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. Enlarge photo

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.