Travel Blog

We dropped our bags at the hotel and headed out to the market, which was surrounded by parked bicycles. Inside two modern, glass-walled structures were stalls of fish, meat, cheese, baked goods, chocolate, and licorice. There were also stalls selling smoothies, open-faced sandwiches, salads, pizza. It was all very upscale; the atmosphere cheerful. I was reminded of San Francisco, whose urbane citizens also seem to bask in their good fortune.   

Outside stood a few more stalls, including one advertising “gluten-free pancakes.” “Dosa,” I said to the vendor as he mentioned the ingredients, and he nodded in the affirmative. He was from Nepal, and I was surprised that he had chosen not to teach the cosmopolitan Danes a new culinary word. They were delicious, and Hania’s chai was served in a small ceramic cup that we were allowed to keep.

Back at the hotel, our room was ready. It was small and bright, with a view over the towers and rooftops of the sunlit city.

After a nap, we headed out again and walked down narrow streets without a map. Most of the shops were now closed, the stylish boutiques in weathered buildings that contribute to the city’s understated charm. Outside bars and cafes people chatted and smoked, enjoying one of the last evenings of summer. We stopped at one bar and I asked a couple sitting at a table on the sidewalk if they could recommend a good restaurant. The man gave us a few choices while Hania petted his Lab.

 “This is the dog bar,” he said. “People come here with their dogs.

 “This is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Copenhagen. It’s very nice in the daytime, but at night it gets noisy.” He lived just around the corner.

 The woman asked us about Trump. “We’re worried,” she said, before mentioning that her son did a spot-on imitation of the candidate, which she tried to reproduce. “It’s gonna be fabulous,” she said in a husky voice. “Absolutely fabulous.”

 We walked down the street, at their suggestion, to L’Education Nationale, a cozy, candlelit bistrot. The waitresses looked like true gamines, except for the fact that they spoke English and Danish in addition to their native French. After finishing off her steak frites, Hania asked the two men at the table that practically touched ours how difficult it is for Danes to understand Swedish.

 “Not difficult,” said the one man. “But we’re the last generation that grew up watching Swedish television. Young people today just watch MTV.”

 “We don’t like the Swedes,” his friend added.

 I had heard this about Danes, but it still surprised me. We had just spent a lovely four days in Lund. So I asked him why.

 “Because,” he said, “they come from Sweden.”