Foreign Service Life in Copenhagen: Like something from a fairy tale

Part 3: Come to Copenhagen, to play and live--but don't forget to see Europe, too!

Last time I introduced readers to my favorite city in the world: Copenhagen—land of my long-ago Viking ancestors, where I was posted in the U.S. Foreign Service from 1985 to 1987. I think I could have lived there forever—if I were independently wealthy—and not just for its pleasant lifestyle, terrific people, and magical history (did I mention its monarchy was literally the oldest in Europe—stretching back 1,000 years—and behind only Japan’s in the world?) It was also a great jumping-off point for the rest of Europe by plane, ferry, or car.

Margaret and I took full advantage of whatever leave I accumulated whatever time permitted, first traveling all over Sjaelland, Fyn, and Jutland (I never made it to the island of Bornholm, sadly). On one trip to Skagen, at the northernmost tip of Jutland, we almost ended up in a Danish movie being filmed there (called “Hip, Hop, Hooray”?) when we registered at a small hotel being used as a filming site. But no American extras were needed … darn it. The locals claimed you could see both Norway (200 kilometers north?) and Sweden (100 kilometers east?) from Skagen, but I don’t think my eyesight was ever that good.

Sweden, just across the Oresund, is much closer. On on a good day, you could actually see Malmo, Sweden, from Copenhagen—cities less than 30 kilometers apart—and easily accessible by ferry then, and now, by a popular bridge. Likewise, the distance from Helsingor, Denmark (think Elsinore Castle of Shakespeare’s play “Hamlet”) to Helsingborg, Sweden, is less than seven kilometers by ferry. So naturally, Sweden was the first other country in Europe we visited. (Margaret voted for the crystal factory at Orrefors.)

Interior of Hamlet’s Castle—Kronborg—at Helsingor, Denmark. Photo, courtesy Jens Herrndorff.

But Germany was a close second, requiring just a 2-hour ferry ride in our little Volvo sedan to the continent. And soon enough we ended up there—in then West Germany (getting to East Germany was more complicated for Americans). Despite its small engine (2.0 cubic liters), it actually got up to 220 kilometers an hour (130 mph) on the then-unregulated Autobahn—and we still got blown off the road by most Mercedes drivers! We visited Hamburg and Hanover on separate trips, and actually looked across the old West-to-East Germany dividing barrier, where a “fake” rural village had been built on the eastern side of the line—a German version of the Potemkin village of Russian notoriety. This was, of course just before German reunification. We could have obtained a special permit to travel by car to West Berlin, through GDR territory, but it was too much paperwork, and we had other more appealing destinations in mind.

On another trip, we spent a few days in The Hague, visiting Jessica, a friend from my training days, who was posted there—and took a side trip to Amsterdam with a small group of FSOs, to see the infamous “red light” district. Our longest trip, however, was across Western Europe in April 1986, through France, to Madrid, where Margaret’s cousin Sharon had lived for many years. Getting there required more than 2,000 kilometers of steady driving, with one overnight stay in Paris and another in San Sebastian, on the Basque border. It was scenic and fun, especially the battlefield at Verdun, although I neglected to obtain one useful sticker for my car—”DK,” for Denmark—before leaving the country.

No one raised even an eyebrow until Paris, where our Volvo’s yellow diplomatic plates, recognizable only in Denmark, apparently, drew the attention of a policeman who pulled us over, apologized, and explained he was only doing his duty: questioning anything suspicious after a recent terrorist attack. Our U.S. diplomatic passports satisfied his very polite curiosity.

Because we decided to stay the night—my first and only trip to Paris, despite the rainy weather, we asked our new friend if he could recommend a hotel? “Hotel? Holiday Inn?” he ventured? We readily agreed, and he led us on a not-too-lengthy trip through Paris to the Place de la Republique, and pointed to the other side of the traffic circle before waving politely and driving away. The tiny brass sign that announced “Holiday Inn” was so small and discreet, however, that we drove around the circle again and again until Margaret hailed a taxi beside us and asked. He pointed it out. Apparently everyone in Paris knew where the Holiday Inn was … except us …

It turned out to be the nicest holiday Inn I ever stayed in—more like the elegant 4-star hotel, it still is, complete with Paris-tourist prices (1,500 francs a night, than anything in the U.S. economy tourist chain—roughly $250 at the prevailing exchange rate), more than I really wanted to shell out. But it was our only night in Paris, after all, and it had an in-room Jacuzzi and a wonderful restaurant. in a more-than-century-old building. It was a dream … we did not walk very far in the rain, but the Eiffel Tower was still beautiful from a distance, and the whole city was magical. I sure hope that policeman got a commission!

The nicest Holiday Inn I ever stayed in, in Paris,1986. Photo courtesy HotelSearch.com.

The rest of the trip to Madrid was comparatively uneventful—unless you count getting baffled/lost trying to get out of Paris, and ending up driving toward the wrong airport on the ring road—Charles de Gaulle (north) instead of Orly (south), and having to get new directions from a very friendly young gas station attendant who spoke no English but pointed cheerfully. We spent one lovely night in San Sebastian, in Basque country, at more traditional prices, before arriving at Sharon and Rafael’s apartment in Madrid. Sharon had gone to university in Spain before marrying Rafael and settling down to teach English. We spent four or five days touring the Madrid area with them and sampling Spanish food with good company—absolutely wonderful paella, and tapas bars, among others, as I recall—and striking out once again for our home in the North.

We decided to take a southerly route back through Zaragoza and on through Geneva to Copenhagen. The marvelous Passion Play parade through the narrow streets of Zaragoza on Good Friday was astounding—the robes of the parade’s hooded participants reminded me, eerily, of the few Ku Klux Klan costumes I had seen in my childhood, in small-town parades, except that these were in full color, not all-white, and carried effigies of the Virgin Mary, not burning crosses. In Geneva, we stayed at a smallish hotel on Lake Geneva, where Margaret apparently ate something that did not agree with her and threatened to complicate our trip home the next day. But she begged me not to take her to a doctor—it was Easter Sunday—and we decided to tough it out, less than a day’s drive home. (She had shared the driving until now …)

The language barrier here again got us into trouble. The hotel staff mentioned something vague about needing some kind of special pass to travel on the superhighway north to Germany, and with the occasional European passive-aggressive rudeness I observed only in French speakers who did not like speaking in English, waved us off, saying “You can buy one at the entrance,” or words to that effect. Yes, the scenery was gorgeous. But the people were s—-. I will never trust the Swiss again … I saw no sign, no tollbooths.

I will not rehash the awful details of being pulled over on the superhighway by two German Swiss troopers who demanded that I purchase a pass—costing 35 Swiss francs—and then pay an insulting fine of 100 Swiss francs, on top of that, and laughed at me when I demanded a receipt. The jerks pocketed the 100 francs, I am sure. And to get it, they took every Spanish peso, French franc, and Danish paper krone I had—leaving me with a handful of Danish assorted coins. Welcome to Switzerland, sucker!

I toyed briefly with the idea of getting arrested and pleading my case to a Swiss judge, but it was Easter Sunday—and Margaret was deathly pale, pleading with me just to do what they said and let us go on our way. I found out later that unlike most European countries, where diplomats were at least treated with a modicum of courtesy, Switzerland was known to throw low-level diplomats in jail first and ask questions later, shrugging off complaints and daring any ambassador to complain. We soon reached the German border near Basel, where I was able to find a working ATM and get some much-needed cash on my Bank Americard (remember those?) for the final trip home. Margaret survived. I fumed.

To this day, I remember most of Europe with a high degree of fondness. But I still detest Switzerland.

* * * * * * *

Our trip to Spain was a combination of tonic—just plain fun, mostly—and a bit of reflection. Europe was fun, but my job was turning into a drudge. I returned to my job with a strong desire not to bid on another European tour, with another 18 months to go in Copenhagen. I loved Denmark, and as I said earlier, would have lived there if I could afford it. But my endless curiosity required something different—both in the kind of work I did and the agency I worked for. I was still considering making a career switch—from the Department of State to the then-separate U.S. Information Agency, where I had originally wanted to serve.

It was a bit complicated to make the switch, but after one of my former J-school professors from Chapel Hill visited us later that year, I began thinking far more seriously about it. He had worked closely with USIA (called U.S. Information Service, or USIS, overseas) and recommended I think about it.

I think he could see I was having a tough time with administrative work, in an unforgiving bureaucracy where low-level admin officers were worked to death and barely acknowledged. After a few dispiriting run-ins with the career Ambassador over trivial issues I believed, sincerely, he should not have interfered with, I was growing despondent. My father’s sudden illness and death at the end of 1986 only compounded my misgivings; I flew home at Christmas to see him one last time, just before he died, but never got to talk to him at any length, and spent one long night in Chapel Hill after his death and funeral, pondering my fate.

I wondered, more and more, if I had made a dreadful mistake leaving graduate school 4 years earlier—for this? To cater to the childish, prickly, often just plain greedy tastes of senior officers who wanted servants, and undeserved perks, and punished or marginalized anyone who complained? How many of them were like this? I wondered.I wanted so much to admire the officers I worked with … not ridicule and avoid these caricatures, these self-important diplomats I kept running into … but found it harder and harder to do that.

Next time: Part 4: Take the long way home …