When I was little I found it humorous that there existed somewhere a whole city full of people who called themselves hamburgers. And I suppose I still do (the \"Gute Fahrt\" signs one sees on the way out of villages also remain a source of puerile amusement for me). Yesterday I spent a whole day among the Hamburgers, a day which marked for me the arrival of summer. It was warm and gloriously sunny for the first time in what felt like months. The road beckoned, but I spent the day trapped and baking in travel agencies and telephone booths, trying to arrange travel from Copenhagen to Milwaukee for my grandmother's memorial service next week.
I walked from place to place in order to make sense of this immense town. It felt efficient and flavorless (two adjectives which have always summed up the whole of Germany for me; for many years I have maintained that Germany is \"the Ohio of Europe\", and I remain steadfast). There were only a few old buildings, hemmed in by busy roadways and office/apartment blocks designs by graduates of the Legoland school of architecture. Looking down almost any street, it loomed there in the distance: the radiotelekommunication-tower-mit-der-revolvingrestaurantamdertopp. Every large German town seems to have at least one. The center was full of expensive shops and people carrying shopping bags, the overall impression being that of mercantilism gone awry (I suppose that the Reeperbahn is just another side to this phenomenon).
On the advice of several different people, I also took a stroll along the lake in the center of town, which is precisely inverse to Ter Apel's lake back in Holland. It has an organic shape to it on the map, but is in reality almost perfectly square, in order to fit into das HamburgerMasterPlann. I also took a look at the much-touted harborside, which is almost monumentally ugly. It goes on forever and consists of a monotonous series of floating docks that are really just two-level barges. Walking along them, with the docks listing one way and the boats the other, I got a hint of what it feels like to be seasick for the first time in my life.
In the evening I went out once again in search of a decent watering hole, figuring that a city as enormous as Hamburg must have at least one. When I asked the boys in my hotel's bar where one could find a bar that didn't also act as a supermarket, I was met with blank stares. I actually ended up finding two, though neither could hold a candle to the queer bars of, say, El Paso. At a place called Rudy's I spoke --or rather listened---at length to a 67-year old Swiss opera singer named Franz. He was verbose yet fascinating, full of stories of an on-and-off boyfriend of yore from Laredo, Texas, a fabulous green dressing gown from Mexico City that made its debut on an Atlantic crossing aboard the France, and a libidnous stage director in Aix-en-Provence.
His delivery was theatrical to a fault, and as engaging as his tales were, I felt a bit uncomfortable being cast in the role of the audience. Later, I went to a potentially excellent dive called \"Wunderbar\", where my attention was attracted to an intriguing-looking girl sporting a no-nonsense blond hairdo and pointy horn-rimmed glasses. She was the only girl in the place and obviously alone,. To strike up a conversation, I used the wrong approach, asking her what such a gorgeous creature was doing in such a dump. She apparently didn't catch my intended ironic tone, and answered in a very serious monotone: \"Id's a homosegsual bar and I am homosegsual.\"
Uta --as I learned she was called\-- went on to tell me how she had just moved to Hamburg from Stuttgart for her job and how she felt a bit lonely in her new surroundings. We compared extensive notes on our common state of solitude, and we seemed to be talking on precisely the same wavelength. But maybe it was just the beer. I didn't leave Hamburg today until past one this afternoon. The amazingly patient Fraulein Schmidt, from one of the travel agencies I had been dealing with, came through with a ticket that didn't cost the equivalent of Zambia's GNP.
Only problem was that her computers were down all morning. And to further complicate things (my theory is that Germans like things to be complicated), I had to pay for it in cash, which meant a wild goose chase through the banks of Hamburg attired in already sweaty cycling gear. I took train to get out of town, all the way to the little town of Neumunster. Riding in the baggage car with me was a Dutch boy named Nick, who was also riding his bike from Holland to Denmark. It was his first extensive bicycle trip and he was cheating too, wanting to get to the relative civilization and coziness of Denmark a.s.a.p.
He complained unabashedly about the state of the German bike paths, the high costs of everything, and the unfriendliness of the people. He changed trains in Neumunster to get closer to the border, but if his ride this afternoon was anything like mine, he may very well have changed his mind about Germany, since the riding was nothing short of sublime. I rode through a landscape of rolling hills carpeted with waving fields of wheat and corn, liberally sprinkeld with rippling blue lakes and lush forests. Had the train somehow transported me to Wisconsin? I caught myself longing to linger in this enchanted area for a few extra days and fantasized about doing it with Fred.
Every now a Gunther or a Greta would come screaming around a corner in a BMW, disrupting the splendor of it all, but most of the day was perfect cycling bliss. The road between the tiny village of Langenhangen and Oldenburg Im Holstein (which explained the presence of so many black and white cows) was particularly splendiforous. It was the golden time of day, where the light makes everything look beautiful, and the narrow road plunged through meadows and glades towards the glistening sea in the distance. Further on, I endured a minor catastrophe. I had meant to get as close as possible to the ferry for Denmark, which leaves from Puttgarden on the island of Fehmarn, but the road running alongside the highway came to an abrupt end under the bridge.
There was a long and steep staircase, halfway up which I pushed my bike, using all the strength I had. When I investigated the steeper and narrower part remaining, I realized it meant crossing over train tracks and two sets of guardrails. I went back to join my bike feeling helpless, and the thundering noise of a train passing overhead made it clear that I'd have to turn back. This meant unloading my bike completely and making several trips up and down. Exhausted and famished, I wanted to cry. I had intended to check into a youth hostel marked on my map on the other side of the bridge, thus marking another bikebrats first.
But it was getting dark and I had to backtrack all the way to Grossenbrode; I'd have to spend the night there. I ran into a vanfull of Chinese people frantically looking for the campground, and figured I followed them. But the place was a zoo, swarming with people. It looked like Woodstock. After employing my rusty Chinese to help them get their site lined up, I filled out the paperwork for a site of my own before having a princess attack. There was going to be a party at the nearby beach, the campground manager told me, and I could get food there.
I imagined myself staying up late again, sleeping on the hard ground, being awakened by loud and drunken German partygoers and walking two hundred meters every time I needed to pee. Crumpling up the form I had just filled out, I asked the manager where I could find the nearest hotel. After all the trials I had been through today and functioning on piteously little sleep, I figured the least I deserved was a decent night's sleep. 95km** How excellent it felt to be on my way to Denmark, aboard an overcrowded boat full of duty-free shoppers and a segmented train on its way from Paris.
The ride from Grossenbrode to Puttgarden was painless, and the big puffy clouds looked like a Turner painting. Plus there was the added satisfaction of arriving in a Danish port called Rodbyhavn, which is written with a line through the \"O.\" I had made it to Northern Europe, and would soon be seeing my friends Niels, Eva and Freddy Copenhagen. The only other cyclists who had boarded with me were a trio of beefy German lads. When I remarked upon their lack of gear, they explained that they were only going to the beach for the day. \"But aren't there beaches just as good on the German side?\"
I asked. \"Yes, but there aren't any Danish girls on them,\" the most oafish of the three stated lasciviously, practically licking his chops, nearly causing me to gag. Yes, I thought, as superlative as yesterday's riding had been, I was happy to be leaving the Bundesrepublik. My first impressions of Scandinavia --which I have always considered the pinnacle of the civilized world---weren't overwhelmingly favorable. Well-marked cycle tracks led me through mostly nondescript villages as I traversed the islands of Lolland, Falster and Masnede. Outside a café in Sakskobing (yes, with a line through the \"o\"), I saw a sign advertising coffee and kringle for fifteen crowns, and promptly decided to take the plunge.
I was familiar with kringle from Racine, Wisconsin, where the sticky Danish pastry is lauded as this rustbelt city's chief cultural contribution, emblematic of its connections to the Old Country. Aside from \"tak,\" \"kringle\" was the only Danish word I knew. I marched inside and ordered my coffee and kringle with confidence, amused by the boisterousness surrounding me. Every person in the place was hopelessly inebriated, even though it was only 2pm. I guess happy hour starts early in Denmark. I basked in the decidedly un-German ambiance as I sipped my coffee, wondering what could be taking so long with the kringle.
More than once I asked the bartendress, \"What about that kringle?\" to which she smiled and said, \"yes,\" only to leave me and serve the next customer. Finally I had to resort to pointing to the sign, saying \"kringle\" with every possible inflection before she brought a piece out for me. I learned later from Niels that \"kringle\" does not rhyme with \"shingle,\" as I had been taught, but sounds more like \"strangled.\" I also learned that \"cykyl\" --meaning bike---is pronounced similarly to the English word \"sugar.\" This dispelled any further attempts to learn Danish on my part. Niels also explained to me that Lolland is the \"social disaster of Denmark\", with the country's highest unemployment rate (not to mention the ugliest scenery).
While it didn't exactly look like Detroit, it's true that the area didn't meet my expectations of Danishness either. The houses and villages seemed devoid of character and the people didn't seem to have that golden, privileged look I associate with Scandinavians. And the landscape didn't come close to matching up with the skyscape, which was growing more dramatic by the minute. While crossing the verylong bridge to Seeland (Denmark's largest island, and home to Copenhagen), rain started pissing down on me. I had intended to make it all the way to Koge, essentially a suburb of Copenhagen, but a few miles out of Vordingborg I saw that the main road didn't have a cycle path, and that bikes were rerouted along a much longer route.
Normally, I wouldn't have a problem with this, but I was expected in Copenhagen in 3 ½ hours, so I turned tail for Vordingborg's train station. The train wasn't for another hour, prompting me to expose myself to yet another taste of Danish bar culture. The Amigo Bar was a much classier operation than the hole back on Lolland. Most customers were watching the Tour de France on a giant television, before the broadcast switched to outrageously dull live feed covering Air Force One leaving Copenhagen airport. Two jolly Danes playing a dice game called Chicago informed me that Clinton's visit was the first by an American president in many decades, and that the whole country was consumed by Clinton fever.
One of them told me how much he loved America and how sad he found it that our social system was such a mess. He told me how he had wept the day Kennedy died and gave me a big sentimental hug when I left to catch my train. The train was full of other cyclists, as well of Danes of every ilk. Most of them had removed their shoes and were munching messily on snacks. Niels' much espoused theory that Denmark is the Italy of Scandinavia appeared to be an astute one. All the passengers were chatting loudly and behaving as if they were in their living rooms at home.
I was surprised when the couple across from me produced a child from nowhere over an hour into the voyage. Apparently they had left her in the baggage car along with their bikes, which reminded me of the story of the Danish couple who had recently been arrested in New York for leaving their baby in his stroller on the sidewalk while they shopped. I didn't mention this, though, hoping they'd help me unload my beast when we arrived in Copenhagen, and quietly delighting in the remarkably casual attitude with which the Danes appear to approach everything. I found my way to Niels' place without the aid of the map, having been there twice before.
He lives in what he claims is \"the gayest street in Copenhagen,\" just above a bar, a sauna and a leather boutique. It felt great to be in familiar surroundings. Promptly I was whisked off to Thomas' house, past the debris-strewn square where Clinton had made his speech only hours before. Thomas is slight and blond and interested in politics. Two remarkable sisters were there, too, who had spent a lot of time in America. The younger of the two, Trini, is a professional fencer --a fact which I found thrilling. It felt gloriously homey after so many days feeling alienated and alone.
We munched on salmon and vegetables and talked about everything imaginable before trundling into a pair of taxis that took us to a place called PAN, Copenhagen's principal gay disco. I ran into my friend Darren there almost instantly (he's received a prestigious grant to write a book on the state of so-called \"gay marriages\" in Denmark, the lucky bastard), but I was too beat to hold an intelligent conversation or to enjoy myself in any other way, and was soon pleading Niels to take me back to his ranch. We had a full day ahead of us, after all. 74km** It was everything I had hoped and more.
It was the reason I had rushed up to Copenhagen. Eva had long been promising me an unforgettable tour of the glories North of Copenhagen, and even back in the States it had sounded deliciously tempting. I especially liked the idea of being led around without any concern for the route, placing all my faith in my able guides. The activity-packed day began promptly at nine a.m. Niels and I set out under a cloudless sky along the deserted streets of Copenhagen towards Eva and Freddy's. Thankfully there was coffee waiting for us (or for me rather, as Niels is a tea drinker, which causes me to suspect he's actually an alien in Viking drag), as well as the most sumptuous brunch spread I've ever seen on this side of the Atlantic.
Sitting in the garden of Freddy and Eva's perfect little house and wolfing down pancakes in the glistening sunlight was almost enough to make me think that there is a God. I could have stayed there all day, but of course other arrangements had been made, and soon we were all pedaling Northwards. Seven-months-pregnant Eva displayed a Viking-like constitution, undaunted by the many kilometers that lay ahead. My hosts kept a running commentary. \"This woods belonged to the kings of Denmark before and have never been forested,\" Freddy would tell me. \"Tyco Brahe lived on that island out there,\" Eva pointed out.
\"Just ahead on the right is THE gay beach of Copenhagen,\" Niels informed. We stopped at the Karen Blixen Museum to wander around the garden and view the famous author's simple grave. I thought of Meryl Streep shooting lions and bonking Robert Redford, my Danish cultural knowledge woefully lacking. Our second stop was at the home of Niels' parents, who welcomed us warmly and gushed to me about how much they liked the U.S. (In their many travels they have obviously learned that Americans never tire of hearing foreigners praise the merits of the Home of the Brave). Niels' dad reminded me a lot of my own father, right down to his enthusiasm for computer technology.
Again, I would have been happy to tarry here for hours, but we had a tight schedule to keep... The world-famous Louisiana Museum for Modern Art was only a few minutes away, and in this gorgeously situated place we viewed a huge and ambitious exhibition on art in L.A. from 1960 to the present called \"Sunshine and Noir.\" I was more impressed than Freddy, who stated that he was more fond of creative output that served a more practical function, like industrial design. From here it was on to Helsingor, of \"Hamlet\" fame. Looming over the town was the enormous castle built to collect a tax on all passing ships.
Sweden lay across the straits, close enough to swim to. We stopped for monster-sized ice cream cones topped with jam and smushed chocolate-covered marshmallow things before continuing northwards past streets called \"Opheliaveg\" and \"Poloniusstrade\" and suchlike. We arrived right on time for our meal at what must surely rank among Denmark's most extraordinary culinary experiences, Jan Hurtigkarl & Co. The chef here takes an extended trip each winter, when the restaurant is closed, and comes back to Denmark to create a fixed seven-course meal inspired by his trip. Our meal was influenced by Basque cuisine, and included tasty tapas, two fish dishes, two deserts, and a main course of \"sommerbuk,\"
or baby Danish deer. Delicious! The four of us got a bit carried away talking about the practice of circumcision in America, which provided the surrounding tables with free entertainment. No one complained, though, and we stuck around until well after the northern sun had set, and pedaled back to Helsingor's train station in the dusk, our bellies full to bursting. It had been as close to a perfect day as I can remember having in a long time, and I only hope to be able to return it in kind some day to my wonderful Danish hosts. Thank you Eva, Freddy and Niels!