Copenhagen Journal, Part I

Gleanings from the Danish capital

The famous, colorful Nyhavn (New Haven) in Copenhagen (Photo by C1 Superstar on Unsplash)

At JFK Airport, the gate agent says she’s going to read a list of names, and if your name is called, you have to come up and see her. The way she puts it is: “If you hear your name, or something that sounds similar …”

I love that—and tell her so. She giggles and says, “Yeah, you can’t get all of them right. Sometimes, the best you can do is get close.”

***

The agent invites members of the military, past and present, to board first. This is a nice tip o’ the hat. A nice honoring. But I wonder: Does any serviceman or vet think it’s a little condescending, a little embarrassing, or a little unnecessary?

If you have thoughts on this, I’d like to know: mail@jaynordlinger.com.

***

In the Copenhagen airport, I have the same thought I often do in Copenhagen, and Oslo, and other places in Europe: Gosh, I wish I could buy sandwiches like this at home.

Not to mention these babies:

***

I buy my ticket for the train into the city. No one ever checks my ticket. Hmmm … (I’ll have more on this subject later in the journal.)

***

The ride into the city is smooth and quiet—a glide. By comparison, the trains I know at home are buckets of bolts.

Don’t get me started on infrastructure …

***

I published a Copenhagen journal last year: here. I have a little pledge this year: not going to duplicate any photos (and I hope not to duplicate any points, or at least to keep duplication to a minimum).

***

At the hotel desk is a personable young man from Argentina—Patagonia. There are lots and lots of immigrants in Copenhagen. I tend to meet them, because they tend to work in the service industry, and a traveler avails himself of services.

Are these immigrants taking jobs away from Danes? Um, not that I can tell. I strongly doubt it.

The hotel clerk speaks several languages, apart from his native Spanish: English, German, Danish, Italian. He has had a succession of girlfriends from the relevant countries, which has given him entrée into the languages.

Hell, it’s like an amorous Berlitz school. And people always say: no better way to learn a language.

He tells me something I have heard from other immigrants in Copenhagen, too: “Life is really good here. People are friendly. The taxes are very high, but you can see your taxes at work in the public services—health care, for example.”

I’m a liberal, as they’d say here in Europe—a classical liberal, a free-marketeer, a limited-government man—but I am always open to this social-democracy talk …

***

In the hotel lobby are four older people—two couples—playing cards. They need to pass the time. It’s too early for them to check in to their rooms

I haven’t seen people playing cards in ages. This was a very, very common sight when I was growing up. That was before the Internet and smartphones …

Has the new technology sort of killed card-playing? I suspect so.

***

Well, this is a first for me: On my bathroom mirror, they have written a personal welcome, in a black marker.

***

Above the faucet in the bathroom is a little sign—like a plaque—saying, “Drink more water from the tap! In Denmark, the tap water is perfectly clean.”

***

Out on the street, I smell something unusual—cigarette smoke. Let me tell you something. When I was growing up, cigarette smoke was everywhere. It was utterly common. It was like the air. These days, in New York, I can go a month, two months—a half a year?—without smelling cigarette smoke. And I am out on crowded streets every day.

Vaping and that damn skunk weed, yes. Cigarettes—or cigars or pipes—no.

***

This is a biking nation, like Holland is a biking nation. Everyone rides. And they all use hand signals. They use these signals utterly naturally, unthinkingly. I think it’s kind of sweet (not to condescend).

***

When I see an old lady, getting off her bike, I think, “She’s been doin’ this since she was three.” The old ladies in Copenhagen are fit, in my observation. In fact, I seldom see a fat person.

Have you ever watched an old American movie in which someone is marked out as fat? But that person does not appear to us, in 2020s America, fat?

***

I love these red blossoms, in the rain. They add brightness to such a day. I can’t identify the blossoms. (You’d be lucky if I could identify a simple ol’ daisy.) If you can—thanks in advance.

***

My heart leaps:

“No Electric Music”? Can I take this sign home with me?

***

Everyone pays with his phone. Cash seems to be … obsolete. When I first started coming to Europe—1982—we had travelers’ checks. “Don’t leave home without them,” said Karl Malden.

***

From a food cart in a tourist area, I buy a can of Pepsi Max. Two mid-teenagers—a girl and a boy—are working. I say to the girl, “I can buy just a little can of pop with a credit card, using my phone?” “Yes,” she says, “everyone does.” Amazing.

In due course, she says, “Do you want the receipt?” “No, thanks,” I answer. “I’m afraid to know what it cost.” The boy laughs, agreeingly, and says, “I won’t tell you.”

***

Denmark is, truly, the Land of the Open Sandwich. They are everywhere, these open sandwiches. More numerous than the closed, I would bet.

***

In past journals from Scandinavia—Copenhagen, Oslo, Stockholm—I have talked about the food you can buy in 7-Eleven. Often, it is very good food, and for cheap (relatively cheap). From a 7-Eleven here in Copenhagen, I get a mouth-watering pistachio croissant.

How much would these cost at home, if we had them?

Heck, one store even has … onigiri, like the 7-Elevens in Tokyo.

***

Okay, this is cheating—I’m pretty sure I included a picture of this museum—the Thorvaldsen Museum—in my journal last year. I just love the color.

What is that color? As near as I can tell, from a perusal of the Internet, it’s “golden ochre.”

***

Obligatory reference to the astonishingness of Danish women …

***

I have to tell something on myself. I see a street sign that says “Niels Hemmingsen Gade.” I think, “Huh. Was Niels Gade’s middle name ‘Hemmingsen’?” (Niels Gade was a composer, of the 19th century.) But then I Google.

How embarrassing. “Gade” is the word for “street.” It is Niels Hemmingsen Street—he was a theologian, 16th century.

(Incidentally, “Hemmingsen” was the name of the drugstore in the Michigan town where my grandparents lived. There are Danes everywhere.)

***

I think this journal should be in two parts. You want to end this part with a photo of tomatoes in the rain? Why not?

Thank you for joining me today, my friends, and Happy Sunday. See you tomorrow for Part II.