Down and Out in Denmark

The stereotypes are true about Copenhagen: The constant parade of beautiful, rosy-cheeked blondes streaming by on bicycles. Bountiful beer on just about every corner. Baked goods to die for. And it's expensive as hell.

The view from Nørre Sogade

One of the guides I'd looked at claimed that those on a backpacker budget should steer clear of Denmark, but for those of less meager means, it's still cheaper than London or even Paris. Well, considering I live in rip-off Paris and think London is a comparatively cheap-o spot to spend the weekend, this whole "Scandinavia is so expensive" thing should pose no problem.

Wrong.

The thing is, the wife and I aren't on vacation when we're in Paris. We usually eat in or at our favorite ethnic dives. We avoid overpriced bars, overrated restaurants, and we have our own ways of amusing ourselves. Hell, even in London we have our spots and our friends to be our guides.

But after only a few days in wholly unfamiliar Copenhagen, the ol' bank account was well beyond overdrawn. Sure, we have friends there, but they'd only moved in a few days before we arrived!

Beyond not knowing all the ins and outs of CPH, there's the problem it's just too easy to spend a ton of cash. While the plethora of bakeries and bars and cafés are no more expensive than in Paris, they're just too damn good to pass up. Yes, I was subject to some terrible Danishes and some bland glasses of Carlsberg – but despite those failures, the EPIC WIN rate is entirely too high. And even reasonably priced beers direct from the tap at Mikkeler and affordable breads from Meyers Bakery and pennies-on-the-dollar pastries from Sankt Peders add up after you have a lot of them. This is enough to leave any traveler without a huge bankroll down and out. And that's not even speaking of the new wave of Scandinavian cuisine that's put the city on the foodie map.

Despite coming home in the hole, every moment on the trip (except those on the phone with my bank) was worthwhile.

15 hours by train or 2 hours by plane
We had the choice of flying in and out of Copenhagen from Paris, or taking the train, both at roughly the same price. Since we had the sneaking suspicion that we'd be coming back again, Alannah and I figured we'd try both, taking the train in and the plane out.

Taking the train gave us the enviable option of riding the Thalys from Paris to Cologne, Germany. Thalys trains are not only smooth and comfortable, but in the negligibly more expensive first class car, the food is remarkably good and the wi-fi is free. Score one for trains.

Stopping over in Cologne gave us the opportunity to see more of the town we'd previously only seen for only a couple of short hours. This time around we had over seven hours to kill, which meant we got to see some friends from the area (and make some new ones!) and drink our livers into submission.

Staring down the barrel...

The copious amounts of cheap, free-flowing Kölsch beer made the next leg of the journey easier: A 12-hour overnight ride to Copenhagen.

When booking the trip, we assumed Deutsch Bahn's awkward translation of "moving bench" for our compartment meant the type that folded down into a bed. We learned upon boarding the train that it means "fully upright seat with the capacity to move forward roughly one inch for relaxation/sleep."

What else are you supposed to do in a sparse compartment

for 12 hours than shoot one another?

Add to that the very nice but motion sickness-prone family who ended up sharing our compartment, and it was the least restful all-nighter I've experienced since giving up chemically enhanced party aids. We now know full well to pay a few euros extra to upgrade to a proper couchette. Score one for planes.

Shock therapy
We arrived in Denmark with nary a scratch and after checking into the Hotel Kong Arthur, it was time to relax. One of the reasons we chose our hotel was because – even though we didn't know we'd be spending the night with Pukey the Kid, Barfy the Baby and their band of German cohorts – we knew we'd want to take advantage of the attached Helle Thorup spa.

And that we did. Soft, voluminous robes. Bubbly jacuzzi. Hot steam room. And is there anything more Scandinavian than a nice, hot sauna?

Yes, yes there is. And that would be the koldt vand spand. Translation: Cold water bucket. After each round of heat in the tub or the steam room or the sauna, I'd position myself under this bucket of ice water and pull the rope.

Pure masochistic bliss.

But even more fun is watching and listening to others as they dump ice cold water on themselves and shriek like little girls. Especially Alannah. Even purer sadistic bliss.

This spa ritual became our daily retreat from our everyday lives, and even from the moments of stress on the trip itself. Work issues on your mind? Sweat it out. ATM card not working? Nothing a cold shock can't eliminate. Realizing you can afford only one nice night out? Luxuriate in the jacuzzi like a boss.

Brain bath
All that bubble and steam is great for reducing stress from the outside, but sometimes we want to massage our brains from the inside. Like our previous trip to Amsterdam, Denmark is an up and coming destination for beer lovers.

Needless to say, we largely eschewed the local Carlsberg and Tuborg for much more local Mikkeler and Nørrebro brews.

Mikkeller single-hop tasting event? Yes, please!

One of the beautiful things about Copenhagen is that it's a beer drinking city. Stroll along the touristy Nyhavn canal and there are sidewalk cafés lining the entire length, each with beer taps out front. Better yet, across from all the tourist traps, locals sit along the canal and drink their own beers, seemingly non-stop. It's not uncommon to see people walking around with plastic crates full of half-liter beers.

This penchant for public consumption does have one ill side-effect, however. No, it's not broken glass or litter or puke on the streets. Copenhagen is one of the cleanest cities I've ever seen outside of Japan. Even the habitual drunks know where to find the recycling bin... It's the day-and-night presence of staggering drunks almost everywhere, to the point that it's seen as normal.

This guy stumbled into a phalanx of bearskin-capped guards in front of the Royal Palace and had to be shooed away. Interestingly, not a single one of the dozens of drunks I saw in town was belligerent or mean. Just drunk.

Sunny dispositions
Perhaps it was the amazing weather we had while in Copenhagen, but it wasn't just the drunks who fell far from the mean tree. Despite a few indifferent people here and there, one could largely conclude that the Danish people are staggeringly (ahem) nice.

Maybe it's the relative lack of vehicular traffic. (1/3 of people commute by bicycle.) Maybe it's the impeccably clean public transit. (Often with free wi-fi.) Or perhaps it's because a higher priority seems to be placed on relaxing and enjoying one's surroundings rather than me-me-me consumption and attention whoring. This isn't to say that there aren't sinister aspects here and there, but this is – again – the first time since Japan that I've seen people more than willing to park their baby buggies outside of stores while they shop. With the babies still in them.

Even the highly ethnic 'hood that is Nørrebro – unlike many ethnic enclaves in large cities around the world that seem to house a more marginalized population – appears just as bright and happy-go-lucky. The only difference is that it's, well, ethnic.

You hear a lot of Farsi being spoken in Copenhagen. So it

was unsurprising to find an Iranian restaurant in Nørrebro.

Aside from the massive construction going on there, the sidewalks are clean, people are polite, and like many ethnic enclaves around the world, some of the best shopping and eating is to be found there. Certainly as a visitor there are some issues I'm unaware of and I'm sure the great shopping and eating has something to do with gentrification, but in general it was one of my favorite parts of the city.

On the tourist trail
We literally followed the tourist trail provided on the free city map given out by the tourism center. On it there's a dotted line in a large loop, taking you from place to place, including the famous Little Mermaid statue north of the city center.

Is she sad because she's surrounded by smoke stacks?

Or because she has useless legs?

Alannah and I had initially planned to use the Copenhagen's free bike program which, at the price of completely free (a 20dkk deposit is given back to you the moment you return a bike to its stall), edges Paris' €29/year scheme. Its disadvantage is that it doesn't start running until May, and so we ended up taking in the unseasonably warm weather on foot. Hence the tourist loop.

Close to running on empty, this was actually a great thing to do for our last full day in Denmark. We opted against having a pricey dinner and decided instead to follow the tourist trail and hit various snacks and street food along the way. This added up to a lot of pastries and sausages and cappuccinos, not a single one of which was bad.

Our tour also started a little on the late side, so the sun was setting by the time we got to the area where you find the Little Mermaid. Moving further to the north, it was just about nightfall when we arrived at the new "Genetically Modified Little Mermaid," and the eerie silence and lack of human presence around us made it that much more creepy. We picnicked in front of it.

The genetically modified Little Mermaid.

This is where industrial tuna comes from.

By the time we started making our way back to the city center, it was completely dark. We were able to walk through the Kastellet, a pentagon-shaped earthen fortress. Slowly making our way through the old barracks in peace, I decided that the time we spent after the sun had set in this less populated part of town made it feel like the whole of Denmark was ours.

Ghosts of the Kastellet

The sadness of departure
We performed our now ritualized last-day-in-a-country routine that includes hitting the markets and shops for food and drink we can't easily find in Paris, meeting some interesting characters along the way. We had our last traditional Danish lunch. Our last beer. Said our last goodbyes. And, of course, survived our last koldt vand spand.

Despite having spent only a few days in Copenhagen, I think I can speak for the both of us and say that Alannah and I felt very much like we were at home. This feeling last occurred while traveling during our first visit to Paris together...

And no, that doesn't mean we're moving to Denmark all of a sudden. We happened to arrive at the beginning and left at the end of a serendipitous burst of excellent weather, and the Miserable Weather Season lasts longer than it does in Paris. I bitch enough about the weather here as it is!

What made it hard to leave was being around so many of the things we miss. Cinnamon rolls. Good beer. Bicycles. Wide sidewalks. Clean streets. And above all, our friends from California for whom we are so thankful that they can drop by Europe every so often. Even if it requires a 12-hour train ride to see them.

Bye bye, awesome Danishes. We're not sure when we'll

see you again. Say hi to rye bread for us!

The last moments in Copenhagen were spent wrangling with our luggage to make sure each piece of Danish market goodness was distributed properly to avoid weight surcharges, security issues, and potential damage in transit. Then we waited and waited 'til boarding time, and then takeoff, and then for our baggage on the other end, and then to finally arrive home via the busted-ass RER commuter train. Total door to door time: 6.5 hours. Amount of which was pleasurable: 0.

This round goes to: Train.

As usual, for a more food-oriented account of this trip, see the upcoming entry on our cooking site, Hungry Amateurs and the full complement of photos on my Flickr page.

The End of the Universe

The previous post wrapped up with "it was exhausting, so you'll have to wait 'til I recover a bit if you want to know more about the trip itself."

Well, it's been over a week and I'm still exhausted.

Going from not traveling nearly enough to suit my tastes to two foreign trips in two consecutive weeks can take it out of you. Follow that up with a pretty busy week (work, marathon eating and drinking events, and more concerts) and you've got a pretty tired boy. Add to that the dangerously low serotonin levels brought upon by devastating travel withdrawal, and you've got yourself a worn-out addict with a case of the DTs.

And all I did was go to two neighboring countries. (Three, if you count a couple of hours grabbing a beer in central Brussels.)

But going to Germany, despite the transit hassles we encountered, may have saved my sanity. Because I needed a fix. I needed an encounter with the unfamiliar. A language I don't quite understand. Social mores different than my own (and those I've grown accustomed to). Food and drink I can't easily get. Figuring out how to get around. Ümlauts över vöwels.

Our arrival in Cologne (Köln if you like the aforementioned umlauts) was unspectacular. You learn after you've gotten off most European trains a number of times that it's the same drill... Find the exit from the platform, go to the main plaza in front of the station, scope the old town center architecture, and try to find some overpriced place to grab a bite. This is made extra de rigueur when you're carting around a wheelie bag over cobblestone for the umpteenth time.

Then you look at the ornate detail of the Dom, its unpolished facade of hundreds of years of rain and grime, its massive size, and you stop thinking of how, yes, it does like every other cathedral in Europe, and actually take in its glory, its unique spot in time and space, that you are indeed miles away from home.

And then you take your first sip of a freshly brewed Kölsch beer, and order another glass, and another, and yet another... You're only a few hours from home but in an entirely different dimension when it comes to beer. And sausage. Bring on the Leberwurst. Bring on the Blutwurst. Bring on anything that's been cured for cryin' out loud. We're in Germany!

That's just the first stop. A few more beers and a Bratwurst later, we were traversing the plaza in front of another train station, in another town center, making a beeline for Düsseldorf's... Japantown. (As mentioned previously, the city is home to Europe's third largest Japanese community.)

I'd handled myself just fine in Köln, mostly squeezing out what little I remembered from my year of German in high school. (Please don't ask how many deca-- er-- years ago that was.) Besides, ordering beers is a matter of holding up the right number of fingers, starting with the thumb, as any fan of Tarantino movies probably knows. After all, how hard is it to hold up your thumb and index finger every five minutes to have two fresh beers brought to you?

Ordering at a Japanese restaurant is another story. The thumb-index finger thing will only go as far as getting you a table for two. I stammered and stuttered and stalled, failing to get out enough German to order two kinds of ramen and a large bottle of still mineral water. Then it hit me: Speak Japanese!

I was relieved I could actually complete my thoughts (despite my 2nd grade-level skills). The very Japanese waiter also seemed relieved not to have to speak German. Alles klar, ウエイターsan! At this point, it officially became one of those days: French in the morning, Dutch (or Flemish if you swing that way) at midday, German in the afternoon, and Japanese in the evening.

(We went back for more German at night by downing a bunch of Altbier at Brauerei Uerige.)

By the time we were making our way to Dortmund late at night – hooray for 24-hour train service – my brain nearly hit language overload whilst overhearing some passersby speaking Farsi.

Beer of the Universe

Our Dortmund-based friends Alex and Thomas were real champs for hosting us, as well as Amanda and Tara who'd come over from California and Canada, respectively. We got a little sleep after a (very) late night chat session – something at one point dubbed a "DM Pajama Party" by one of our motley, sleep-deprived crew.

The next day saw us getting up early (well, noon is early when you get to bed at 5:30 in the morning) so we could get back to Düsseldorf for lunch. The mission: Meet up with more of the Black Swarm for a pre-concert session at the local Brauerei.

The venue was Braueri Im Füchschen, the beer was Alt, and the Leberkloße was pretty damn good. (All the food deets and pix can be found here.) And I never thought I'd say this regarding a trip to Germany, but the service was – at all points during our sojourn in the Rheinland – warm and friendly. Germans have a reputation for brusqueness, and it can definitely come across that way, but I can see right through that facade, dammit. Well, at least *I* think it's funny when you order a Coke and the waiter repeats it back as Amerikaner Champagne. But maybe I've already become a haughty Frenchman at heart.

As most of the group made their way to the concert venue to snag good seats, a handful of us walked through the Aldstadt and to the Rhine, taking in the glorious sunshine and the surprisingly magnificent views.

Before this trip, all I knew of Düsseldorf was that Augustus Gloop, the fat boy in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, was from there. And he's not even real. After strolling the old town, Japantown, the fashion district and the waterfront, I'm now sure I want to come back and explore a little further.

Naturally, the abundance of beer and sausages is a bit alluring, too.

As much as I could've spent all day and all night trying to immerse myself in Düsseldorf, we did have a concert to catch.

The Depeche Mode concert was the focal point of this trip, as it was the raison d'être of pretty much all my non-business travel in the last year. It's something I find a bit shameful. Here I am, a travel junkie living in one of the world's greatest jumping-off points for all kinds of adventure, and what drags me out of my Parisian hermit cave? A freakin' band I've seen a gazillion times since the 10th grade.

But in all, I think it's a good thing. After over two years of being beaten down by French bureaucracy, adjusting to life in a new country and culture, and having little to no "fun money," it was good to have a motivator to get out and do what always brought me so much joy, and to share it with my wife. So what if they practically never change their setlist? Who cares that over the last three tours, we've seen essentially the same show day-in, day-out? My favorite band going on tour gave me the push I needed to get back on the proverbial travel horse again. A show goes on sale, I buy my ticket, then I worry about how I'm getting there.

And it turned out really well. Our first show of the tour was the band's first, too: The warm-up gig in Luxembourg. On the home front, we saw them at the ridiculously huge Stade de France, and then made our first trip to the Alsace region for the show in Nancy with a busload (literally) of French (edit: and South American and English and East European...) fans. The sudden addition of a charity gig in London made for not only the best Depeche Mode show ever (with insane surprises and actual setlist changes), but also helped me fall back in love with London after a few years of discord. And the Düsseldorf trip only happened because the re-scheduled gig became the last one of the entire tour. This made it a special night for the band, the culmination of a tour that at the beginning started to bear the nickname "Tour of the Uni-curse." It was also a very special night for the fans, who were treated to the band's most energetic performance ever, on a stage uncommonly loaded with humor and emotion.

Though it was exhausting (and I only went to a handful of dates!) and though I'd gotten more than my fill, I was, as the picture might indicate, a bit bummed that it was all over. Because as with all the bands I follow religiously and with all travels on which I embark, it's never so much about the activities as it is about the people.

Depeche Mode could break up tomorrow and I'd be upset because it'd mean fewer opportunities to meet and commune with the fans I've come to know, love (and sometimes loathe) over the years. It's like a really big, often dysfunctional family that see each other every few years when a new album comes out and we figure out which shows we can attend, who can crash where, and which will be the "special" must-go gigs. We're like Deadheads, only we have jobs.

It may be the music of Martin, Dave and (I suppose) Fletch that bring us together, but when I play back all the tour experiences in my mind, it's the folks on this side of the stage barrier I think of most. So thanks to the Tour of the Universe, I'll be looking back at memories of Alex, Thomas, David, Robert, Jean-Baptiste, Christian, Jan, Tara, Amanda, Mike, Sandy, Carsten... you get the picture.

Most of all, I'll remember one night at the Royal Albert Hall, hearing an unfamiliar voice, and turning to my left to see my wife. I felt like a proud father. Or perhaps a successful cult recruiter. Because there she was, singing along to every song.

----

Just before the start of the Düsseldorf show, I tweeted this photo and message. I'm not sure if Alannah got how sincerely I meant it. Putting up with my travel jones (and often punishing pace) is one thing. She knew about that coming in. Finding out your husband is an obsessive fanboy and accompanying him to shows, waiting in lines, getting crushed amongst fans, walking home from venues that let out well after public transit has closed... Well, that's just a sign that I've truly found the "Somebody" that Martin Gore sang about (with Alan Wilder on piano, of course).

Everybody's Jumping Everybody Else's Train

Legroom (on the Thalys
from Köln to Paris)

Several years ago, I was interviewed for a USA Today article about why I prefer flying over taking trains within Europe. Young, single, impatient me expounded the virtues of speed and price. Less time in transit meant more time to drink the local libations, after all.

Fast forward to 2010. I'm older. Married. And wiser, though that's debatable. What's not debatable is that flying sucks, almost without exception. If it's not the airlines nickel and diming you, it's the security establishment mocking your sensibilities by putting you through its theatrics.

The 45-minute flight from the aforementioned article now takes at least 4.5 hours door to door, will cost you at least triple in hidden fees and surcharges, and will generally be an unpleasant experience. The 5-hour train ride it was compared to may still be slow despite the greater number of high-speed services, but nowadays, it will likely cost less, make it on time, and allow you to get on board with all of your luggage, your own lunch, and your dignity.

Furthermore, with most rail services being nationally owned (or at least government subsidized), there's little chance you'll be left high and dry by a bankruptcy. You know, like when a group of you book tickets to a bachelor party on a discount Slovak airline, and due to said airline's bankruptcy, leave the bachelor and the best man high and dry in Bratislava. (True story. Ask the assholes at SkyEurope.)

Beyond all that, as I mentioned in last week's post on Hungry Amateurs about eating in London, trains are bringing glamour back to travel. Maybe even a little romance.

A first-class ticket on a high-speed train is certainly nice... Our Eurostar trip to London in late 2008 was an absolute pleasure, however brief, with champagne, lunch served with proper silverware, and chatting with a few dozen of our newest Welsh geezer friends.

Being on a Belgian train network
means big Belgian beers.

But you don't need all that to have a relaxed, comfortable, and leisurely ride through Europe. If you're looking to move about freely, chit chat with other passengers, and even get a little boozy with your honey bunny, I've got two words for you: Bar car.

Not that anyone doesn't know about the bar/snack train that's available on just about every main line in Europe... But on this past weekend's trip from France to Germany and back, we found serious bliss in the bar car.

First, there are often (as is the case on Thalys trains) four sets of quad seats on the bar car. If you can get these seats (and don't mind a bit of noise and passers-by around you), take them. Being with a maximum of 15 other people in the car – and likely no snotty kids – you're better off than even the 60 people per car in first class.

Even if you can't land these seats, don't worry. Hang out in the bar car anyway. If you're paranoid, you can bring your luggage with you, and if you're somewhere in between, you can leave your luggage in the rack at the end of the car, looking up from your Duvel or Leffe or champagne once in a while to make sure it's not gone.

The clusterfuck at Cologne (Köln) Hauptbahnhof after
most regional trains were canceled due to Atlantic
storm Xynthia on 28 February.

Of course, train travel isn't without its share of headaches. While they don't get up in the air, they're also subject to delays and cancellations during storms, what with trees falling on tracks, building materials flying through windows, and snow shorting out entire trains.

Yesterday, for example, our scheduled 4-hour trip from Düsseldorf, Germany to Paris, France (via Cologne, Germany and Brussels, Belgium) took somewhere in the neighborhood of seven hours.  This was due to the massive storm raging all over western Europe, as well as unrelated delays caused by the previous week's head-on commuter train collision in Belgium.

On a plane, this sort of delay would've been a nightmare, an irritation, and a royal bitch all rolled up into one.  But thanks in no small part to the bar car, it was still a pleasure – more time to spend with my squeeze, and with some good beer.

Of course, it was exhausting, so you'll have to wait 'til I recover a bit if you want to know any more about the trip itself.

No Sleep Til Dortmund

Eight more beers, one more train station sausage, a fried pie, and hours later, we're in Dortmund.

What was supposed to be a near full day in Düsseldorf ended up being one extended evening. Upon arrival at the train station, we stowed our luggage and started exploring the town. All I have to say is that train station lockers are freakin' magical. If not the need for a bed, you wouldn't even need hotels!

Not that we'd see a bed for a while.

"Stamina Ramen" at Na Ni Wa

We started off exploring Düsseldorf's Japantown area. Who knew that Europe's third largest Japanese community (after Paris and London) lives here!? We stopped into Na Ni Wa and had some amazing ramen... Yes, I had the best ramen I've had outside of Japan (or New York City's Ippudo) in Germany. Seriously. Rue Ste-Anne in Paris, your Japanese community has just been given notice!

Wowed (and utterly stuffed) we walked through the center of Düsseldorf, through the ritzy shopping district and into the Altstadt (old city). One of the first things we saw in the cobblestoned, charming part of town was... a Hooters!?

Despite my love for wings, boobs, and pantyhose paired with hotpants, we gave it a pass and beelined it to the first old brewhouse we saw. Brauerei Uerige fit the bill, so we figured we'd run in for an Altbier or two before exploring more of the Altstadt.

Eight beers later (six for me, if you insist on accuracy, two for the Dame) and we found our butts firmly glued to the old wood bench. The fact that they started closing down cued us to move along and head back toward the station, where we'd be meeting up with our friends (and hosts for the night) before moving on to Dortmund.

Of course, things took longer than expected. In waiting for them, I picked up a dodgy train station Bratwurst. When we finally met up, it turned out no one else had eaten dinner, so we went to late night favorite... McDonald's.

Alannah and I weren't hungry, but believe it or not, we were thirsty. So we had a couple of large Cokes – which disappointingly weren't gargantuan American sized liquid diabetes in a cup – and I couldn't resist trying a McVeggie Burger (not too good) and a fried apple pie. Yes, health-conscious friends back home.... McD's still fries their pies in Germany.

Friends united and post-midnight snack complete, we caught the commuter train to Dortmund. Even though it took an hour and a half, it was mindblowing to see that there's 24-hour rail service.

We were in by 3:00 am, in bed by 5:00, and I woke up after six hours, ready to take on the day... And judging by how many times my sleep was interrupted by trips to the toilet, this day will NOT include any train station Bratwurst.