Copenhagen

I woke the Monday morning after Easter knowing that I was in for a busy day. I knew that this would be a busy travel day; since I was planning on heading for Copenhagen even though no train seat reservations were available and all trains were, technically, full. The station clerk told me to take my Scanrail pass, get on a train heading for Copenhagen, and keep seat-hopping until I got there.

But before I could leave there were things to do.

Once again, sadly this time, there had been precious little time to see any of Goteborg. I had looked forward to seeing some of the city I had spent so much time researching. From the little I had seen it appeared to be a diamond waiting for a suitable mounting. True, it had the surface look of prosperity (How many major cities in Europe have gone unscarred by war in the last two hundred years?), but there were things that bothered me. The new opera house looked great, but it was in a crummy location. During a brief detour from the hostel to the con site to bring the Cup over, my driver (who confessed that although he was from Goteborg he had never been in that part of town) and I took a look at the city's main boulevard and square. In the center of the square is a large statue of Poseidon by Carl Milles, the local Michaelangelo. Facing the boulevard is a great Museum, on the left a major concert hall, and on the right a rather shabby, modern, graffiti-covered cinema. Yes, even in such a well-disciplined city as Goteborg graffiti flourished.

Per and I played house, squaring away our hostel room. No doubt he was the only WDC attendee who proved as mighty with a vaccuum cleaner as with a sword! All packed and ready to go, we took the tram down to the station (serving both trains and buses I learned). I confirmed I was going to be assigned seatless on my trip to Copenhagen, and Per made sure I knew where I was going --- even if I was headed in the wrong direction. I said good-by to one of the nicest people in the hobby and headed back to the hostel to collect my stuff.

By this time I was the only one left at the hostel. I said my good-byes to the resident and thanked her for her help for all of us foreigners. A short cab ride, with a brief pause to take a quick look at the Opera House, back to the station and I was off in search of a train with a seat to Copenhagen. My purposes in Goteborg had been fulfilled. Now my holiday could begin.

The agent was right. The train was full, but I found a seat with no problem and only had to move once. The move proved fortunate since I ended up next to a Philippino student who was getting his MBA in Copenhagen. He had been on a holiday in Sweden and was heading home. We chatted on the train all the way to Helsingborg where we would get off the train, walked to a ferry for the thirty minute crossing to Helsingbor in Denmark, and then caught a local train to Copenhagen. Bless his heart, he stayed with me right out of the station and to my hotel, even carrying some of my luggage. Angels come in strange packages.

I had planned to spend four nights and three full days in Copenhagen because I sensed there would be a lot to do in and around the city. I was right. It was barely enough time to cover my list of "Must Sees," let alone much more.

Based on my dreadful experience in Paris at the Y'allen Hotel in 1993; where I ended up in a hotel room located right over a Metro station; I had specified to the travel club that I wanted a hotel near, but not on, the train station. Their first choice, the Astoria, would have been a disaster since it faced the main station and approaching tracks. The Weber; where I stayed; was around the corner and a block away. Once I got over the shock of a pink hotel building, it seemed fine. The people at the desk were confused about the vouchers ("We don't get many of these during the winter."), but had no problem taking them. Unfortunately, I over-looked my third key room requirement, not being next to an elevator. The non-smoking room was small, but adequate, but it was right next to the elevator. The elevator didn't bother me, but the door to it did. Still, after the first night I got used to it. Fortunately, the hotel seemed fairly empty, so there wasn't a lot of elevator traffic to worry about. My room faced the hotel courtyard, so I was deprived of a street view. On the other hand, it was blessedly quiet at night and in the morning.

I got unpacked, took a long, hot bath (and almost got stuck in a tub that was deeper than most swimming pools I've been in), opened the bottle of Jack Daniels I had dragged across Sweden unopened, had a shot and pondered my next move.

It was still early evening, light, clear and cold outside. A nice time for a walk I decided. I headed east, I think, past the train station and the hotels surrounding it. Across the street was the tourist info office (closed), the Hard Rock Cafe (open but no business), and the entrance to Tivoli (closed). I kept on and was shortly in front of the City Hall, a magnificient structure which has recently undergone a major facelift. The statue of Bishop Absalom, the city's founder, glistened in newly done gold. Even the pigeons showed their respect by staying off of him. Ahead of me was the famous Stroget, the pedestrian street lined with shops. To be honest, I was less than thrilled. On the left of the narrow opening was a 7/11. On the right was a Burger King. A few doors down was a MacDonald's. Sigh...I continued on , passing the shops and street filled with tourists and young locals. Eventually, I decided to turn around and head back. I was tired and hungry. Of the few places I had seen, only the Burger King seemed at all appealing. I went in, ordered a combo meal of somekind, and quickly realized that I was paying the equivalent to US$10 for a large hamburger, fries, and Coke! But I will say the hamburger was better than over here. The bun was especially good.

Back at the Hotel I spent about 15 minutes trying to figure out how to work the television remote. I never did get it to work correctly. However, I did manage to access the radio and that was fine. Since I know nothing about contemporary Ami music; I can't compare ours and theirs. I do know Mozart sounds the same everywhere. Well, except for Vienna. I had decided I would use my first day in Copenhagen to see the sights closest to the hotel, e.g. the Christianborg Palace area. My second day I would go out to the suburbs and visit the two main museums I wanted to see, the Arken and the Louisiana. The third day I would go further afield in the city and see the Rosenborg and Amalienborg Palaces and their surrounds.

Early Tuesday morning I had breakfast (a huge buffet of the usual breakfast and unusual lunch stuff) and then headed out into the clear, cool morning air. I covered a lot of territory that day, moving quickly between the sites I wanted to see and spending more time where I found something of special interest. Again I discovered that museum hours and opening days in the off season are as limited in Copenhagen as they are anywhere. I got to the Christianborg Palace, the seat of the Danish Parliament, offices of the prime minister, and the royal reception rooms, early, but nothing was open. I hung around the courtyard of the Palace, watching the trainers give the royal horses a workout. I talked with one of them (the trainers, not the horses) and he gave me a quick look inside the livery stables. The first museum open was the Ruins, a look deep inside and beneath the Palace's main tower. I was absolutely the only person in there during my entire visit. I couldn't see much in the dark, but I did definitely pick up a sense of what the Palace had evolved from. For further thoughts on this, see my comments on the dangers of fire to such marvelous works of art as the Christianborg. Leaving the Ruins I wandered over to the Arsenal, a huge collection of everything from medieval cannons to modern day missiles. It was a gun-runners dream! I stopped just long enough to be told that there would be no tours of the Parliament that day, but persuaded a page to let me take a quick peak. My next stop was the Royal Reception Rooms, but I made one unexpected stop on the way. Coming around the corner of the huge complex (think in terms of football fields and shopping centers), I saw two women, each pushing a stroller with four chairs, each filled with a delightful Danish toddler. I decided this was worth a picture. I grabbed my camera, aimed, pushed the button and promptly fell over backwards when I tripped over an unseen curb. Naturally that set the kids to yelling! Their poor attendents didn't know whether to tend to them or me. Struggling to my feet and attempting to salvage what little dignity I had left, I muttered something about being all right, and headed off toward the royal reception apartments. I arrived just in time for the guided tour (in English), done by a fellow who looked and sounded just like an English butler, who patiently answered both of my questions (Q: "Why the Order of the Elephant?" A: "Because it was big and strong." Q: "Were all those royals actually together for that picture? A: No). We went through fifteen or so rooms, each bigger and gaudier than the last. The largest would hold 800 people for a sit-down affair. The smallest perhaps fifty. They were interesting and attractive, but it was obviously not Buckingham or Versailles. Still, you can only take so much crystal, gold leaf, and laquer. It was a relief to get out in the fresh air.

There was still plenty of time left in the afternoon, so I wandered past the outside entrance to the prime minister's offices, part of the Christianborg Palace, and into the Thorvaldsen Museum. The Museum was part of a deal between the famous (at least in Denmark) sculptor and the city of Copenhagen. He came home from Rome with his art collection, gave it to the city, and they built a museum to put it in. The building is absolutely ghastly, but there is no admission to get in. Thorvaldsen was the Henry Ford of sculpture, the man was a master of Forest Lawn art, and the place is filled with originals and copies of all kinds of stuff, mostly bad. He obviously preferred male to female subjects, and probably preferred horses to both. I escaped as quickly as I could.

Fortunately this part of Copenhagen is a museum freak's paradise. Just across the street and canal was the National Museum. Again, I spent as much time looking for the entrance to the Museum as I did looking at the art in it. I had arrived on a busy day, the last of a showing of an exhibit on Queen Margarthe I, the current queen's namesake I guess. She was the ruler of a unified Denmark, Sweden, and Norway way back when. The exhibit was well done and some of the religious artwork was truly impressive I took a few moments to explore some of the other rooms: the ancient Egyptian collection, some old Chinese art, and the Royal Coin collection. As I was about to leave I came across a small, temporary exhibit in the large atrium. It consisted of works of art made from recycled aluminum cans. Some of the stuff was really clever.

I had saved the best for last, and was now back on one of the city's main boulevards facing the Glypotek Museum, next to the Tivoli Park. From the outside the Glypotek looks like a short wedding cake decorated in greens and reds. It is really rather ghastly. Fortunately, inside it gets better. There is a large, round, glass covered atrium/hothouse in the center of the complex, filled with tropical plants and cooing young lovers getting ideas from the various piegons and statues scattered about. I wondered how the statues could stay so clean considering the number of pigeons hovering about. An attendant told me the truth. The Museum has one full-time employee whose sole job is to clean the pigeon s--t off the statuary! Off to one side, and easy to miss, is a new addition to the Museum, just finished last year. It was added to house the Museum's collection of French impressionist paintings and a collection of bronzes by Degas, including a complete set of the Dancers. The art is good, but it is the building and particularly the stairway that links it to the old building that is superb. It was worth several pictures, a poster, and a half hour spent just sitting and watching the sun and clouds play on the white marble stairs and walks. This was one spot I really hated to leave, but it was starting to get late.

I made a brief stop at the Tivoli where the workers were busy getting ready for the annual opening in a few weeks time, watched some workmen repair some of the cobblestone walks in front of the place, and headed back for the Hotel. I had been on the go for nearly nine hours. I wasn't particularly hungry, so I nibbled on a Snickers bar, took a long, hot shower and went to bed. I didn't get a lot of sleep because of the pain, but I did get some rest.

The next morning I was up early, had breakfast, and headed for the train station to catch a local down to the Arken, located about ten miles south of the city. The train left me at a station and from there it was a short walk to the bus station and a five minute ride to the Museum. I was the only person on the bus and one of perhaps ten people at the Museum when it opened. The Arken is Copenhagen's other major accomplishment as part of its 1996 Cultural Capital of Europe status. It's huge. The building is more or less shaped like an ark or old viking ship and sits right on the sound overlooking the water. inside it is all stark and modern with unpainted concrete walls and floors, lots of shiny steel and bits of wood here and there. The rooms are anything but regular in size or shape. I did note, sadly, that there were already some serious cracks in the poured concrete floor. The art, from what I saw, is junk. There was one exhibit that was kind of attractive, but it gave me a big headache. The creator had put together a giant steel framework that held a variety of mirrors and lights of one kind or another. They moved in an apparently random motion that threw a constantly changing pattern of light and shadow on the walls surrounding the unit. The real art, of course, would come from the interplay between people moving about the room and the light and shadow patterns. Alas, being the only person in the room, there wasn't a lot of real art to see. My shadow isn't much more impressive than the rest of me.

I bought a few postcards and a poster of the building. Outside, I trooped around the building and took some more photographs. My conclusion: the building was a worldclass work of art. The art collection inside was a recycler's dream.

A quick bus ride, a train back into Copenhagen, and another train brought me twenty miles north of Copenhagen to the small town of Humelbaek where another famous art museum, the Louisiana, is located. Getting to the Lousiana from the station involved a walk, but it was such a nice day I decided to do it. I stopped by the local tourist office and learned I had missed the town's big event the night before, the annual traditional torchlight parade over to Fredensborg to welcome the Queen and her family to their summer home. Why the Queen was going to her summer home the first weekend of spring, I have no idea. She must have known something I didn't (probably the same thing as the musicians at the Goteborg Symphony who were in Italy when I was in Goteborg).

It's an interesting Museum. The name comes from the three wives of the original donor, each of whom was named Louise. One pundit said that was because he talked in his sleep and by having all of his wives named Louise none of them would be jealous. Sounds good to me. The art was almost all modern, Warhol and Henry Moore stuff. The Warhol tended to tomato cans and pictures of Mao. One interesting, if surprising, display was a large, cold, dark room entered through a set of rubber strips like what you see in a car wash. Inside were some works on the walls lit by floodlights, and the distinctive smell of marijuana. I emerged rather stunned, but the guard assured me (as he said, only Americans seemed surprised at this) that there wasn't enough pot in the air to get you high. OK. The complex consists of a series of buildings added on above and below ground level over the past umpteen years. These surround a large scuplture garden filled with works by Henry Moore. None of them had a Do Not Touch sign and the kids seemed to delight in playing on, over and under them. I confess, I even touched one!

After a nice lunch and stroll around the gardens, I found it hard to leave this, the most popular Museum in Denmark.

Forty minutes later I was back at my hotel. I had asked the receptionist at the Weber to see if she could get me tickets for any of the concerts going on in town. My options were limited because of the holiday, but she managed to get me tickets for Miss Saigon on Wednesday night and a Royal Ballet performance on Thursday.

Miss Saigon is by the same French team that did Les Miserables and is produced by Cameron MacKintosh, the wizard of so many Andrew Lloyd Webber productions. It took some skillful map reading to find the theater; which was located out of the center of the city in an old gasworks. In fact, the name of the theater was the Old Gasworks Theater. It was perfect for a theater. I skipped dinner, and took the train out to the nearest station. From there it was a good walk to the small sidestreet where the theater was located. I was there early, so I watched the crowd (the house was about half full) gather and chatted with some students who had come to see the show. They seemed to know little about the show (e.g. that it was derived from Madame Butterfly), the Vietnam War, or much else. As far as I could tell, I was the only American in the audience. It was a good production and I enjoyed it, even in Danish! The show ended at 2215 and I was back at the Hotel and in bed by 2300. A long, but enjoyable day.

Another early rise and breakfast got me up and going on what looked like it would be a miserable day. It didn't feel like snow (as if I would know) but it was cold, wet, and windy. I took the subway to the station nearest the Rosenborg Palace, my first stop of the morning. Alas, when I came out of the station I walked the wrong way, and I was half way back to central Copenhagen when I realized it. I turned around and headed back down the broad avenue, window shopping as I went. I stopped at a corner for a traffic light and standing next to me was the biggest soldier I have ever seen, dressed in his camoflage suit and red beret; which seems to be the uniform of choice in Scandinavia. At eye level I was looking up at his shoulder patches. The guy had to be close to two meters high, and he was perfectly proportioned. Each pace of his equalled two of mine as we headed down the street. I knew the royal guards were barracked at the Rosenborg and sure enough that is where he was headed. He strolled down the street oblivious to everything (including me, I am sure) around him, with me scampering along behind trying to keep up with him.

Alas, all my effort was wasted. The Rosenborg was closed. I would not be able to see the Palace or the royal jewels. Miffed, I kept on moving, and walked over to the Amalienborg Palace, the quartet of nearly identical buildings where the Queen, the Crown Prince, and such live. I approached the Amalienborg from the rear, side, whatever. wandering down some sidestreets pasted the Italian embassy and a row of Mercedes limos. Finally, just about totally lost, I turned the corner and there it was. A short walk brought me into the square and there I was, surrounded by the Amalienborg with just the King on his horse statue and the eight guards for company. There were no signs, no directions, no nothing; just the guards walking their beat and me. The statue was covered with scaffolding and obviously undergoing a major renovation, it's first in years. I talked with some of the artisans who were doing the work and one of them told me that the statue was a gift from the East Indian Company in appreciation for the king's support of their looting of the Indies. They also told me that it cost more than all four of the palaces put together. Wow, I thought, Clinton should hear about this! A few tourists came by, I got a picture or two, and pondered the merits of any urban architecture that would berth a 35,000 ton ferry boat in the backyard of a royal palace. Finally, promptly at noon, a door opened, a sign appeared and some of the royal apartments were open for visitors. It didn't take long to go through what was available. The gowns and such were of no interest to me, but some of the restored apartments were. I thought I had a lot of clutter.

As I was leaving the complex, I saw a young fellow wearing a white shirt, tie, and arm brace standing alongside the walk I was coming down. I spoke to him and it turned out he was at the Palace for a job interview. It also turned out he was from Arhus in the north of Denmark and was a gamer. More to the point he was a Dipper. He didn't know anything about the WDC or international hobby, but he seemed very impressed that an Ami had come all the way to Sweden to play Dip during the winter. I told him how to find us on the Web. I hope he gets the job. I hope he finds us. It is this kind of one-on-one contact that can make the hobby grow. Continuing on my way I passed on the chance to see the Little Mermaid. If it had been a Little Merman, I might have given it a go. Instead I wandered past that huge ferry toward the New Harbor area, pausing just long enough to check out one of the three Mexican restaurants in Copenhagen. I talked with the bartender and he said they did a booming business during the summer. We exchanged margarita recipes and I sampled one of his. Not bad. Downright tasty in fact. This time, coming from this direction, I walked the full length of the Storget back toward the Hotel. I didn't stop in any of the highly touted shops. I had no intention of buying anything to take home that might break. To be honest, I thought the whole street was way over-hyped. I enjoyed the central shopping area of Linkoping much more. Anyway, as I meandered down the Storget I suddenly heard a saxephone playing a plantive melody. My mind and ear immediately flashed back to the night before and the solo saxephone solo in Miss Saigon, "The Last Night of the World." I stood about a hundred feet from the player as he played, not so much for the passerbyers as for himself. That's usually the way it is with sax players. Finally, I rummaged through my pockets for whatever change I could find, walked up and dropped it in his otherwise empty instrument case. He seemed rather surpised. Perhaps they don't do that in Denmark? Anyway, I wandred off down the Storget, that tune ringing in my ears.

My last night in Copenhagen was reserved for the Ballet at the Royal Theater. Ballet isn't my bag usually, but the Royal Danish Ballet is one of the best in the world and where better to see it than in Copenhagen? Besides, the subsidized tickets weren't that expensive. Unknowingly, I had lucked out. I got a great seat with a good view of the stage. Sitting next to me was a grandmother and her granddaughter, an eight year old Scandinavian beauty who had obviously had some dance training. Her grandmother told me that she had been a student at the Ballet in her youth, and that her granddaughter hoped to follow in her steps. I spent half my time watching the performance and the other half watching the young girl's face. It positively shined. The performance was of Mendelssohn's Midsummer Night's Dream, but with a twist. Along with the traditional choreography, costumes and music of the period piece, the company had used modern choreography, 2001 A.D. period costumes, and the music of Lygeti for the "dream" sequences. It all worked wonderfully. I positively floated back to the Hotel and my first good night's sleep in weeks. I was up early on Friday. After breakfast I made my first trip to the railroad station; which by now I knew inside out. I deposited the Cup and my briefcase in a locker and returned to the Hotel for my suitcase. With them in hand I went back to the station, collected my stuff from the locker, and headed for the track where the Inter-City/X-press train would be leaving for Stockholm at 0905. I got there about 0815, just after the train had arrived from somewhere. I watched them clean it out, and then got myself on board. By now I knew the system, and I had no problem finding my car and seat. I found myself sitting next to a Swedish engineer who was going home from a holiday with his family. It turned out I was born three weeks before he was. We chatted about this and that on the trip to where we would make the switch to the X-press train. The trip across the Sound from Helsingbor to Helsingborg was routine, although the idea of a train car travelling inside a ferry boat seemed a bit strange to me. Most everybody on the train piled out of the car and upstairs to the duty-free shop on the short crossing. Duty-free shopping is the second most popular pastime in Scandinavia, I think.

At Karatrinaholm I managed the switch to the X-press with no problem. From there it was only 3 or 4 hours to Stockholm. Unlike my arrival only ten days before, this time the train station in Stockholm seemed user friendly.

Back to WDC VII

On to Stockholm

Larry Peery ([email protected])

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