Chapter 3: Berlin: The weather could not have been wurst.

Our train pulled into Berlin’s central station not long after the schedule arrival time, despite the initial delay in leaving Wroclaw. The first priority in our new country was to withdraw some Euros. It took maybe 10 minutes of wandering through multiple levels of the station before locating an ATM, but after withdrawing some cash, I immediately went to a convenience store and bought a 1.5 liter bottle of water and began to chug unrelentingly. The combination of two nights of heavy drinking in Poland and no money to purchase any water before our departure had made the 5 hour trip to Berlin one of the most miserable train rides of my life. I spent much of the time in a dehydrated daze, fantasizing about anything water related, and even pondered stealing the beverage of the man sitting across from me while he was in the bathroom. It was not my proudest moment.

Having come from a smaller Polish city, the size and scope of Berlin was immediately awe inducing. Even just a look at the transportation map posted on the wall of the station and it was clear that we had entered a new level of modern city. The dozens of train lines (both Ubahn and Sbahn, of which I did not understand the difference at all) were drawn out on the system map in a cryptic maze of lines and dots, accentuated with a plethora of stereotypically sounding German names ending in platz and straße. An anxiety attack was not an out of the ordinary reaction to such a map one would guess.

I stared blankly at the map for 5 minutes, with neither an idea of where we were, nor where we were supposed to be heading. Trains continued to arrive and depart from the five stories of tracks almost continuously, then darting off in the next direction just as quickly as they had arrived. It was an airport of a train station. For the first 20 minutes after we arrived, I was overwhelmed by Berlin, a sentiment I rarely admit to having in foreign cities.

Perhaps that was a slight exaggeration, as a mere 30 minutes later everything had begun to take focus. We were sitting on a Sbahn train (though I still didn’t know what the difference was), headed towards the home of our host in the southern part of Berlin. The act of locating and orientating yourself can provide such a simplifying and pacifying influence on your perception of being in a new city.

We managed to meet up with our host, Matthias, that evening despite some international dialing difficulties, and headed out to a neighborhood pub for a few drinks and some darts. Like most instances where two groups of people from entirely different parts of the world are meeting for the first time, the conversation was slow and focused on travel stories and pleasantries, and the games of darts long and imprecise. After another round the conversation picked up and we engaged in a couple heated games of cricket, with our Team USA pulling out a few key victories over the Germans. Neither Mike nor I is considered to be much for dart players, but with the help of a few drinks we managed to emerge victorious. Matthias even taught us the German word that for the first couple drinks to get the skill going, which translates literally to “aiming water”, though alas as I forgot the actual word. It was very like the Germans to have a such a word.

The evening had began with hopes of venturing out to explore the nightlife of Berlin, but after a few beers it became apparent that our late nights in Poland, accompanied by the usual unfulfilling sleep one can expect following several hours of overconsumption, had taken their toll. Neither of us could summon the energy to get on the train and ride back into the city to explore, and so we decided to head back and call it an early night, figuring the full nights rest would do us good. And besides, there was still Saturday night to be ready for.

Saturday brought the return of rain, not so much as a real storm like in Poland but the kind of gentle, persistent rain that continues for hours and offers a gentle “fuck you” to any plans you might have had for the day.

We got off the Sbahn at Potsdamerplatz in order to peer through the haze and mist at the Jewish War Memorial, Brandenburg Gate, The Reichstag, Unter Der Linden: all nice but in some way lacking any specific draw or unifying force. The Jewish War Memorial was the most powerful, but haunting as well, which was probably the intention of its designer. The stark monuments, symbolic of coffins but with irregular sizes and heights to give uniqueness and personality to each, as I imagined the artist had intended to give individual tribute to millions of people who were thoughtlessly murdered en masse.

Despite my favor of the Jewish War Memorial, I still found the sights of Berlin a modest thrill at best, mostly relevant only to the politically charged, war ravaged and economically unstable history of the city in the first half of the twentieth century. Berlin was not a great sightseeing city, nor was it a particularly beautiful city, but yet still the visitors arrive.

It was a phenomenon I could not explain, and did not particularly care to worry about either. Instead, after about 90 minutes of walking in the rain through central Berlin, we decided to hop into a nearby restaurant for some food and a liter of beer, which seemed about as German of an idea as anything else at that point.

I ordered a bowl of hearty potato soup, which hit the spot quite well on an unfortunate July day with temps in the low 60s. It was simple: based merely on broth, potato, sausage, and aromatics and spices, but still quite wonderful. Paired with a tall, German Lager that went down fast on a dreary, wet day, I felt we had made the most of our situation. To pass the time, we struck up some conversation with a group of girls sitting at a nearby table; all 3 of them were visiting for the weekend from London, though two were originally from the US and the third from Scotland.

The two American girls almost immediately showed themselves to be the type of expats who, as soon as they left America, began to look back at their home country with a sort of annoyed disdain, as if they really had to admit that they came from a place where people shoved Big Macs into their faces at an ever increasingly alarming rate and watching the Blue Collar Comedy Tour was considered a cultural experience.

They seemed fairly surprised when we proved capable of holding a few short conversations regarding Bauhaus design and Moma, the newly crowned best restaurant in the world in Copenhagen. I wanted to instantly ignore them for their readily snobbish attitude, but at the same time it was nice to be holding a conversation about anything, be it Molecular Gastronomy or the Blue Collar Comedy Tour, with someone besides Mike.

We managed to keep drinking through the afternoon well enough to necessitate heading back in order to take a late afternoon nap before heading out for the night. When we were finally up and ready to go again it was almost 10pm. This did not concern us, as if Europe is known for one thing, it’s that they will party until the sun comes up, and then they will continue just the same.

First we required a stop at Curry 36, which had been recommended to us by several people as the best place to get Berlin’s famous Currywurst.

The stand was still busy at 10:30PM, and after a couple bites I could see why. The currywurst was crisp and flavorful, and yes it is the curry flavored sausage experience it sounds like. The frittes were excellent as well. It was at this meal that I began to realize I was starting to like the European combination of mayo and ketchup on my fries. Like most Americans, for years I had detested the concept of putting mayo on fries, but yet here I was, beginning to enjoy the concept. McCarthy would have assuredly proclaimed me a communist on the spot.

After our meal we decided to walk in the general direction of Kreuzberg, the hip neighborhood we were told would be filled with bars, clubs and the other sorts of attractions that people in their 20s like to look for in their free time. This proved to be a poor decision, as not only was the walk much longer than we had anticipated, but the neighborhood through which we were walking was nothing more than blocks and blocks quiet residential buildings. By the time we finally arrived in an area that had some activity we had been walking for well over half an hour through a light rain.

We walked by several bars and restaurants but none seemed to be particularly busy on a Saturday night, and so we continued on. Finally, tired of walking and in desperate need of a drink, we stopped into a bar that was showing the big boxing match that evening between Wladimir Klitschko and David Haye. The place was packed and everyone seemed heavily interested in the fight, something I was not anticipating on encountering We had a few drinks and watched the end of the fight, engaged with the rest of the crowd, but afterwards the place began to clear out almost immediately, though it was only 1am in a city where the nightlife supposedly never stops.

We paid our bill and moved on, deciding to hop back on the train and head towards the area around Curry 36, which seemed to at least be full of people when we were there earlier in the evening. This area as well yielded very little, and after another half hour of walking, the reluctant decision was made to cut our losses and head back to head home. We admitted defeat. We had not managed to find a decent bar in Berlin on a Saturday night. I had never been more ashamed.

Sunday the weather was no better, but there was little we could besides just bitch a little bit, grab our stuff, and head out. I was already disappointed with how much use I was getting out of my cheap tourist umbrella with “Berlin” written on it over and over in a whimsical font which I had purchased at the Jewish War Memorial.

We started the day at Checkpoint Charlie, the main crossing point between East and West Berlin throughout the decades of separation. Mike had insisted on visiting the spot, but I had been less excited about the prospects, figuring it would just be a gigantic tourist trap. And it was. But the visit turned into a pleasant surprise as the walls surrounding the area were covered with a gallery depicting many pictures of the Cold War and telling the history of the wall and the divide between East and West Germany.

Standing there, reading the history of everything that had happened, the full weight of what the Berlin Wall had meant and its impact not only on the people who lived in the city, but on the rest of the world, began to dawn on me. The realization that it had been only a little over 20 years since the wall had come down, and how much the city had changed since then, was astounding.

Being a millennial, my generation represents the first for which the Cold War has always seemed like a past event, something from the history books. But there in the rain, reading about the incredible successful and tragic failed escape attempts, and the Berlin airlift, and President Kennedy’s famous (or infamous?) speech, it was this moment at which the Cold War became real for me.

It was an awakening, though not quite enough of one to compel me to pay five Euros to get my picture taken with the actors in American army apparel who were “manning” the checkpoint.

From Check Point Charlie we hoped on the Ubahn to visit the East Side Gallery, where a multitude of artists have painted a series of large murals along one of the largest stretches of the wall that remains. Once again, the rain seemed appropriate for such a location, and we strolled along, looking at the series of murals and taking in their political and cultural messages. All of them had been repainted only 2 years ago (the originals murals were painted shortly after the fall of the wall) and still looked striking and vibrant against the grey surroundings of the city. I couldn’t pretend to understand the context and meaning behind the murals, but I felt I could appreciate the significance of each on the day it was painted.

Our afternoon walk took us back through Kreuzberg, where I realized that we had actually walked down several of the same streets the previous night. There seemed to be just as many people out on a Sunday afternoon as there were on Saturday night, and I began to think that perhaps the rain had played a role in our difficulties of finding a good place to get a drink. That was, at least, what I wanted to believe.

We stopped in for a couple beers when the rain picked up, and then moved on once it abated, our standard course of action for almost our entire visit in Berlin. We would wander around until a point in which we needed a break from the rain, and then we would stop into the closest bar and sample whatever German beer they had on tap. At this pub it was Erdinger, a German hefeweizen that instantly became one of Mike and my favorite beers in Germany. It was a balanced hefeweizen that was full bodied and did not taste like a bowl of lemons. I enjoyed it tremendously.

………………………………..

Our next destination was Lubeck, a Hanseatic city on the northern coast of Germany. I didn’t know what Hanseatic meant, but I figured we would figure it out once we got there. Lubeck was a small city by comparison, only 250,000 people, which would be a nice change from the size and scale of Berlin.

Despite the poor weather and other difficulties we had encountered there, I still enjoyed my time in Berlin. I did realize though, that we had approached the city in the wrong way.

Berlin is not a city you visit for a weekend, at least not if you want to do it right. You need two days just to get your bearings and start to get a feel for where things are. As much as Prague was a great city for a weekend getaway, to systematically visit the main sites in the center of town and then be off, Berlin is a city to wander through for a week, getting lost in its neighborhoods and looking for unknown bars, restaurants, and street art.

I knew, as soon as we left, that I would be back to Berlin sometime later in my life in order to make a proper visit.

Lubeck was miniscule by comparison, especially since most visitors remain within the old center of town, which is separated from the mainland by a small, lazy river, and compact enough to traverse by foot alone. It was refreshing that after one day there we knew our way around the entire area.

Lubeck was the first stop on our trip where we did not have lodging arrangements made beforehand, and so we had to venture out and find a hostel for our time there. Luck was on our side, as we were able to find lodging at a nice hostel, and though we paid a rate for a 5 bunk room, we were the only two there and thus had a private room for all intents and purposes.

We spent the evening wandering through several of the cobbled, narrow streets. I felt the calm and quiet of the city were exactly what we needed following the past week of never ending touring, drinking and traveling. Eventually, we became famished enough to settle on a restaurant, opting for one of three places stretched along the river guiding the western border of the old part of town.

While the waiter did speak some English, the menus were in German only, leaving us scrambling for something to order that sounded exotic… but not too exotic. I chose the special, sauerfleisch, that was written on the chalkboard on the wall, figuring it was special enough to merit advertizing, and therefore had to be good. I had no idea what I had just ordered, and when the ham steak arrived, topped with an slightly salty and sour aspic, the two together served slightly chilled, I realized I had gotten what I wanted, in a roundabout sense.

Actually, the meal turned out quite good, despite my initial reservations. Gelatin is a texture we rarely consume in day to day eating in America, but enjoyed it quite a bit, and actually thought the bold and enhanced flavor it brought to the pork made it well worth the adventure. The fact that it was served chilled though did not sit well given the mild and dropping temperatures.

Even for northern Germany I supposed that this was still probably unseasonably cool weather. Later that evening, as we sat drinking a few beers on the patio of a bar we had to sit next to the large portable heaters in order to stay warm. We weren’t exactly in the Arctic Circle, but I was beginning to suspect that we had entered the part of the world where one should almost always bring a jacket, no matter what time of year.

Tuesday was our only full day in Lubeck, but already it felt as if we had explored a sizeable portion of the city. I started the day with some coffee and a croissant, which hit the spot in an indescribable way. Mike was not a coffee drinker, so I was oftentimes on my own for getting coffee and any form of breakfast in the morning. It felt a shame as this was often such a wonderful experience in Europe, to merely sit back and slowly wake up to the day. Granted for us this occurred at 11AM rather than 6AM, but we weren’t that old yet.

We explored around the old part of town once more for the early part of the day, observing again some of the immense, towering churches that appear ready to tumble over at any moment. Lubeck had enjoyed its most golden years earlier than the other cities we had visited on the trip, and so the age and architecture of the buildings gave it an even strong historical sense. The age of the buildings, combined with the swampy sea level marsh upon which they were built, had led to many of the towers and steeples beginning to lean and tilt quite preciously. It made me uneasy to see such large and ancient structures tilted at angles anyone could recognize as not being part of the original design, but without any kind of modern support structure to keep them stabilized. It wasn’t quite the leaning tower of Pisa, but it had the same visual effect.

By 2pm we had already exhausted just about everything there was to see in Lubeck. The plan of visiting a place that would be easy to cover had worked too well, so we hopped on a bus and headed for Travemunde, a seaside resort about 15 km away. Lubeck itself was not actually on the open sea, but instead connected by a large inlet and river to the North Atlantic. Travemunde was the actual seaside location, with beaches, a boardwalk, and a ferry terminal from which ferries to other Northern European Destinations departed.

I was surprised at the amount of development catering towards tourists that existed in Travemunde, given how small of a weather window must exist there for good beach going conditions. Even today, the 5^th of July, the skies were overcast and swimming seemed like an idea only for the slightly insane or fully inebriated. But still, it had all the makings of a summer resort town, and there were scores of people milling around to support this claim. I guess when you live in this part of the world it’s nice to have a beach you can visit within a short commute as opposed to flying off to Ibiza, even if the weather’s not the same and there aren’t nearly as many Spanish women in bikinis.

Late Wednesday morning began our final travel day of the trip, a 5 hour train ride from Lubeck to Copenhagen. Our last evening in Lubeck had been pleasant, with clear skies and warm temperatures for the first time in days, but aside from attempting to describe the serenity of sitting in the courtyard of our in the late, North German summer evening, there was little of consequence to write about. Even pictures could not do justice to sanguinity of the evening, and really I can only leave my lack of exposition as description enough.

On our ultimate leg of the trip we finally learned to plan ahead by purchasing provisions for the train ride. Some juice, fruit, brie, and a loaf of fresh baked bread made it a much more enjoyable journey than that fateful trip from Poland during which I would have gladly pushed an old lady off the moving train for half a glass of water.

We were already in good spirits when the announcement came over the PA system, first in German and then repeated in English, that our train would be boarding the ferry at Puttgarden for a 45 minute ride over to Denmark.

It was true! All along, our ambition of traveling from Northern Germany to Copenhagen had involved the idea of a ferry. I had decided originally that this would be our means of arrival without actually investigating whether it was possible; however, when I told our host in Copenhagen that we were planning on arriving by ferry, he commented back that we would most likely then be taking a train into Copenhagen. At first I did not understand, until I discovered that no ferries actually served the route from Lubeck to Copenhagen, as it is much too accessible by land based transportation.

Disappointed at first, I then read in my investigation that the ICE trains made their route by way of the Puttgarden ferry, and that the train itself was loaded on for the 45 minute crossing. I was hesitant to believe this until the announcement finally was made. This was even better: we were on a train that was going onto a ferry. How many people can claim to have done that?

Well perhaps it wasn’t as interesting as it sounds now that I’ve sufficiently built up the experience. The train was loaded onto the car deck along much the same as the other vehicles, and we were required to move to the passenger deck as were all the other automobile-based travelers. Our train was in effect just one gigantic SUV, crammed into the hull of a large ferry. But still, we were on a train: on a ferry!

Photos

Chapter 4: Copenhagen is the Hipster Capital of the World

The bikes.

I had never seen such a thing, and I clearly was not prepared for it all as the unusualness of everything whirring around me almost cost me my life on several occasions, or at least the use of an appendage or two.

Copenhagen may well be the bike capital of the world, or at least the Western world from what I could tell. We exited the train station onto the busy streets of central Copenhagen with hardly a clue of where we were in the city. As we walked about, trying to gather our bearings, I mindlessly wandered into one of the bicycle lanes running parallel to almost every major street in the city.

I felt a rush of air as several bikes blew past me, coming so close as to make me wonder whether they had actually made contact with me or not. After the initial shock of realizing I almost lost my left arm to a plaid biker on a fixed gear, I hopped out of the bike lane as quick as I could. Despite my look of bewilderment, no one else seemed to have even noticed because they bikers here….well quite frankly they showed no mercy.

This is in fact exactly how the streets of Copenhagen operate, with bikes lanes that are just as perilous to the pedestrian as any other lane of traffic. And traffic here means bikes just as much as it means autos or any other form of transportation. When the light turns red, and by that I mean the special light designated for bikes with the illuminated red drawing of a biker, a line of bikes begins to back up almost immediately.

At 3pm on a Wednesday afternoon, this wasn’t too bad, but we were assured later that during the morning rush hour, the congestion can stretch for blocks. Currently over 33% of people in Copenhagen bike to work, and there is a push to get that number closer to 40% within the next year. I’m not sure if there are 33 people in all of Milwaukee who bike to work…a city of comparable size by the way.

We had several hours to kill before our host, the perfectly named Hans, would be meeting us at the train station, so we decided to wander a bit around central Copenhagen. It was an interesting mélange of architectural styles, with the center of Copenhagen still rooted in the past, but the areas around the canals and outer harbor adorned with shimmering post modern office buildings, museums, and corporate headquarters. Still, even with the large amounts of street and subway construction going on, I found it to be an agreeable city almost immediately.

It helped that the weather was perfect on that Thursday afternoon and the parks and green spaces were filled with people taking advantage of what I can only imagine to be as one of the few warm, sunny days in Copenhagen each year. It was a quick first impression, perhaps no more than an hour or so of walking, but it was evident that we were in a wealthy, clean and modern city that took pride in a progressive and well educated culture.

For dinner Hans we went to get some food at fast food place that had a name of something to do with chicken, but which I can’t remember exactly what. Hans had brought us there because as he said, it was one of the few good options for a filling meal in his neighborhood that wasn’t going to bust your wallet.

I did not have a full understanding of what that meant yet, but the food was good for under $10, and of course the girl working the counter spoke perfect English.

Afterwards we walked back towards Hans’s apartment, passing again past the Søerne, or Lakes, that string along the western side of the city. The series of five lakes were originally part of a stream that was eventually dammed to produce water and later converted into a large park and public space. The lakes now provide a calm, open green space in the city, and have wide paths for walkers and joggers.

Thursday was our first full day in Copenhagen, as well as our last full day together on the trip. Mike would be flying out on Friday evening to join his family on vacation in New England, the unfortunately “leave one vacation to go on another”, while my return was not until the following Monday morning. It made our time in Copenhagen a little awkward as I had a full 3 days more to see the city, and therefore the one day we had for Mike to explore meant much less to me than it did to him.

In all honesty Copenhagen isn’t all that full of real “sights” to see, and what we had on our to-do list was actually quite small. From Hans’ apartment we simply started walking in the direction of the harbor with little more than a general sense of where we were headed. This led us to the Kastellet, the old military fortification constructed in the 17^th century that has now been converted into a park. The grounds still contain some military operations though quite minimal, but we did see a few men in uniform walking around…but mostly we only slightly less intimidating creatures such as ducklings and goldfish.

From the Kastellet the famous statue of the Little Mermaid was only a short walk away. I wasn’t exactly sure what this statue was supposed to mean, but it was so well known that if anything it was worth a look. This was after all, the most famous symbol of Copenhagen judging by its gracing the cover of almost every guide book and tourist pamphlet.

The statue was, to be kind, just a small statue, and not exactly a masterpiece as far as my uneducated eye could discern. But even more disappointing for me was to learn that there was no real history behind it either, simply that the wealthy son of the Carlsberg family felt compelled to pay to erect a statue of Hans Christian Andersen’s most famous heroine, and one can only assume that the leaders of Copenhagen were eager to capitalize on the famous Dane’s popularity around the world.

I laughed and took pictures of the statue that mostly focused on the hoards of people cramming themselves around the statue in order to take poorly focused pictures, thinking how absurd it all was. Did I feel jaded and bitter towards a statue that was completely surrounded by tourists from sun up to sun down, and otherwise offered very little to compliment the surrounding cityscape? Sure.

To me, the only entertaining part of the endeavor, was to learn that the poor statue had been not once, but twice decapitated over the course of time. Be it petty vandalism or a social statement, I did find a small amount of joy in knowing that someone had taken a hack at the poor tourist trap not once, but twice. Yes I know, bitter and jaded.

Our wandering from there consisted mainly of attempting to find a reasonably priced lunch and then venturing on towards Christiana, an “autonomous” part of Copenhagen where drug use was more or less permitted and the “hippie” sentiment was still alive and well. I had not heard of this co-op before coming to Copenhagen, but we decided it was worth a visit, even if our lack of a map and general orienteering skills meant we spent an additional 2 hours wandering the nearby neighborhoods while attempting to identify its precise location.

Christiana was a unique place to say the least. It was started by hippie holdovers who occupied the grounds of a former military base in the 1960s and from there had developed into a self-governing part of the city where drug use was openly permitted and the sale of illicit drugs was off and on tolerated. For decades it had existed in some sort of tolerated limbo with the Danish national government. Not surprisingly, this attitude had attracted a large number of hippies, burnouts, artists and the like over the years, and from there they had discovered that by exploiting the tourists dollar you could make a little extra money to keep said compound alive and well.

So today it is half tourist trap, half anti-establishment alternative camp, which feels about as awkward as it sounds. There are plenty of stands selling hemp this and hemp that, homemade jewelry, screen printed shirts not terribly different from what one would find at Hot Topic, as well as pot and hash and perhaps some other more “illicit” drugs, all in open areas surrounded by large signs declaring that “No Photos” were allowed.

I could feel the struggle of these counter culturists, abhorrent of the camera toting tourists and thrill seeking wanna-be’s, but at the same time dependent upon their money to maintain their free and easy life style. It was a real life equivalent of the Ché Guevara T-Shirt for sale in suburban malls of America, where the message was completely lost in the irony of the surroundings.

For dinner that evening we grabbed some Italian sandwiches from a nearby shop and a couple beers and headed down towards the waterfront canal to listen to some music from the Copenhagen Jazz Festival. It had been only a coincidence that our visit occurred at the same time as this world famous Jazz Festival, and it wasn’t until we saw posters everywhere around the city advertising the events that I realized the festival was going on right in front of us.

Though your first inclination might not be to think much of the combination of Danes and jazz, there is a much stronger connection between the two than I, or many of my generation, would probably realize. Copehagen, with its socially progressive society and liberal attitudes on drugs and race, became a refuge to many of America’s best jazz artists during the mid twentieth century, most notably African American musicians who desired to escape the racial prejudice and persecution of their homeland.

Take some open minded Europeans, some extremely talented American musicians, and mix them up with a whole lot of drugs and free spirit, and the Copenhagen jazz scene is born.

“Smoke some dope for me in Copenhagen” my Dad, a musician and avid jazz fan, had said jokingly to me before I left.

“That’s Amsterdam Dad.” I responded, rolling my eyes while mocking my father for not being able to keep two distinct European cities apart in his mind.

But now I wondered that perhaps, as an American jazz fan growing up in the 60s and 70s while listening to scores of albums and stories of artists performing and recording in Copenhagen….well maybe my old man actually knew what he was talking about.

Most of the acts at the Jazz Festival required purchased tickets, but on our first night we had discovered an outdoor stage near the harbor where you could sit just beyond the fence and listen for free. We took our beers and found a spot along the retaining wall beyond the fence to catch an evening set from Terje Rypdal. With a Tuborg in hand, the sun fading fast and Norwegian jazz filling the air, I was in a good place. I was in a real good place.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The rain returned on Friday, much to our disappointment, but a fitting end to the trip which had oscillated between terrible and perfect weather. Mike and I grabbed a final meal together of Döner kebab, which was also fitting as it had been a staple of our diet in Germany and Denmark. In both countries, but especially in Denmark, a good Turkish kebab was easily the best food you could get for under $6.

I loved Döner, but felt bad that we had eaten it for probably 35% of our meals over the past week because it didn’t feel as authentic as the local cuisine. But when I discovered that it was invented by Turkish immigrants living in Germany, my attitude changed immediately. Suddenly to me having a doner kebab in Germany, especially after a few beers, seemed just as culturally significant as biting into a greasy carne asada burrito at 3AM back in the US. It was how the local generation eats.

The poor weather once again limited our options, so we stayed in at Hans’s apartment for the afternoon and watched TV before Mike had to leave for his flight. I could sense that he was ready to go, and I could feel that sentiment growing within myself as well. We were now almost two full weeks into the trip, and I had my first feeling that the travel itch had been sufficiently scratched. For better or worse, I still had 3 more days in Copenhagen though, and I now had mixed feelings about that.

Around 5pm Mike left for the airport and I went for a walk in the evening after the rain cleared. The sun returned, and I strolled around a large park that was perfectly tranquil and felt rejuvenated. Perhaps I could make good use of my extra few days in the city after all.

On Saturday Hans took me on a walk through the city. Most of the ground had already been covered with Mike, but having a local guide meant that I learned and understood quite a bit more the second time around.

We ascended the tower of the former observatory of the King of Denmark, who built its wide, spiraling ramp to the top, only about 10 stories above the ground, wide enough for horses to be able to draw his carriage up, saving him from the terrible alternative of having to actually ride a horse, or worse a peasant. I can only imagine that 500 years ago it had been quite the lookout for the King. Talk about a good place to bring a concubine…or your wife. Even today, it provided sweeping views of Copenhagen which remains mostly devoid of skyscrapers and large high rises. From a more distant view the marriage of so many different styles of architecture and building styles, the old juxtaposed with the new, was on full display.

We spent the later part of the afternoon attempting to find a place that sold Smørrebrød, the traditional Danish open-faced sandwiches. I had partially given up on eating much traditional Danish food in Copenhagen due to the cost of eating anything beside a kebab or Italian Sandwich, but the sandwiches had come up in conversation the previous night at the bar, and I was determined to sample some of what seemed to be the most quintessential of Danish cuisine before I left.

Unfortunately, none of the stores that served them were open on the weekend, and so we were out of luck, that was until Hans suggested that instead we make them ourselves back at his apartment. We purchased a few key provisions and headed back to his place to begin the assembly.

I had been under the impression during all the previous conversations that Smørrebrød referred to a specific type of sandwich, but as we prepared the ingredients Hans explained to me that it simply meant an open-faced sandwich served with a variety of traditional toppings. Hans laid out a spread of hard boiled eggs, pickled herring, ham, liver pate, onions and cheese, all to be placed more or less in any combination imaginable, on top of a slice of dark rye bread with butter. I put together a few combinations which seemed most appropriate and sat down to try out this new approach to my favorite food, the sandwich.

Despite an ingredient list almost completely unique to anything I had experienced before, I was amazed at how delicious the final product became. Even more surprising was the pickled herring, bones and all, that offered a deliciously sweet yet balanced protein to the dish: much more agreeable than I had ever imagined. I felt bad for Mike who was missing this experience, because up until this point we had missed out on anything that had even remotely resembled Danish cuisine.

Sunday was my final day in Copenhagen, and after 4 days in the city I was beginning to know my way around. It was on this day, while heading towards the harbor to meet some new friends for a boat tour that I decided to finally take advantage of the free bike-sharing program available in Copenhagen. I had only read about it recently while Mike and I were killing time and watching bad Danish television. All one had to do was locate a bike in the program that was parked at one of the many racks dispersed throughout the city, place a 20 Crown coin (about $4 USD) in the slot, then detach and ride away. When you were finished, simply return the bike to any of the racks with locks and your coin would be returned to you.

While riding around on my newly rented bike, for free, I became acutely aware of how stupid it was that we had not taken advantage of this opportunity before. I instantly became saddened by the thought of all the ground we could have theoretically covered by bike rather than by foot, but deemed that it was best not to dwell upon things that cannot be changed. Instead I continued on, knowing that having a free bike to use in Copenhagen was a wonderful thing, even if they did have to fish more than a few of them out of the canals and lakes.

Before returning my bike, I made one final stroll of the Stroget, the large pedestrian mall the cuts through the center of Copenhagen. It was lined with vendors selling many of the same items as those on the Charles Bridge in Prague, but in this setting it seemed more appropriate. This was the commercial center of Copenhagen, at least as far as the tourism and entertainment dollar was concerned. It was a good source of entertainment and people watching and I enjoyed just walking around and taking everything in for one last evening. I smiled a bit at the statue of the Danish palace guard, adorned in blue with a large puffy black hat, constructed out of Legos. It was perhaps the most Danish thing in existence.

Back at Hans’s apartment that even I began to pack and prepare for my departure early Monday morning. Though I had caught a bit of a second wind over the weekend, I was still ready to head home and get back to normal life. A two week trip was nice, but it was still short enough that it meant life back home hadn’t really stopped. I still had a job, activities, and the like to return to. With all of this weighing on my mind, I decided I was ready to go.

Part of it was probably also due to the cost of being in Copenhagen. Sure, I was on vacation, and the truth was we had managed to do this trip with a very reasonable budget. But it still pained me to hand over $6 for a hot dog, or $8 for a beer, and I longed for the days of Poland and the Czech Republic where Mike and I would bar hop and explore new food items all evening, and do it all for less than $30. In Copenhagen that amount of money bought you a modest lunch and one drink, if you picked the right place. It sounds trite, but the strength of the dollar can have a big influence on how I enjoy places I go, and I’m guessing many others, admittedly or not, have similar sentiments.

Maybe if we had gone the other way, from Denmark to the Czech Republic, with each passing country getting progressively less expensive, it would have been easier, but that’s something I’ll never know. Still, it had been a great trip, and even my miserly ways could not detract from that. My goals had been to return to Europe for the first time since 2005 and to visit parts of Central and Northern Europe that were novel to me. Both of these were well accomplished, and traveling with Mike had proven to be easy and enjoyable as well.

A good traveling companion can be hard to predict and even harder to find, but for 2 weeks we had gotten along well. Traveling with one other person for any extended period of time often brings on a whole new level of interaction and dependence. Almost every waking decision has to be made mutually, from what to eat to where to go, which brings the relationship past the marriage level to a near Siamese twin-like situation. Had the trip been for 2 months instead of 2 weeks who knows if the harmony would have continued, but you can only fight the battles you’re in.

Of course now that I was finishing my trip, my thoughts began drifting towards what was next in my life of a want-to-be world explorer, outside of returning to my job in the States and two weeks paid vacation a year. This trip though had left me with some parting thoughts about Europe though.

I would be back to Eastern Europe. That was for sure. Our time in Poland and Czech Republic had really peaked my interest in traveling the Eastern Bloc, something that I had not considered too seriously prior to the trip. I also knew I would be back to Berlin, to give the city the proper visit it was due.

On the other hand, my desire to travel to more of Scandinavia was now not as strong, as I was beginning to get the feeling that the differences between the countries is not quite that great. Denmark felt as if it had been a nice sampling of the general Scandinavian culture. It is highly westernized and modern part of the world, but in terms of adventure and intrigue it was a bit lacking. This wasn’t to say I wouldn’t go if I had the opportunity, but rather that it had dropped a bit on the priority list.

And so my thoughts rambled as I sat on the metro train headed towards the airport, a full day of travel waiting to return me to Milwaukee. During my layover in Helsinki all passengers on the flight to Chicago had to go through an additional screening and questioning process to board the flight due to an increased terror level related to an incident back in the US.

It was a tedious, time consuming process that was helpful only in thwarting any potential terrorist lacking the ability to tell simple lies, and to me seemed frivolous, unhelpful, and wholly unnecessary. But then again, it did make me feel like I was back in the US already.

Photos

Why We Write

I gave up after about 3 paragraphs, closing my laptop and instead turning my attention to the repeating houses of suburbia outside the Amtrak window as we headed north towards Milwaukee. The weekend in Chicago had been yet another great respite for me, a chance to reconnect with friends and at the same time continue to remember why I love the city so much. I wasn’t sad to be heading back to Milwaukee by any means, but it had been nice to get away for the weekend.

In the past 4 months, the furthest I have traveled outside of Milwaukee County has been to Chicago, which has happened 3 times since the first of the year. Merely typing that last sentence sets off a release of depressing chemicals into my brain. Still, owing to the fact that these short weekend trips were the only traveling I had done, I figured I had little else to write about for my “food and travel” blog than my experiences in Chicago. But the thought of even broaching the subject of good food in Chicago overwhelmed me. I was not worthy in terms of knowledge, passion, or even interest, to wade into the depths of the Chicago foodie culture. I’ve waited in line for an hour for hot dogs at Hot Dougs before, but there was no need to be the 10,000^th person to write about it.

Frustrated, I stopped writing and thought about how I could possibly fill this space without merely mimicking what had already been done before. This ambiguity and uncertainty remained on my mind this week as I read an updated post from a good friend who writes what is in effect a blog about being both a chef and an ultimate player, a unique literary combination to say the least. He is a man who goes by the name Panda, which in itself should give him all the credentials needed. His post, actually a return to posting from a hiatus, examined the “why “ of why we do what we do, and what drives him to work so hard at cooking, and where he hopes this will take him. I’ve always been found of his writing for its candidness and brutal honesty of someone opening up their thought process as they strive to achieve their dreams.

So instead of faking my way through a post about a city that I could not even begin to describe in a few short paragraphs, I thought that maybe I would steal his train of thought and examine my own interests and actions. Why am I writing this blog anyways?

It’s been 9 months since it began, shortly after I moved to Milwaukee to begin yet another new life and career. I wasn’t really sure exactly how things would turn out, but felt the need to begin to put down thoughts and observations on paper (figuratively of course), and something said just go ahead, start, and figure out the details later. And so it began, as many (figuratively as well) have probably noticed, in varying formats, with alternating voices, as I began to search for how I would feel most comfortable writing about the topics that interested me.

That still doesn’t answer the question of why, however. The truth is still somewhat undefined. What I do know is this – I love to travel, and intend to make it a central part of my life. I also love food. Not so much an obsession with the act of eating or cooking in itself, but with how it represents cultures and identities around the globe so uniquely, and that in it I have found the best way to experience the places I go. I have plans, though still undefined, to take some time off from life in the future to do some extensive traveling. I want to write thoroughly about these experiences in my life. The best way to get better at writing is to practice it.

That’s the long and short of it.

Already, this blog feels both like a success and a failure at the same time. When I began, I had dreams of weekly posts about all sorts of topics and places that would thrill and entertain my readers. This, I soon learned, was an unrealistic ambition given the time required to do such writing properly, and the fact that I have to spend a good chunk of my time in life working on things completely unrelated to any of it all. So the posts began to dwindle, and then winter hit, and then I didn’t go anywhere for 4 months and became depressed about the status of this blog, so I began writing a post about why I’m writing posts at all in an attempt to rejuvenate myself, but they were full of frustration and lack of focus, which led to lapses and errors, such as run-on sentences and accidentally starting to write in stream of consciousness.

But at the same time, when I step back from it all, I can see already that I’ve learned quite a bit about how I want to begin forming ideas and dictating these onto the pages. What I look for, what I observe, and how I make note of it, are all things that I’ve begun to practice while on the road, so that when I sit down at the computer I can recreate the experiences I’ve had in the way I intended. I’ve learned how to be patient with myself as an editor, and work through things that I don’t like. You might not know it from some of the posts, but behind the scenes it is getting easier for me to formulate ideas.

Now I just need to get the hell out of Milwaukee and go somewhere new! I’m getting over my SAD, and spring is almost actually here. My Europe trip is booked, I’m working on a New York trip, and hopefully some other shorter ones for the summer and fall as well. In a way it seems like I’m starting over as a traveler, beginning at two of the most obvious places in the world: Western Europe and New York City. If only I had booked through Paris like I originally intended I think I would’ve nailed possibly the two cities any dumbass who won the lottery would pick to visit first.

I’ve realized now that given my work and life responsibilities, this blog is better served as a once a month or so type update rather than a weekly thing. I hope that taking this route will keep me inspired to write rather than feeling obligated, which can only lead to half-assedness and nothing more. Really it should be dictated by how much I travel, and that should inspire me enough to continue to move, to continue to explore, and to continue to write.

Everything continues to be a work in progress. But at least that means I am working on it.

It's time for Fish Fry Fridays

This is a topic I've touched on before, but given that we are now in the midst of the Lenten season, I thought it appropriate to again examine the scene of Fish Frys in Milwaukee. Having now lived here for about 9 months, I continue to believe that Fish Frys are an extremely important cultural aspect of Milwaukee, and I would list eating at one as a must do when visiting Milwaukee and/or Wisconsin. Of course, the real way to experience it would be to go to a small town for the fry at the local church or VFW hall, but if you can't make that I think you could settle for the Lakefront Palm Garden and do just fine.

Without getting into the whole debate of religious based dietary restrictions and whether they make any sense or not, the background you need to know for Friday Fish Frys is that in Catholicism, it is forbidden to eat meat on the Fridays during Lent, that is the 40 days before Easter. There was a time when meat consumption was not allowed on Fridays during the entire year, but at some point some people in funny robes decided that this was too difficult, and so the rules were relaxed a bit to make Catholicism more exciting.

Milwaukee, which has seen large immigration waves from several highly Catholic areas in Europe such as Germany, Ireland, Poland, and Italy, has evolved one of the strongest identities around the idea of Friday Fish Frys that I have ever witnessed. Most local restaurants have a fish fry available on Fridays, and a majority do so year round. There are always articles in the papers debating the merits of who has the best fry. And where one can get a good fry is a conversation topic I've heard several times already in my short time living here. In short, it is a topic taken quite seriously around these parts.What is a fish fry exactly one might ask?

Thorough investigation has led me to the answer that at its heart is fried fish. Shocking! In Wisconsin and much of the Midwest this means locally available fish: cod, bluegill, perch, walleye, or perhaps smelt. Said fish is then battered and deep fried to golden perfection. A side of tartar sauce and some coleslaw is almost always provides accompaniment, along with french fries or perhaps potato pancakes if the fry has German roots. Maybe a side of buttered rye bread or a roll is served as well. This of course is all washed down with a good amount of beer on your Friday night (I don't understand how the equations meat = bad and beer = good are fine by Church dogma, but you'll hear no complaints from me).

As you can see, a light, healthy meal that perfectly symbolizes the model of fitness and good health that perseveres throughout the Midwest.

Or maybe not, if I can editorialize for a moment. Personally, most of the fish frys I've had are just too heavy for me, and therefore I probably don't qualify enough as an expert to be writing about this. I just don't understand the idea of smothering the fish in heavy batter and frying it to the point where mostly you can only taste the oil and batter and tartar sauce. Not to mention just the thought of putting down the entire meal as described gives me stomach pains. My favorite fry still to this day has been the lightly breaded perch at Lakefront, which allows you to still taste the fish, not to mention leave the table under your own power after the meal.

One other favorite I have tried, though less common, is a smelt fry. This little fish, often resembling a smaller version of a salmon, can be caught, fried and served whole to hungry customers. I must admit that the smelt fry I had was not at a VFW hall or local diner but a nicer, high end restaurant in Milwaukee, but still I enjoyed it quite a bit. These tiny fish, only a couple inches long and basically served whole as finger food, can be dipped in tartar sauce or ketchup and eaten in a quick bit that turned out to be pretty damn tasty.

You can find lots of variations of fish frys in Milwaukee, and just as many opinions about which is best, which is really at the heart of why I find them so culturally interesting. People here feel it is a staple of their community, and for that I respect the idea of a good fry, even if I usually am tempted to begin researching how to become bulimic after the meal.

Europe in tangible forms

Eurotrip 2011 is on! And with that the travel season begins to take shape, so perhaps I will have something more meaningful to write about...3 months from now.

My airline tickets are now booked for a 2 week trip to parts of northern Europe, which will help balance the fact that 90 percent of the traveling I've done in Europe thus far in my life has been in the southern part, mainly Spain and Italy. The itinerary includes a flight into Prague, a flight out of Copenhagen, and likely stops in Berlin, Hamburg and maybe one other place in between. I'd like to maybe make a quick swing into Poland, to 1) see the country and 2) check another country off the list, but that will be dependent on the schedule and how much time we have. I've learned the hard way what happens when you plan too aggressive of an itinerary and find yourself spending 50% of the time on buses and trains.

Because we (myself and traveling companion Mike) will be going during the peak tourist season, airfare was less than ideal, so this route came about almost as a matter of finding cheap flights and working a trip out from there. After spending a couple weeks just typing in European cities with major airports this turned out to be the best, most affordable route available. This is hardly an attempt to justify it though; rather, I think we have a great itinerary regardless of the fact that it happened almost by nothing more than chance. Cuisine-wise it might not be quite as good as a trip through Paris and Belgium that had been originally proposed, but will still hopefully offer up some great meals. On the other hand, it should offer up some great beers to be sampled, so everything seems to have balanced well in the end.

In perhaps an early attempt to research for the trip, I had a chance to check out my first Polish establishment in Milwaukee this weekend. For the uninitiated, Milwaukee has a size-able Polish and Eastern European population (or the descendants thereof), though small in total numbers compared to Chicago. My Dad happened to be visiting, and in an attempt to offer him something different that isn't normally available in our hometown of Des Moines I suggested we try a Polish place. This led us to Polonez, in St Francis just south of Milwaukee, which was one of the few places open on a Sunday, though for a brunch buffet only (also at the time I was unaware that Zimmern had been there).

I have to preface this with the fact that buffets, especially brunch buffets for those who have read Kitchen Confidential, are a terrible way to spend your dining dollars (sorry to offend all the trendy ladies who love Sunday brunch). The brunch was what it was though, and I accepted it for its shortcomings and decided to revel in the cultural aspect instead.

I don't know much about Polish cuisine really, but there were pierogis and paczkis, the two names I did recognize, along with what seemed like a more Americanized selection of sausage (polish of course), bacon, eggs, and potato pancakes. Some smoke salmon added a pleasant surprise though that helped remind me that we weren't at a continental breakfast of the neighborhood Holiday Inn. That, and the guy playing polkas on an Accordion in the dining hall. Now, I don't claim to be an expert on Polish culture, and I'm sure there's connection between Poland and Germany that stretches much beyond a history of forced invasions, but by my count our Accordion Polka player sang only in English and German. I had a hard time seeing how this was a entertaining and pleasing show for the Poles in attendance.

It was kitschy and nostalgic for sure, so the "cultural traveler" in me appreciated this, even though my faux culinary prowess could tell we were not dining on the best Polish food in the world. My attempt to ask our waiter (who was probably 18 years old) for a Polish beer recommendation resulted in me drinking a malt liquor for brunch (I was under the impression that the "malt" style meant a maltier and sweeter beer) so if nothing else, a good buzz helped compliment the whole experience.




Since this is more or less an amalgam of a travel and food post, a section on Bourdain's latest offerings is in order.

I caught his episode on Haiti which debuted a few weeks ago, and I must say I highly recommend checking it out if you haven't already. Its interesting to watch him try to envelope parts of a travel show into the production while being situated in a part of the world that has become so completely disparage by poverty, corruption, and now disaster. I thought he did a great job at balancing his attempts to visit and understand the country while at the same time witnessing the devastation and need for rebuilding that has occurred there. On top of that, the cinematography, especially in HD, was fantastic. Powerful and compelling, the visual images perhaps told more of the story than Bourdain could have ever hoped to himself.

A post just to post

Ah the personal responsibilities of the seldom-read blogger. I've really struggled to get myself motivated to work on this lately, no small part of which comes from the fact that I haven't been traveling anywhere of late. In fact, I didn't even leave the Milwaukee metro this month, and don't have any plans to do so next month either....

To fill the void I have been attempting to work on some writing of past travels that take a more narrative and developed tone than my usual updates, but my motivation to do so has been lacking. What I want to post is some excerpts from some writing I did last winter, but unfortunately that was all lost during a hard drive crash. Starting over from scratch leaves me feeling a little daunted, so I keep procrastinating. The irony is that when I lost the material I wasn't that broken up because I didn't like how it was turning out, and now I wish that I could at least edit and rework some of it.

And that's it. This post was 100% filler. Hopefully the guilt from such a meaningless post will get me going again.

Remembering San Francisco

Ah the travel doldrums of February. I find myself in Milwaukee, the lovely city that it is, for the next few months, with no real trips planned from now until the beginning of summer. While its been good to spend some time here and begin to feel more at home in my new city, I am beginning to get the travel itch again slowly but surely. With a need to save some money for trips this summer I am purposely not trying to plan anything in the near future, but this static state has left me nostalgic for past trips, and most recently the one that I feel was really the genesis for my state of mind as I write this blog.

It was San Francisco, and a weekend trip there with no other purpose than the need to use some airline credits that were about to expire, that was the genesis. I had booked the trip with no real plans, and amazingly despite the last minute preparations, two friends were able to join me as well. The next thing I knew it was a legit trip with friends.

There was very little on the agenda: walk around, eat good food, drink good beers, and try to see the Golden Gate Bridge. That was about it. And I'm happy to say that we easily accomplished all of our goals. San Francisco is easily one of the most charming, walkable cities in the US. The rolling hills provide a challenge to all the aspects of city planning there, and what you are left with is a city that twists and turns while doing its best to conform to the natural landscape around. This is really a rare sight in America, where our cities are almost always nested in plains and valleys. I think I could have easily spent another week there just roaming the streets like a dumb, lost hippie (how appropriate), admiringly endlessly the architecture and layout of the city. But alas, there was food to eat and beer to drink.

San Francisco is regarded fairly high as a culinary destination, so it was no surprise that we ate well while there. What did surprise me though was the quality of food we found for relatively little money. At the time I was without a job, and therefore quite budget conscious, especially considering we were traveling to one of the most expensive cities in the US. But thanks to some research and tips from local friends we made out well on a slew of meals for under $15, all while eating our way around the world.

The highlight was Shalimar, a Indian/Pakistani place that not only was cheap and delicious, but BYOB as well. There I tried my first dish of lamb brains, served in some sort of curry dish if my now augmented cranial capacity can remember correctly (I think that's what happens when you eat brains at least). The flavor was quite good, but the texture, light and slightly gelatin like, took a bit of getting used to. I find this to be most often the case with non-traditional (by western standards) animal parts that I have tried. It's rarely the flavor that gets me, its the texture. My damn Americanized palate likes what it knows and is familiar with; I was definitely raised on one too many chicken tenders.

In addition to Indian, we had Thai food somewhere around the Richmond area, Dim Sum in Chinatown, Sushi in a neighborhood I can't remember, and finally a stop at Ike's Place in the Castro neighborhood, a sandwich shop that just seems to epitomize San Franciscan culture down to the core. It was actually Ike's that brought back my memories of San Francisco in the first place, when I flipped on Man vs Food to see the bloated meat bag that is Adam Richmond talking to the owner in a segment on the place, and realized quickly that I had been there before.

For all of this, I think $25 for sushi was the most I spent on a meal the whole weekend, and this was while eating positively great food. But the food wasn't really the only reason to get excited about San Francisco. We were in the center for some of my favorite beers in the world: the pale ales and IPAs of Northern California. There's something about the cascade hops that are so prevalent on the west coast that hits me just right. Sierra Nevada is arguably my favorite and also one of the best known. But Lagunitas IPA, and Racer 5 from Bear Republic Brewery rank very highly for me as well. Putting back more than a few Racer 5's on a cool August night while sitting on the patio of Zeitgeist in the Mission District will always be one of my favorite memories from San Francisco. Perhaps a return to Northern California for some brewery tours in the future will be necessary.

And with that, our trip to San Francisco was just about finished. Outside of seeing the Golden Gate Bridge (which was just as spectacular as I had hoped) and walking through Fisherman's Wharf (as disappointing as I expected, with the exception of the Musee Mecanique), we didn't do much else, and that seemed fine. We strolled through Golden Gate Park and Haight-Asbury to look at the burnouts, hippies, and weirdos, an entertaining look into the world of why our vices are usually best enjoyed in moderation. I will give a shout out to the drug dealer in Golden Gate Park for originality when he approached us with the line, "Congratulations! You're the next contestant on 'Who Wants to Buy a Bag of Weed?'".

I applaud creativity in all its forms.