Socialism and Sex in Copenhagen

I stayed at the Hotel Carlton because it was close to the train station.  My first night was spent seeing the usual downtown sights which included a man apparently having a heart attack at Tivoli with the crowd looking on.  Tivoli is like a carnival only classier and cleaner with its open air lights, family friendly stage shows, and midnight fireworks.  I can remember with regret not seeing Louis Tussaud’s Wax Museum because it cost too much.  As close as I was to it, I never saw the Kentucky Fried Chicken at 29 Vesterbrogade.  I would have made it part of my home base like I did the hotel.  Traveling at my level, I never tasted the other well-advertised Danish delicacies like Kijafa wine, Carlsberg beer, and Danish pastries at candlelight dinners.  Catch is as catch can. 

 

 

Walking down the vehicle-free streets like Vesterbrogade to see Copenhagen’s famous Little Mermaid, I did notice other sights:  bake shop, newspaper stand, watch shop, tourist office, and Homoland.  In fact, I saw two Homolands within two blocks of one another.  It’s the future that Americans don’t know is coming.  Look east.  The huge posters of “Shetland ponies, etc.” in the store windows were also disgusting.  Whatever happened to the guy in Missouri who tried to marry his horse?  Also, I stopped for a short time at a famous military antique shop until they threw me out after I said, “Just looking.”  They were known internationally for non-paying customers.  Dare I ask if they are still in business?

Danes have this thing about socialism and they’re happy to show it off to the world.  I hopped aboard one of Copenhagen’s two-tiered tourist busses to find out more.  First, we visited an old folk’s home where Grandma and Grandpa were sitting around a table contently beading stuff.  My lady guide commented that Danes, from cradle to grave, are guaranteed peace, security, and contentment.  It is demanded and expected with such a high tax rate (45% or more).  Next, we went to a kindergarten.  I was impressed by the “progressive” playground which included wooden jungle gyms placed in sand. (Urban America at that time had a market on asphalt, concrete, and steel.)  When it comes to training their children to use tools, the Danes freely allow sharp tools to be handled by toddlers in the belief that children will listen more when they are young.  Still, I thought the idea was ridiculous.

If I went to Copenhagen again to stay a bit longer, I would have taken a harbor tour because Denmark is a seafaring nation and a Midwesterner like me seldom sees the sea.  I’ve also learned, after many years, to spend a little extra on helicopter tours that give a bird’s eye view of cities you do not want to remember merely as concrete monstrosities.  In any event, I’d just arrived and had a long way to go.

Paris at Street Level

I got word of a token rail strike when I was planning my trip to Paris.  Europe always has labor problems that inconvenience tourists.  It was a very tiresome trip past canals, derelict train stations, and rolling fields that reminded me of Nebraska.  I traveled second class on this first European trip.  I saw Amiens Cathedral on the way to Paris and arrived at the Gare du Nord during rush hour.  I tried to get a room at the youth hostel on J.J. Rousseau St., but it was packed.  As soon as I entered another hotel the smell of urine was really bad. Again, the French have a sanitary problem.  I disappointed the girls of another establishment when they beckoned me upstairs.  “No thanks, I have a headache.”  When I came out of a subway a lady came out of nowhere and directed me to Hotel Montgolfier which turned out to be a decent establishment at 17F a night.  Of course the room was on the top-most level.  The toilet had its reservoir several feet above my head controlled by a pull chain.  Every flush was its own trip to Silver Dollar City.  Finding food was hard.  Liquor was everywhere and at all times.  A sugary roll and coffee for breakfast doesn’t produce robust healthy people.  I never understood it, but I did have a real breakfast of tea, chips (fries), eggs, and ham for 7.90F or $1.60.  The exchange rate in Europe was always in my favor.

   

On Friday, June 9, 1972 I walked to the Louvre past many policemen who had secured the area against demonstrators who were apparently trying to influence the Paris Peace Talks.   I saw many of the radicals throwing rocks just one block away.  Inside the Louvre I saw things that were the stuff of my art history books: the Mona Lisa, Winged Victory, Venus De Milo, and a haunting Greek temple.  I had the whistle blown on me for violating Napoleon's granite end table with my camera case.  Paris has a lot of whistle blowers that seem to take particular pleasure in castigating English speaking tourist by yelling “Anglais!” Later, I climbed the Arc de Triomphe and had my picture taken to record the historic event.  It was cool, windy, noisy, and pollution constantly blew in my eyes.  Parisian dogs do their business all over the streets.  The “April in Paris” mystic that Americans developed from the movies is just that.  I saw the Place de la Concorde where over eighty thousand people saw the king executed - “Son of Saint Louis, ascend to Heaven.”

I pondered going to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but it cost 8F and I was getting tired.  On Saturday I went to Notre Dame and saw the magnificent Rose Window.  There was a wedding going on at the time and everything was beautiful with the candles burning and multicolored reflections against the massive stonework.  I rested on the park bench outside when it started raining and found that I had only 22 cents (not Franks) left and the banks were closed because it was Saturday.  Back at the hotel the room was cold and I was grateful for my felt sleeping bag.

Paris’ night life escaped me.  I didn’t have the money, besides, I suppose you have to dress up and backpackers travel light – no Moulin Rouge or Folies Bergere for me. The city’s architecture is beautiful and faithfully represents the best you’ll see in the tourist brochures.  Only later after many years did I develop a fascination for the French Revolution and its players.  If I were to go back today I’d like to see the location of the Bastille, the infamous Conciergerie where France's unfortunate nobles awaited their terrible fate, and the Hôtel-de-Ville.  Legend has it that a cannon ball rests or rested in its outer wall.  Who can forget Georges-Jacques Danton, Maximilien Robespierre, and Citoyen Marat done in by the beautiful Charlotte Corday?  I still remember her cat, Minette, but there are other discoveries that lie far to the south of Paris.