Trying to Cope in Hagen

Man, if my tax dollars were going towards sending musicians abroad to spread Danish jazz, I would be so mad. I’d be writing to my MP. Daily. Ridiculous.

I’m in the land of looney leftists – bikes everywhere, kids sitting up with no seatbelts in baby carriages being pushed by dads. A lot of greenspace, where if city planners were actually with it, a condo could be built. I can’t understand why the prices are so high if Danes are paying 75% of their salary to the taxman. Returning to the bathroom issue – we paid $12 to consume a coffee that came with a bathroom. I went twice to get my money’s worth.

But you don’t need to know that. Began the day in Copenhagen with a stop at a food market, where the crowds were so thick I was not there five minutes before being savagely “Trudeaued” by a fellow shopper. I had to step outside and make sure there wasn’t permanent damage to my chest.

Pushing a stroller does not a feminist make, Mr.!

Recovery comes quick when the promise of spending money looms large. I returned, invigorated by the promise of gleaming gifts to bring home, and displays of fish

that deeply offended my prairie sensibilities.

Our downloaded free walking tour instructed us to start at the statue of Hans Christian Andersen. Let me construct a new walking tour for those who are planning to visit Copenhagen in the future: start at the correct statue of HCA (there are at least two) before attempting walking tour. Two hours later, we arrive at the starting point.

"No worries," to quote our barista, we saw a lot of plants along the way.

We blasphemously purchase two cheap beers at the convenience store and drink in the backyard of a church where a wedding is taking place out front. On to the waterfront!

Copenhagen, it is decided, is a more manageable Amsterdam. Instead of tourists, it seems locals are the ones out having a good time. They’re the only ones who can afford it. We decide to drink at home. “How is the Aquavit?” P asks, pointing to a bottle behind our cashier. “I don’t know,” she answers. “I’m not that kind of girl.” We get help from a sympathetic dude passing by.

I’ve decided since I can’t get on board with pickled herring, or sausage, or any of the food that lies ahead, I’m going to focus entirely on cake.

 

(How does one order a “Danish” in Denmark? Not sure what ordering a “Canadian” in Canada would produce.) (I can't take credit for that joke, but I did order a "pastry" just to be safe.)

One final note: complicated Danish washing machines have English instructions. Try to find them in the menu before you lose $4.