The Hittegodskonter

Today, I decided I would finally pick up my wallet from the Lost and Found at the Copenhagen police station. The nice honest Danes that promised to mail it to me instead mailed me a piece of paper with my address and their address printed adjacently on it, so, using my limited knowledge of Danish, I deduced that I would have to go straight to the source to retrieve my beloved shiny red Versace.

Some Rejseplanen and Google Maps later, I figured out that my commute to Vanløse, where the Lost and Found was located, would take about 45 minutes and set out. I traveled many more train stops than I ever had before, bought a multi-zone ticket that of course failed to get checked, and finally arrived anxiously at The Hittegodskonter. Although this word looks fairly intimidating, as if it would mean adult circumcision device, or prehistoric Danish sea monster, it actually referred to the most wonderfully strange place I had ever encountered.

Hittegodskonter is Denmark's word for Lost & Found, and what a Lost & Found this was. Bins and bins of key rings, key chains, and single keys! A full table with cell phones ranging in crispness from Siemens Piccell to Blackberry Bold! A B-class nightclub sized coat check area containing not only coats, but sweaters, shirts, and several tubs full of shoes! It seemed that everything that had ever been lost by anyone ever in the greater Copenhagen area had been returned to this room. Ever the tourist, I ecstatically snapped pictures.


If a Hittegodksonter existed in New York, I'd imagine it would be full of the odd tennis racket and old poncho. Overcome with glee, I came up to the Hittegodskonter window and presented them with the slip of paper that I had so intelligently translated. The Hittegodskonter employee, who I had imagined to have the temperament of Winnie the Pooh at the honey tree (Side note: I just googled Winnie The Pooh to see if I could drop the name of the forest he lived in and discovered this fun fact via Wikipedia: "In December 2005, Disney announced that Pooh's friend and owner Christopher Robin would be replaced by a 6-year-old "tomboyish" red-haired girl named Darb." WTF! But that's a rant for another time) scowled at me and muttered something in Danish. Leading me to another window, he muttered something to a group of Danish women, who proceeded to stammer, then giggle, then look embarrassedly at each other and me, before approaching me to inform me the true translation of their little note.

Apparently, the letter I had received was from the post office. It informed me that the package I had been delivered was too big for my mail slot (that's what she said. Duh) and I would have to pick it up at the nearest post location. Two blocks from my apartment.

At least everything was in it except the kroner.