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Shrimps on the Barbie…We Must Be in Denmark

I’ve been trying to analyze why I enjoy traveling so much. All I do is work all day long, every day, and it brings me pure joy.

The isle of Aero welcomes visitors with a special Danish cuteness.
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Just last night with our camera crew, I was sitting on the beach on a remote Danish isle digging into a grand picnic as the sun was sinking heavy and red into the…whatever Danish sea was out there. It was like an hourglass — unstoppable, dictating when we would be done filming. We set about shooting a great bit, and getting the open of the show at the same time.

A charming family who happened to be German (but looked Danish enough) joined us with their terrier named “Jackson.” I couldn’t stop singing the classic Nancy Sinatra/Lee Hazelwood song. Jorgen Otto, the lord mayor of the island — a wiry former headmaster of the local school, and clearly charismatic enough to be a popular small-town politician — was sitting cross-legged with us, strumming his guitar and teaching us a Danish shanty about a sinking ship in which all the sailors survived and made it home to their beloved. The picnic was all spread out, and shrimp and wieners were sizzling on the hibachi. And the tiny beach shacks behind us were looking so Danishly cute. It was perfect.

After popping another shrimp into Jackson’s eager and hairy trap, which made us all laugh, I looked into the camera, and said (with a vaguely Australian accent), “Hi, I’m Rick Steves, back with more of the best of Europe. This time we’re on the beach, got a good cold beer, and the shrimp’s on the barbie. It must be the best of…Denmark. Thanks for joining us.”

The beach was filled with Germans vacationers — whose grandfathers had invaded this place. We had just biked down from a thousand-year-old mystical burial site — a stone-lined mound the shape of a Viking ship. It sat upon a five-thousand-year-old burial chamber. Next to it was a village church with a list of pastors going back 500 years. The current pastor, Agnus, was the first woman on the list. At the rear of the nave, as if his hand were on the theological rudder, a painting showed Martin Luther standing strong with his hand on the Bible. All this history added poignancy to the experience.

I feel charmed to be turned on by all this. When I wonder why, it comes back to my studies. I got my history degree accidently. Because I had traveled, taking history classes was simply fun. One morning in the UW dormitory, I woke up, realized I had already taken seven classes, and it hit me: “Three more classes, and I’ll have my degree — and bam, I’m a historian.”

Since then, I’ve spent a third of my life exploring Europe — enjoying “continued education” with a curriculum I’ve tailored specifically for myself. And I marvel at how my travels stoke my interest in history, and the fun my interest in history brings.

Just this summer, I’ve enjoyed finding out why 7,000 Danes volunteered to fight with the Nazis against the USSR; tried to get my head around the possibility that the Vikings’ rape, pillage, and plunder image may be a bad rap (while in York, the capital of Viking England a thousand years ago); and heard stories of that monk in the Champagne region of France who double-fermented his wine, invented something new and bubbly, and ran famously down the halls of his monastery, shouting, “Brothers, come quickly, I’m drinking stars!” And, just today, here on the Danish Isle of Ærø, I learned how its “duty-free age” age as a smuggling capital on the border between Germany and Denmark created the lovely collection of captains’ homes I’ve been ogling all afternoon.

And eating my way through Europe this summer has also reminded me how understanding “food patriotism” in different corners brings out fun and fascinating facets of my favorite continent. In Scotland, I learned locals are passionate about finding and describing the whisky that fits their personality. Each guy in the pub has “his” whisky. And the descriptors (fruity, peppery, peaty, smoky) are much easier to actually taste than their wine-snob equivalents.

In Greece, I got a good, strong dose of how olive oil and national pride mix. Locals are outraged at Greek olive oil being bottled and sold as “extra virgin Italian oil,” and are determined to elevate the image of Greek olive oil so growers won’t take a hit by selling it to Greek oil companies.

And, this week in Denmark, I learn that pickled herring is almost a religion for many Danes. My friend, a local guide here, claims to eat it every morning for breakfast and three times a week for lunch.

In a few days, I fly to Istanbul — where I get to refine my appreciation for baklava again. (I get it tuned up as often as possible.)

What’s the point? When you travel, you find the enthusiasm of locals for their national dishes rubs off on you…and you fly home with more favorite foods. Travel makes life simply more tasty, and history more poignant.

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No Clogged Arteries in Copenhagen

I’m filming a new TV show this week in Copenhagen. This city has impressed me in many ways.

Copenhagen’s new subway is silent, automated (without a driver), trains go literally every two minutes, and it’s on the honor system — there are no turnstiles.

The streets in Danish towns are so quiet (most city centers are pedestrians-only) that I don’t talk to my friends from a distance…I walk over to whisper to them.

An angry young man at the train station was barking into his mobile phone…and it occurred to me that in a week in this country, those were the only angry words or shouting I had heard.

Twice in this city, my trip has nearly been cut short as I step from a taxi or sidewalk into the bike lane. I am aware of cars, of course, but there is a third dimension zipping along silently between pedestrians and drivers: Danish bikers.

London and Paris have taken lanes away from drivers to make bike lanes, but they go virtually unused. Somehow Copenhagen has it figured out. During Copenhagen’s rush hour, there are literally more bikes on their roads than cars. I look at a square in the town center, and there are 50 bikes parked (which blend into the scene almost unnoticed) and absolutely no cars. Congestion is less, parked cars don’t clog their arteries, and people are in shape. A new trend I just noticed is that fancy business hotels provide visiting guests with loaner or rentable bikes.

I was reviewing my TV production plans with a senior official from the Danish Tourist Board. Suddenly his mobile phone rang with a cartoonish voice for a ring tone, warning in an urgent Danish voice: “Hello, it’s the Prime Minister, Rasmussen. Don’t answer this call. It’s a bad man and he’s sitting with a bunch of terrorist friends and they’re planning to do something very bad.”

Later, I asked a Danish friend about the controversial cartoon image of Muhammad that offended so many Muslims. She said it’s all in fun. “We’ll take the heat, but you have to have a sense of humor. Our prime minister — who half our country loves and half our country despises — is caricatured as a caveman. He laughs, and we love him even more.”

Side-tripping north by train to Frederiksborg Castle, we film me saying, “A fun part of exploring Denmark — or just about any country in Europe — is enjoying the efficiency of the great train system.” As usual, I need about six or eight “takes.” My local guide is laughing as I work. I ask him why, and he says our train is running five minutes late, and everyone on the train around me is muttering “no, no, no” each time I say my line. Clearly, it’s all relative. While there are two trains a day serving my hometown, these trains go six times an hour and Danes here go through life never wishing they had a car — but they still complain. My friend says, “We Danes are spoiled. We love to complain.”

But, apparently, Danes end things on a more appreciative note. Today I passed a shop selling tombstones, and noticed the most common words pre-etched into the marble were Danish for “Thanks for everything.”

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Finding Good Eateries in Britain

One of my favorite challenges is to spiff up the eating sections in my guidebooks. Because I’m famously simple in my tastes among my family and friends, it seems odd that I have this power to recommend or not recommend restaurants in my guidebooks. While I would be hard-pressed to judge the yellowness of the butter or the dentition of the pasta or the glimmer of the fish eyes, I still manage to find and collect places that seem to please my traveling readers.

Having just completed my work in Edinburgh, York, Bath, and London, I am impressed by the passion of the couples (gay, straight, professional, or romantic) who run my favorite little places. Rather than big, highly advertised formula places, I like quirky little ten-table places that are the creative vision of these entrepreneurial restaurateurs.

Doing my research, I rely heavily on the advice of B&B hosts (who have no vested interest in anything other than happy guests). If they’re good, it’s impressive how quickly new little restaurants gain a huge reputation.

In Edinburgh, the Wedgwood, run by Paul and Lisa (who served me haggis with pigeon — my favorite haggis ever), is a delight. In Bath, Casanis French Bistro (run by Jill and Laurent) has been open only a couple of months, and is already on everyone’s short list. (It’s fun to see a traveler fall in love with a chef, bring him home, and start a winning restaurant.)

Not only new places are fresh. In Bath, at Tilly’s Bistro, Dave and Dawn have been at it for nearly two decades and still scamper up and down their stairs and weave through their tight tables like it was their debut. Enjoying a great cheese and port plate for dessert, I told Dave this was my idea of a fine dessert. It didn’t surprise me that he admitted his desserts suffered a bit because he also was “passionate about cheese and port.”

Going back year after year, I often find the once-magic place has ebbed, and its talent is turning on taste buds just down the street. In York, Café Concerto has long been a favorite. I dropped by Café No. 8 and was blown away — everything that charmed me about Café Concerto at its peak and more. Then, savoring my figs with local blue cheese, I learned that Martin, who runs No. 8, came from Café Concerto.

I don’t like recommending chains, but some are just too fun or too right. The pan-Asian noodle slurp-a-thon Wagamama is everywhere now…and just as great as the day its first location took London’s Soho by storm a decade ago. The Italian chain Ask seems to nab the best grand old dining hall in many towns, and fill it with happy eaters enjoying decent pasta and pizzas at good prices. And how does Starbucks get the best real estate in each city? If I’m in need of a fix, I can intuit where they’ll put a branch.

In each town, there seems to be a hot Italian place where as soon as you step inside, you know its going to be a fun evening (Martini’s in Bath, Il Positano in Edinburgh). There’s something about a gang of happy Italian waiters and cooks that makes you just want to drink red wine and slurp spaghetti.

English office workers make a routine out of getting a top-quality sandwich. When going for a budget sandwich lunch, you might as well skip the tired chain and find the deli with the line of local professionals. York Hogroast dishes out great pork sandwiches in York. In Bath, at Chandos Deli, I just lingered on my stool enjoying my wonderful sandwich and glass of tap water while watching all the yuppies swing by for their take-away meal. My son Andy reported that during his recent studies in London, each day he’d go to the same winning sandwich place that included free Wi-Fi, and enjoy his meal on a shoestring while checking email.

Chinese buffets (like Jasmine, just outside Monk Bar in York) serve all-you-can-eat meals for $12. That’s fun and cheap. But their take-away boxes (fill one up for $7) can feed two, and that has to be the best cheap, hot meal going.

In general, I found British portions huge. Rather than two appetizers, two mains, and two desserts with wine for $70 each, a couple can order two appetizers, split a main, split a dessert, and drink tap water — and probably fill up fine, enjoy the same atmosphere, and get out for $30 each. Waiters seem to sympathize with the budget traveler these days, and accommodate our cost-cutting measures with a smile.

Great budget values in any town are the cafés in the market, where you can get baked beans with your breakfast all day long. And many churches have cafés where volunteers from the congregation serve up soup and sandwich for a price that’s not particularly cheap, but you know you’re supporting a humble local congregation’s community work with your lunch money.

Good fish-and-chips joints are rare. In each town, there seems to be one that is evangelical about grease and has won the undying allegiance of a passionate local following. One thing these winning chippies seem to have in common: a guy behind the counter who’s as greasy as the fish.

I was quite frustrated to find that many pubs that once served great pub meals are backing off on their pub grub to make more money selling beer. That attracts a younger and noisier crowd, and it becomes no place to enjoy a meal. In the Victoria Station area near my favorite London B&Bs, I found my two favorite pubs were overwhelmed by drinkers. Thankfully, I found St. George’s Tavern (on Hugh Street and Belgrave Road), with famous sausages, a commitment to serving good pub meals, and three fine eating zones — scenic sidewalk tables, sloppy pub interior, and classier back room. In London now you’ll pay $25 for a good pub meal with a big glass of beer.

I’m purging my books of stupid things that, for some odd reason, are just in all the guidebooks. I just deleted the paragraph about Spotted Dick (which I can’t remember seeing on a menu in the last decade). So that Spotted Dick can rest in peace, here’s what it said:

Spotted Dick is a sponge pudding with currants. How did it get its name? Some say it looks like a spotted dog and dogs were called Dick. Another theory suggests that “Dick,” “duff,” and “dog” are all variants of the word “dough.” One thing’s for sure: the stuff isn’t selling very well today, thanks to the name’s connotation. Some are considering renaming it “Spotted Richard.”

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Eddie the Verger and My First London Blister

 

A friendly verger greets tourists (who pay to get in unless they are really really worshipping) at Westminster Abbey.
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Eddie the Verger is posted in his red robe with a warm smile at the exit of Westminster Abbey. His responsibility: to sort through those who want to go into the abbey to worship, and those tourists who fold their hands and reverently say, “I’d like a few moments with the Unknown Soldier, please.” (By masquerading as worshippers, sightseers can sidestep the £12 — or $24 — entrance fee to the church.)

Dropping by, I tell him I’m working on the Rick Steves book, and he says, “I’d like a word with that Rick Steves. He implies in his guidebook you can pop in to worship in order to get a free visit to the abbey.”

I tell him who I am and we sort it out. Really charmed by Eddie, I agree that rather than promote the fact that visitors can pop in anytime for free if they claim to be worshippers, I’ll encourage those tourists to actually experience the church the way it was designed to be experienced, by listing the busy daily schedule of worship services (for example, there is a sung evensong six days a week, when anyone is welcome for free).

Then Eddie took me into a place where no tourist goes — the Jerusalem Chamber, where the monks set up shop to actually translate the Bible from ancient Greek into English, creating the King James Version.

Knowing the dangers of getting the word of God into the people’s language, the potentially dire consequences for these reformers, and the importance of these heroic steps back in the 16th century, I got the same goose bumps as when I was in the Wartburg castle and saw the room Martin Luther holed up in while he did essentially the same thing for the German-speaking world.

Eddie deposited me in the abbey, and I visited like any other tourist — enjoying the great new audio tour narrated by Jeremy Irons. Listening to his soothing voice, I enjoyed some private time with great history: the marble effigy of Queen Elizabeth I, made from her death mask in 1603 — considered the most realistic likeness of her; the coronation chair that centuries of kings and queens sat upon right here in the abbey on their big day; the literary greats of England gathered as if conducting a posthumous storytelling session around the tomb of Geoffrey Chaucer (Mr. Canterbury Tales); the poppies lining the tomb of Britain’s Unknown Soldier — with the US Congressional Medal of Honor given to him by General Pershing in 1921 hanging from the neighboring column; the statue of Martin Luther King added as an honorary member of this now heavenly English host; and so much more.

The steep admission fee includes this marvelous one-hour guided walk with the best-designed audio wands I’ve encountered anywhere in Europe. (These things are really getting good.) I started my visit wondering if I should produce my own audio tour for Westminster Abbey. Now that the abbey’s audioguide is included in the admission, I’m off the hook. Instead, I’ll strongly encourage all who visit to take this tour with gusto.

Then I stepped across the street into the basement of the Methodist church for a cheap soup and sandwich, wrapped a Band-Aid around my toe — cushioning the first blister of my trip — and headed out for more of London.

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Risky England and Pointy Umbrellas

I’m having a great time researching my guidebook in England. I really am. But a few things are bugging me. I just need to vent for a minute. I love traveling in England and still marvel at the fun of it — but those coming this year on a budget will need to cut a few corners. From my experience, it’s doable, and the essential fun of being in Britain is not determined by how much you’re spending. Having said that…now let me vent.

I nearly got into an argument at the Bath tourist information office. I guess I was in a sour mood at how expensive things are, compounded by how greedy Bath, the most delightful (and probably richest) little city in England, has gotten. Tourism is its bread and butter, yet even the tourist office — now privatized — does its best to gouge visitors.

My guidebook listed the tourist office’s free phone number — the one dedicated to booking rooms. (The office gets a fee, plus takes a 10 percent deposit — which they pocket — and B&Bs then need to increase their prices to recoup the TI kickback. You and your host do better if you book direct.) I give that toll-free number to my readers for tourist information.

As I updated my guidebook information, they asked me to change that phone number to their 0906 number. In Britain, “09” in the prefix sends up flares. In each country, you need to watch out for costly phone sex-type prefixes. The Bath tourist office now charges a dollar a minute to ask them for advice on how to spend money in their overpriced town. They no longer give out maps, but sell a lousy little sheet for $2 — no better than the one hotels give out for free. More square footage in the TI is devoted to their retail shop than information. And a far handier map is for sale just steps away for $2.50.

 

Bath’s ancient Roman spa has more appeal than its 21st century spa.
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Part of Bath’s desperate greed is because their spa project ran about $50 million over budget, and they’re trying to pay that back. Locals as well as tourists are being hit. A local told me that on the town’s picturesque Pulteney Bridge, which is open only to buses and taxis, the city hall was photographing unknowing tourists as well as sloppy locals and fining each vehicle that crossed $120. For a while, the city was netting $60,000 a day just on Pulteney Bridge infractions. (By the way, anywhere in Europe, tourists driving in city centers can unknowingly cross a no-go line and be hit with a huge fine by mail.)

Britain is really expensive, and apparently it’s tough for locals, too. Everyone is talking about the recession (they raise prices “because of the recession,” which makes no sense to me), the high cost of oil (they blame the USA), and the housing and mortgage bust (just like ours). Local minimum wage is about six pounds ($12) per hour, which I think has even less buying power than the minimum wage in the USA. Knife violence (four killings just yesterday) and the singer Amy Winehouse (she keeps slapping bouncers and being photographed with “blobs of white stuff in her nose”) seem to dominate the tabloids. Each day this week, wasted Amy has been shown oblivious to the sober world on the cover of the leading papers (the National Enquirer types dominate on the tube).

Part of the high cost of living is the fear everyone has of being sued or burned up in a fire. I can’t walk down a hall without having to open big, heavy fire doors. Whenever I encounter something really inefficient or absurd, locals say, “risk assessment.”

School kids are taking fewer historic field trips. Why? “Risk assessment…it’s too legally risky for the schools.” Some walking tours don’t go if it’s raining. Why? “Risk assessment…danger of an umbrella poking someone’s eye out.” A male local guide refuses to do a tour if he has only one, female customer. Why? “Risk assessment…she may claim he molested her.” Why is the water not really hot in my room? “Risk assessment…we don’t want guests to scald themselves.” Why can’t I open my window more than four inches? “Risk assessment… a baby fell out of a window once right here in London.” What?! “We have even more lawyers than you do. It’s ruining our country. A burglar can sue me if he’s rifling through my home and he trips on a stray cord.”

As long as you have money, there’s no risk that you won’t have a good time here in England. But bring your pointy umbrella and a lawyer just in case.

(By the way, if you haven’t seen it yet, our daughter Jackie is writing a fun blog of her own about her high-school-graduation, no-parents-in-sight trip through Europe.)