have more concrete than people, something chillingly distant—as if it is a place that gives birth to seriel killers. But I am sure Lyngby is a charming little town with a warmth present which I was not imaginative enough to find. I am also willing to admit that it is not fair to judge a town through early morning eyes. However, let it be known that even after a few hours of work, after being slapped awake by the maniacal fluorescent lights of my job and the sharp smell of cleaning liquids, I could never seem to stop thinking that Lyngby seemed to be plugged into artificial resuscitators, and why for chrissakes, couldn’t somebody just pull the plug? But let’s keep the perspective here—again I admit it’s not fair looking at a town from the sleep deprived eyes of an early morning cleaner—someone who takes the train in the semi-comatose state one finds oneself in at 6.30 am and have but a still sleeping city to greet her. But as I exit t...