With four cycling adventures under my belt -- Italy and Slovenia, Ireland, Czech Republic and Austria, and New Zealand -- and not having settled in for a long ride since March 2014, is it possible I could be suffering pangs of withdrawal -- from strenuous pedaling for days through strange territory, from trying to decipher obscure directional signs in a foreign language, from clinging to the edge of the road as reckless vehicles whiz by, from wondering if the burning soreness in my nether parts will ever dissipate, from sifting through my carry-all every morning futilely searching for a clean shirt?
Of course I am, with the encouragement of JSG. Family issues having narrowed our window of options, she lights upon a place heretofore not on the upper tier of my bucket list but nevertheless intriguing: Scandinavia, specifically Stockholm, Sweden, and Copenhagen, Denmark, organized by the reputed gold standard of active vacationing, the aptly-named Backroads.
Exposed to some soaring overseas pricing by our last-minute enrollment, we choose the rather inconvenient origination port of Dulles International, which does offer the minor benefit of requiring only a single transfer (Amsterdam on the way over, Paris on the return) and the more delightful one of a pre-departure layover with my younger son Matthew, his wife Patricia, and their one-year-old daughter Ana Maria in their new Alexandria home.
Three times the size of their former urban DC matchbox, it's noticeably void of sofas, chairs, and occasional pieces -- in spite of their having a friend in the furniture business -- but fortunately contains a pull-out trundle bed large enough to accommodate their two guests.
We don't have to check in until 3:30 the next afternoon, so we have several hours for exercise (jogging or walking, no bicycles yet), an important family discussion (the details of which will be revealed in good time), and my first exploration of the Old Town. After a superb brunch at the Vermillion (ask for upstairs window seating) featuring duck-fat fried corned beef and grits, veggie omelet with spinach, goat cheese, and zucchini, brioche French toast, and salmon in squid ink tomato sauce, we amble up and down the busy brick-paved sidewalks (it's the Fourth of July) searching for that bargain-priced item he or she can't live without; it turns out to be a chocolate milk shake Patricia is happy to share as we loiter in the mini-harbor and gaze patriotically across the Potomac at our nation's capital.
Our overnight flight is not without interest. The sun sets and rises in the span of an hour, alerting us to the latitudinal oddities of our destination. Our courteous KLM attendant offers a business class upgrade to my hefty seatmate for only 16,000 miles, which, much to my dismay, he declines, although later on he accepts a presumably free relocation to "somewhere with more leg room." I wipe out the field in computerized "hold 'em poker," winning $19,000, and improve my score in golf from 115 to 75 once I master the swing speed and angle of ball strike. JSG meets a family of four from Lynchburg en route to Kiev on an Olive Branch International Bible Study Mission; the patriarch is Dean of the Liberty School of Aeronautics and a former F-15C fighter pilot whose succinct answer to my innocent question "How does a 500,000 pound Airbus A330 get off the ground?" -- "Lift" -- leaves me feeling like an idiot.
"And at 180 miles per hour," he might have added, which explains why our more sedate 120-mph Arlanda Express fast train hugs the rails so smoothly and quietly as it speeds from the airport to Downtown Stockholm.
"There's our hotel," I exclaim to JSG, as we emerge bleary-eyed from the station, desperate for a place to deposit our bags and rest our weary bones. Yes, it's the Radisson Blu Royal Viking, with a very enticing dark-paneled lobby, which is all of it we're going to see; our reservations are at the Radisson Blu Waterfront, just around the corner, we are abruptly informed by a clerk, after we have waited ten minutes while an annoying couple breaks in line and complains to him about everything from their beds to their view.
It's not quite that close, but once we're there, it does overlook the water, although there are so many rivers, lakes, bays, canals, and bridges in this city, it's impossible to use that as a point of orientation. After a brief respite (travel rules dictate no naps, even after a sleepless night), we set off in search of city sights, Rick Steves's indispensable guidebook in hand. We skirt the impressive eight-million-brick-faced copper-roofed City Hall and turn west along Lake Malaren toward a small park, passing several historic fishing and pleasure boats permanently docked in the harbor.
Reversing course, we head toward our second Old Town (Gamla Stan, in Swedish) in two days, an island of narrow cobblestone streets and alleys flanked by souvenir shops, antique dealers, clothing and jewelry stores, ethnic restaurants, beer pubs with live music, coffee and gelato bars, and a number of Steves landmarks, all of which elude us: a bronze King Gustav III gazing at the Royal Palace; a towering obelisk honoring merchants who supported a war with Russia in 1788; the tiny Iron Boy statue; another of St. George slaying the dragon; and the city's oldest church.
Principally focused on a suitable dinner spot, we stumble upon a Steves pick-of-the-pack: the Hermitage, an innocuous self-service joint whose vegetarian medley -- black-eyed pea soup, spicy ratatouille, tender boiled potatoes, cabbage slaw, and brown rice -- is surprisingly tasty.
It's a foreshadowing of the smorgasbord that awaits us the next morning at breakfast, the first in a week-long series in which each episode becomes increasingly elaborate in presentation and copious in selection as more stars light up on our hotel marquee, although the basics never vary: oat or wheat porridge; eggs scrambled or hard or soft-boiled; thick slices of bacon; pork or turkey sausages; baked beans; grilled tomatoes; delicate pancakes surrounded by thimbles of maple syrup; blueberries, strawberries, pineapple, honeydew, cantaloupe, mango, and yoghurt for sampling by the spoonful or in glass cups; reindeer pate; smoked salmon; platters of gouda, brie, and sharp cheddar cheese; delicious jams begging for more croissants to be spread upon; and stacks of hard rolls, cinnamon buns, fresh doughnuts, chocolate chip muffins, glazed pastries, and almond cookies.
Thus we're fortified for a day of Stockholm stalking. After a quick stop for a collapsible umbrella (to protect me from the steady rain, since, ignoring the forecast, I failed to pack the proper gear), we follow a map through the Central Business District toward another island, Djurgarden -- formerly the king's hunting ground, now a national park -- which JSG has astutely targeted as a happening place.
I've never heard of the Vasa, and therefore have not an inkling of the marvel that greets us once we have traversed a darkened corridor into the main gallery of the museum of the same name; like Lilliputians, we are staring up at the huge wooden hull (155 ft. long, 38 ft. wide, 63 ft. tall at the stern) of a seventeenth-century warship, somehow intact three hundred years after its creation.
Commissioned by King Gustavus II Adolphus to support his war with Poland-Lithuania, fashioned from one thousand oaks, armed with forty-eight big guns (and sixteen smaller ones) on two decks, propelled by ten sails on three masts topping 170 ft, adorned with hundreds of gilded and painted sculptures, manned by a crew of 145, on August 10, 1628, the Vasa was launched on its maiden voyage.
Encountering a stiff breeze, she heeled to port, then righted herself. But less than a mile further a stronger gust blew her completely over, swamping the open lower gun ports and flooding the hold. While hundreds of spectators gaped in disbelief, the ship quickly sank thirty feet to the bottom, only four hundred feet from a nearby island. About fifty persons perished; the rest were rescued.
Cold and minimally saline, the Baltic Sea is not friendly to the corrosive shipworm, which destroys wood submerged in warmer, saltier water. Which is why, on August 25,1956, amateur archaeologist Anders Franzen, after a three-year search, was able to extract a plug of blackened oak from a large object which a few days later navy diver Per Edvin Falting, feeling around in the dark, confirmed as "the side of a ship" with two rows of gun ports. The Vasa had been found.
Franzen and Falting would be the first to board the resurrected vessel when it surfaced on the morning of April 24, 1961. Toiling in total darkness under hundreds of tons of mud, divers spent two years digging six tunnels beneath the ship, through which steel cable slings were passed and attached to pontoons. As the pontoons were successively filled and emptied, the hulk was lifted in sixteen stages to a shallow area. It took two more years for divers to clear refuse from the upper decks, fill thousands of rusted-out iron bolt holes, reconstruct the broken stern, and fit the gun ports with watertight hatches. The ship was able to float on its own keel once emptied of water and sludge by powerful bilge pumps.
To prevent the waterlogged hull from splitting and shrinking, it was sprayed -- for seventeen years, round the clock, twenty-five minutes on, twenty off -- with the chemical PEG, which can penetrate wood and displace water (in this case, 580 tons). Then followed a long period of slow drying, still ongoing. The restored relic, 98 percent original, was moved to its current resting place in 1988.
All this and more come to life on six levels of remarkable exhibits: full-size replicas of the colorful carved decorative sea monsters, mermaids, angels, warriors, and Biblical and mythical figures that symbolized the King's supremacy; dioramas illustrating the construction, sailing techniques, and salvaging of the ship; casements displaying clothing, shoes, coins, pipes, combs, plates, spoons, and skeletal remains found in the wreck; an iron cone or bell, like the one which enabled divers in 1663-1665 to recover fifty of the Vasa's guns as they worked underwater in thirty-minute intervals surviving on a small pocket of air; a video depicting the contemporary inquiry into the cause of the disaster, in which the captain, the builder, and the harbormaster all swore their innocence, the latter claiming -- when queried, "Whose fault is it, then?" -- "Only God knows."
All three had suspected a problem, but fearful of angering the King, they buttoned their lips. The ship had failed a common stability test of the period; thirty sailors running back and forth across its deck had to desist, lest it capsize. The hold was too small to accommodate the ballast necessary to offset the ship's extreme height and weight. While one more meter in width would have been sufficient to keep it afloat for years, the world would have been deprived of a priceless treasure.
A tribute to another Swedish legend -- who rivaled Volvo as the country's foremost economic engine back in the '70's -- lies only a cannonball shot away: the ABBA Museum. The quartet's 380 million album and singles sales are surpassed only by the Beatles in the pantheon of musical singing groups. We're not really interested in a high-tech sound-and-lights show or an interactive studio jam session, so we skirt the ticket seller and make a beeline for the gift shop. We're on the prowl for ABBA memorabilia; the acronym is a transliteration of the Hebrew word for "father" and the label I slapped on myself with the birth of my first grandchild. My initial thought was to purchase an appropriately imprinted tee shirt for myself, but since that's the last thing I need, especially one that glitters, we depart with three junior sizes in hand, pink and blue for the girls, black for the boy, and a photo of Abba's face perched atop the svelte, sequin-garbed body of Benny Andersson (or is it Bjorn Ulvaeus?) alongside his fellow rockers.
We soldier on through the continuing drizzle to Djurgarden's other main attraction, the 75-acre mountaintop open-air Skansen Museum. The complex dates back to 1891, when Artur Hazelius, intent upon preserving the record of a peasant culture being superseded by industrialization, began transplanting his collection of buildings and artifacts to the site. It's a Swedish Williamsburg, except that rather than compacted in a simple grid the village pieces are dispersed in a random sprawl.
The funicular rail which swiftly lifts us to the summit is like a time machine; disembarking, we are immersed in the nostalgic charm of a bygone era as we wander through the town quarter, the rural settlement, and the animal preserve, pausing when our curiosity is piqued for closer inspections of: a blower crafting a wine glass at the Glassworks; all the belts, pulleys, shafts, and cranks of the 1920's Engineering Works; from the same period, footstools and chairs in various stages of manufacturing at a Furniture Factory (of course); a General Store in the Printer's Courtyard, where I demonstrate my prowess with a locally-made wood yo-yo; cakes and breads beckoning through the doorway of an 1870's bake shop; the stone and thatched-roof cottage of a fisher family, who owned no land, only a cow and a couple of sheep; the itinerant Farm Labourer's Cottage, where the household shared a single room and was paid largely in food; the Segura Church, which dates back to the early 1700's and contains the original pulpit, organ, and ceiling frescos; strange-looking log and turf tepees and huts on stilts, representative of the primitive living quarters of the indigenous Scandinavian Sami people; and artificial habitats for reindeer (none in sight), lynx (also missing in action), wolves, wolverines, brown bears, seals, otters, European bison, wild boars, and striking black-and-white furred Guereza monkeys.
By now, 6:00 PM, the rain has abated; we snatch an outdoor table at the cafe near the park's exit, split a beer, and decide to go lightly -- shrimp salad for JSG, salmon salad for me -- while relaxing to the snappy beat of a string and drum combo.
If I've been accused, with justification (by whom I won't say) of blasting wildly to the head of pack, of pumping frantically to reach the goal line as quickly as possible, of failing to dawdle long enough to sniff -- much less scope out -- the roses, I plead guilty with two provisos: (1) There's no more satisfying feeling (well, maybe one) than stripping off one's confining bike shorts and stepping under a hot shower and the sooner the better; and (2) I see plenty, and will enthusiastically attest to the indisputable merits -- exercise, learning, and glorious scenery -- of this means of travel.
And yet when one has been dazzled by the vistas, vineyards, mountains, and valleys of Italy's Friuli Region and Slovenia, by the lush greenery, gray limestone, and rocky seacoast of Western Ireland, by the grand architecture and rich history of Prague and Vienna, and by the topographical, biological, and climacteric diversity of New Zealand's South Island, he turns insufferably jaded and snobbishly difficult to impress.
While there are a handful of memorable images -- our first sighting of a thatched roof, soon eclipsed by dozens more; a huge windmill rising behind a cluster of buildings in a small town; a familiar name, Nygard, painted on the gatepost of an isolated logger's home; the abrupt downhill entrance to the grounds of the Fredericksborg Castle, sitting majestically on three islands in the middle of a lake; a string of harbors along the Copenhagen shoreline where at least a thousand boats are docked; a broad shimmering pond which morphs into a field of purple wildflowers upon our approach -- cycling in this part of the world lacks variety, the "wow" moments that defy description, and the photo stops that usually leave JSG bringing up the rear.
The terrain here is relatively flat, motor vehicles are few and far between, and bike trails abound -- for all of which we are grateful. On the other hand, a landscape that consistently alternates between endless grassy meadows and dense evergreen forests soon borders on the tedious. Now and then a stray sheep, cow, or horse pops into view, and invariably the adjacent cottage or barn is clad in scarlet red with white trim. Passing through several villages, I am fascinated by their peculiar method of speed control: two lanes narrow to one every few blocks. We are told to be on the lookout for stunning waterfront views, yet they're always just over the horizon or screened by the heavy foliage. And probably our most picturesque route -- along an archipelago -- is spoiled by inclement weather.
It's Day Two, and all during breakfast, our ninety-minute boat ride to a pristine setting, and our preparatory fitting out -- for which our jovial captain offers us the insulation of his rustic yet artfully decorated cabin -- the principal topic of conversation is the forecast; unfortunately, there's a ninety percent chance of precipitation for the next four hours, by unanimous consensus of eighteen smart phones. The temperature is a chilly sixty degrees; the wind is gusting at a harsh ten to fifteen miles per hour; the rain is picking up in intensity. Yet every one of these bright, sophisticated, middle-aged (or older, in my case) overachievers saddles up for what is certain to be pure misery.
I guess we're all bitten by the elephantine pride that says, "We've gotten this far, and we're not going to be foiled by the vagaries of Mother Nature," and by the rat in the closet that says, "If they can do it, so can I."
This is one time I pay dearly for my deficient equipment. As opposed to the very wise and foresighted JSG, I don't have a true water-proof jacket (only one that's water-resistant), nor anything to cover my legs, nor any plastic Walmart goggles to keep my vision clear. Within minutes, the relentless rain and wind have drenched every piece of my clothing -- shirt, pants, socks, shoes, gloves, even jock-strap -- and every inch of my exposed flesh, and rendered my eyeglasses worthless. The downhills only increase the ferocity of the storm, so for the first time in my brief cycling career, I'm peering ahead into the mist looking for the relief of decelerating inclines, which, of course, are scarcer than ever before.
And finally, after two hours of battling the elements and questioning my sanity, to add insult to injury, when turning off the road for our now indoor picnic lunch at Wira Bruk, I zig left over a wooden bridge instead of zagging right, plunge my front wheel between two planks, and scrape my leg in a nasty spill. Once safely under roof and warmed by a dry fleece, I'm content to declare my mission accomplished (or aborted, depending on one's point of view), as do all but two (Tony and Dino, who persevere to the end) of my sodden mates; without compunction we eagerly clamber aboard our Backroads van for expeditious transport to our ferry.
If that is the week's nadir, it is more than compensated for by a plethora of delights:
*Drottningholm Theater, at the palace residence of the Swedish royal family, a 1766 project of the self-styled doyenne of European culture, Queen Lovisa Ulrika, which almost bankrupted her husband, King Adolf Frederik, in spite of the constraints imposed on his architect, Carl Frederik Aldecrantz, who resorted to second-hand wallpaper, stucco pilasters, paper mache corbels, and painted draperies to meet his budget and whose only remuneration was a free room.
Falling dormant after the murder of the King's successor, Gustaf III, in 1792, the theater was unearthed one-hundred-thirty years later by historian Agne Beijer. With stage machinery, decorative sets, and manual sound equipment still operational, it was speedily refurbished and reopened to glowing reviews on August 19, 1922. His soliloquy concluded, our director ducks out of sight with JSG to roll over some rocks and rattle a curtain, announcing that, oh no, more thunder, rain, and wind are ominously close by.
*Our one night stand in the picturesque seaside town of Trosa, translated into English as "panties" but known to the Swedes as the "World's End," maybe because -- transected by a canal filled with boats, overlaid with a sprinkling of arched bridges, incubator of 1600 companies amongst a population of only 10,000 -- it's like a miniature Venice. I doubt, however, that even that wonderland can claim a hotel as novel and eclectic as the one where we are lodged: Bomans, the surname of the proprietress Kristin, whose fearless flair for fantastic interiors rescued it, in her words, from the "trash heap" twenty-seven years ago and made it a destination.
Each of its fifty rooms is uniquely and thematically decorated in accord with the special nameplate gracing its doorpost. Ours is the "Von Linne," a man who's a mystery to me until I ask Kristin herself; christened Carl Linnaeus upon his ennoblement, he's the Swedish scientist who devised the binomial nomenclature for classifying all lifeforms. Instantly enlightened, I can now comprehend all the greenery and scrawl covering our wallpaper; they're plants, about twenty-five species, each underscored with its proper botanical designation. We also sneak a peek at "Madam Boman's Boudoir," furnished with a shoe cabinet, a perfume case, a silver chandelier, and a round bed, and at "Eidelweiss," where embroidered dirndls hang on the wall, sheaves of hay enhance the ambiance, and a wagon wheel dangles overhead.
*Fredericksborg Castle, Scandinavia's finest, completed in 1620 for King Christian IV, rebuilt after a fire in 1859, and converted to a museum twenty years later, still securely ensconced behind its triple-moat defenses and flaunting all the geometric precision of its Renaissance architecture. We've allocated about an hour for a whirlwind attack, but spurning the audio aide and having stashed Steves in a remote zipper pocket, we're on our own in a very big place, and JSG and I soon part ways, by accident and only temporarily, thank goodness.
After entering through the Knights' Parlor and detouring two flights up a winding staircase to an odd gallery devoted to the history of women in Danish politics, I manage to stumble into the palace's three most notable rooms: first, Number 39, where sits a gear-driven golden globe, encompassing in its center a tiny model of the solar system, representative of Copernicus's heliocentric theory which placed the sun, not the earth, at the center of the world; second, the Great Hall, scene of hundreds of balls and musical performances, its floor a pattern of inlaid marble, its walls bedecked with lush tapestries and imperious portraits, its wood-carved paneled ceiling a gorgeous mosaic of gold-stippled reds, browns, and greens so riveting to the eye it strains the neck; and third, the Royal Chapel, the nave all columns, pillars, and sculptures in gilded marble and gray stone, the heavens spanned by a network of intricate arches, the aisles lined with the coats of arms of persons who have received royal orders from the Danish crown, including Nelson Mandela, Dwight Eisenhower, and Winston Churchill.
*Our fifth, final, and most scenic day of riding, along the Danish Riviera and through the Zealand forests and charming countryside just north of Copenhagen, where we are not alone, since in this "Best City for Cyclists," fifty percent of the workers commute by bicycle, about 800,000 miles a day over 270 miles of dedicated lanes (no runners or pedestrians, please), including one intersection with a daily bike count of 38,000.
We mount at a small park, but ironically, after only five kilometers, come to a screeching halt under the distinctive oval canopy, or mushroom as it's been dubbed by the locals, of a 1936 filling station which is still pumping petrol, a testament to its billing as a model of the future; its functional style is typical of the period and of the renowned architect Arne Jacobsen, who designed it and a nearby beach resort, housing complex, and theater. Later in the afternoon we regroup for a snack at the former estate and grounds (now a museum) of another Danish celebrity, Karen Blixen; although we don't have time to venture inside, I take a mental snapshot and slide it into my travel portfolio alongside the mate I deposited there fifteen years ago when I visited her other residence in Nairobi.
*And of course more smorgasbords, at just about every lunch stop along the way, each one topping the last -- wild boar stew, more grilled tomatoes, more boiled potatoes (but so fresh they must have just been plucked), crusty homemade breads, mini beef burgers, cucumber salad, baked salmon, juicy strawberries with cream, a lavish cold cut and cheese spread -- until we reach the piece de resistance at Fredricksborg Castle's Cafe Havehust: pork meat loaf, tomatoes and mozzarella, broccoli salad with apples, vegetable quiche, and cherry cake with marzipan icing.
We've put away our bicycles -- the most luxurious I've ever ridden, by the way -- and now must cover in one day as much of Copenhagen as possible on foot. During a brief two-hour loop, our morning guide, Christian (a popular name in these parts), embellishes important sights with his comprehensive knowledge of history and culture:
*St. Nicholas Church, circa 1211, Copenhagen's third oldest, the church of sailors, fishermen, and traders, situated close to the shore so it could be used as a lighthouse, its sixteenth century tower a monumental example of Renaissance architecture, destroyed by fire in 1795, later rebuilt and converted to an avant-garde concert hall and contemporary art center;
*The equestrian statue of Absalon, Bishop of Roskile, holding a mace in his hand rather than a sword to symbolize the bloodless motives of his crusades, patron of the King and sponsor of religious-expansionist expeditions against the Wends (Western Slavs), founder of Copenhagen in 1167 at "Havn," the businessman's harbor, where he constructed a castle for coastal defense;
*The Round Tower, offering -- after a strenuous ascent up a spiraling inner ramp -- breathtaking views of a grandiose urban legoland, a field of red-tiled roofs, and off in the distant Baltic a forest of power-generating windmills, branded with the logo (a crowned letter "C" enclosing the numeral "4") of its 1642 commissioner, the notorious King Christian IV, boisterous, exuberant, multilingual, and possessing a prodigious appetite for wine, women, revelry, and conquest, the last of which ultimately bankrupted the country after his death;
*Amalienborg Square, surrounded on three sides by mansions housing Queen Margrethe II and her husband, Crown Prince Frederik and his Australian wife Mary Donaldson, and their royal guests, the centerpiece of an elite neighborhood established in 1750 by Frederik V for the newly-rich mercantile class in gratitude for the financial and ministerial assistance he was dependent on from them as a chronic alcoholic;
*Nearby, The Little Mermaid statue, immortalizing the tragic heroine of Hans Christian Andersen's famous fairy tale, a gift to the city in 1909 from brewing magnate Carl Jacobsen who was inspired by the ballet version, ignored and unappreciated for forty years until Danny Kaye's lyrical "Wonderful Copenhagen" in the Anderson musical awakened the city fathers to its marketing potential;
*The Opera House, staring at us across the harbor like a futuristic spaceship with its glass and grid curved front and massive canopy, one of the most expensive ever built, a $500 million tax-deductible gift from the A. P. Moller family, the principal shareholders of the international shipping empire Maersk, and its heir Maersk Mc-Kinney Moller, who demanded that no expense be spared to ensure its functional and architectural permanence and whose death in 2012 deprived the city of $45 million in annual income tax revenue;
*The gentrified pier along the north side of the Nyhavn Canal, overlooked by three- and four-story townhouses draped in colorful yellow, green, blue, gray, and brick-red pastel facades, bordered by a string of restaurants, pubs, and gelato shops, their tables overflowing onto the sidewalk, at which nary a seat is to be found. We move indoors for a smorrebrod luncheon at the Cap Horn, sort of a miniature smorgasbord, consisting of slices of dense sourdough buttered rye bread topped with, separately, tangy chicken salad, pickled herring with onions, roast beef and horseradish, pork sausage with cucumber salad, and blue cheese garnished with pear and hazelnut.
Afterward, we must bid a bittersweet farewell to sixteen new friends -- unknown to us a week ago -- whose delightful company has transformed a mildly pleasurable journey into one quite extraordinary.
Tony's a research endocrinologist from Boston who educates me on the future of internal medicine, at least in big cities: "boutique" practices, where patients pay a monthly retainer to guarantee access. His wife Judy, with whom he kindled a romance at their fifth Harvard reunion, is a non-practicing attorney whose own "boutique" business endears her to JSG: counseling students on their best choices for college and graduate school. Not only did she grow up in Highland Park, Illinois, she lived across the street from the ultra-reform synagogue my first wife attended, she says, once I extract from the deep recesses of my memory its baptismal moniker: "Our Lady of Lakeside."
Peter is a tax attorney from Tampa, Florida, a fan of the Tampa Lightning (and its owner, former hedge fund mogul and philanthropist Jeffrey Vinik), a compulsive sports participant himself now hobbled by joint problems, and not an aficionado of mindless mysteries (like I am), which is a shame since his high net worth client roster includes one of the genre's best, Michael Connelly (whose novels have been adapted into two films, "Blood Work" and "The Lincoln Lawyer" and into the Amazon television series "Bosch"). In this small world, he and his wife Karla, also a higher ed advisor, are no strangers to our beautiful state, having sent a son to the University of Virginia; they perk up at the mention of two of our own Tampa connections: JSG's sister and the ex-wife (now deceased) of a college roommate of mine.
Arthur's an accountant from Brooklyn (or "an island in New York" for those who've never heard of it) who's a veteran of fourteen Back Roads trips and who keeps in shape by cycling home from his office at least once a week via the city's bike-sharing system, which often leaves him stranded, since the forty-five minute time limit usually expires ten minutes before he reaches his destination. His wife Miriam is a finance executive with the City University of New York, whose third-largest enrollment in the U. S. (525,000 plus a staff of 38,000) doesn't allow her to stray too far from her Blackberry; she was recently elected Chair of the Board of Trustees of Goucher College, where she graduated a year after my sister Donna.
Two single ladies and one gent, all from New York, add spice to the party: Joyce, a psychologist who, I suspect, may be surreptitiously investigating the masochistic tendencies of otherwise healthy, intelligent, and well-adjusted adults; Janet, a retired ophthalmologist who warns us at the outset to be on lookout for the four "h's" of cycling, heat, humidity, hills, and headwind (she forgets hurricane); and Dino whose neck and arm tattoos and rhythmical nervous tic are a dead giveaway to his profession, heavy metal drumming. While his band, "The Pests," produces original recordings, the bulk of his and partners' income derives from the concert circuit, supplemented by studio back-up gigs. None of the five "h's" daunts Dino, who races to the point position and measures every heartbeat, kilometer, and calorie expended on his Fitbit.
Trained as a nephrologist, Howie's another physician who discovered early on an aversion to consultation and treatment; during his fellowship he double-downed on an MBA program and is now a principal in a venture capitalist firm specializing in the health care industry. Every morning he receives updates on breaking developments in the field and says he can't wait to get back to work and to his martial arts studio. His wife April loves to entertain family and friends, provided her guests bring along carry-home containers, as leftovers are guaranteed. We'll never forget the classic Copenhagen pub crawl "wrap sheet" Howie distributes at our closing dinner: a bike route template on which directions to three bars and distances (in hundredths of kilometers, no less) are precisely calibrated and levels of difficulty (beginner, intermediate, advanced) and elevations are measured by the quantity of alcohol each crawler imbibes.
Finally, there's John, who reminds me of the grizzled Civil War general William Sherman (rather than his genuine Confederate ancestor Robert Anderson), and his wife Brandee, who initiated their relationship twenty years ago when an acquaintance insisted she call him for a blind date. "I've had a lot," says John in his quiet unassuming manner when I ask him about his career. "The longest-running was international arbitrage. I'd get up at two in the morning, call Hong Kong, where we'd buy a stock, sell it in London, then repeat the process in New York and San Diego, taking advantage of tiny fluctuations in pricing and currency valuations. By 2001 I'd had enough and shut it down, including my World Trade Center office, five months before 9/11.
"I'm addicted to starting new companies," he says. "The first was in biotech in collaboration with a wheelchair-bound physicist whom I met while playing chess during lunch breaks from my Wall Street bond-trading desk." Even though he's recently taken up portrait painting and flying to India to vaccinate children, he's still got four percolating: Expero, which recruits and manages expert witnesses; Govx, which sells discounted excess sporting event tickets to firemen, policemen, military personnel, and first responders; Spy Optic, a purveyor of sports sunglasses and goggles; and Restorative Justice, a non-profit dedicated to reducing the prison population.
"Politics and raw power ruined one of my best deals," he tells me while we're walking to the train station. "In 1995, the year of the major league baseball strike, I figured team prices were at their lowest, and I made an offer for the Pittsburgh Pirates -- $65 million. And, Marc," he says, looking me squarely in the eye, "do you know how much they're worth today? [Of course I have no idea.] $365 million! I had several meetings with the other owners, and everything was progressing quite nicely until Senator John Heinz of the ketchup family got wind of my plan to move the franchise to a new stadium in Mexico City. 'You'll never take my Pirates away from Pittsburgh,' he snarled at me, and that was the end of the ball game."
As if I didn't already know it, "He hates to lose," says Brandee, as John explodes past me on our last mad dash back to our Copenhagen hotel.
Keeping us well-informed on everything from timetables to Scandinavian trivia, well-supplied with chex mix, fruit, and candy bars (even rounding up some Kit Kats at my request), and well-reinforced with motorized transport should the leg-driven mode become too taxing is our trio of leaders.
There's Jessie, of whom not much is seen, except when she waves from her driver's seat as her van zips past us and when she's judiciously planted at a hidden turn lest we miss it and pedal into oblivion.
Will is the consummate route wrapper (sometimes in excruciating detail) and Backroads booster. He quickly fills us in on the dining etiquette ("At your leisure" means they pick up the tab, sort of, since we've actually already paid; "on your own" means "on your own tab."), then presents a crash course on Abraham Maslow's hierarchy of human needs since, coincidentally, they mirror his company's philosophy (which is to provide food, shelter, and support; it's up to us to achieve self-actualization, or bliss). Never at a loss for words, he boasts a repertoire of timely tidbits -- such as the reason Stieg Larsson (author of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) never married his live-in girl friend (he would have to disclose his address, and he was a potential target of the criminal elements he wrote about) -- and titillating tales, including the one about the insufferable cyclist who got his just deserts when he grabbed his pouch of chamois butter and took a swallow thinking it was Gu Energy Gel.
Hugo may look like a movie star (a youthful Keanu Reeves, says Brandee), but lurking beneath that glamorous shell are the seriousness, sensitivity, intellectual depth, and athleticism of a Renaissance man. He speaks five languages -- Spanish (his native tongue), English, French, Swedish, and Arabic -- views the opening in 2000 of the 7.5 mile bridge-tunnel linking Sweden and Denmark as a symbolic severing of the barriers between Russia and the West, and after this assignment is headed to Jordan to promote cycling as a means of reducing international tensions. I've been on five bike trips; he's the first of his breed to instruct me to hit the rear brake first and to encourage me to try drop handlebars to increase my speed, comfort, and efficiency.
For some true local color during the waning afternoon hours, Hugo recommends we check out Christiana, the bizarre "free city" established in 1971 when 700 squatters occupied an abandoned military base ten minutes from the Danish Parliament. If today there are a few more apartments, restaurants, playgrounds, shops, and tourists (but still no automobiles), nothing much else has changed in this communal haven for hippies, idealists, iconoclasts, and free-thinkers. Residents build their homes -- often from recycled materials -- but don't own them, since such capitalism is forbidden; when a vacancy occurs, it can be filled only by invitation. On a soil poisoned by fuel deposits, nothing grows, nor is there much industry; the unemployment rate hovers at thirty-three percent, but nobody complains.
Some might call it quaint, but to me it's a rural slum, its open areas encrusted with dirt, weeds, and stunted shrubs, its pitted gravel and cracked concrete paths littered with discarded bricks, tile, two-by-fours, paint cans, plumbing fixtures, and furniture, its ramshackle buildings and sheds devoid of doors and windows -- that is until we reach a zone of commercial activity, Pusher Street, featuring the usual assortment of homemade craft, jewelry, and clothing shops. Suddenly, up ahead flashes a sinister commandment: No Photos. We are entering the Green Light District.
The stalls on either side of us are dark as caves; behind chest-high fences or curtains, the proprietors' faces are concealed by masks. Somewhere, beyond our prying eyes, clandestine transactions are taking place, the theatrical nature of which becomes all too apparent as prominent signposts trumpet their wares (Doc Cannabis, Tigerman, and You'll Never Smoke Alone) and a telltale fragrance expunges all doubt. Smoking marijuana may be illegal in Denmark, but at least in Christiana the authorities have decided to forgo enforcement.
We order a couple of beers at the Nemoland Cafe, grab two seats in the plaza fronting the Green Hall stage, ogle some of the weirdest characters I have ever seen, gain an appreciation for the arts of joint-rolling and pipe-filling, and applaud the sounds of a reggae band when it finally shows.
Not quite as strange but unconventional nevertheless is the Copenhagen Street Food Emporium, into which, tired and hungry, we straggle following several wrong turns and an hour of fruitless map-reading. It's a huge metal warehouse packed with hundreds of customers and over thirty vendors serving "diverse and reasonably-priced meals for the masses." After two circuits of the premises, we are seduced by the heft, odor, and popularity of the sizzling African barbecue mixed platter -- beef, chicken, and skewered pork -- which to my non-discriminating palate ranks not much below some of our more extravagant repasts.
One more Scandinavian delight awaits us as we stroll along Nyhavn, the sun lingering above us even at this late hour: another outdoor concert in a small square beside the canal, performed by an accomplished brass ensemble, including keyboard, bass, saxophone, trombone, and two clarinets. If the male vocalist's Danish monologue provokes laughter from everyone but us, he delivers as fluent an English rendition of "New York, New York," "When the Saints Go Marching In," and "What a Wonderful World" as we're ever likely to hear.
We raise our glasses to salute him with the traditional Swedish toast: "Skoal!"
