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

Part 2: Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen

The name of the Danish capital is actually Kobenhavn (pronounced, roughly, Kerben-hown)—but however you say it, Copenhagen is truly one of the world’s great medium-sized cities. Wonderful for tourists, wonderful for its people—among the most egalitarian-minded in the world—wonderful all around: a walker’s paradise, complete with downtown fairy-tale castles and an old-style amusement park called Tivoli, with a fabulous old-fashioned roller coaster and other tourist delights.

Magical Tivoli Gardens, the nearly 200-year old amusement park in Copenhagen. Public domain photo

A statue of Hans Christian Anderson’s legendary Little Mermaid sits just offshore, beguiling visitors to the Langelinie cruise harbor. The city’s very apt motto at the time was “Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen…”

The lovely Little Mermaid, just four feet tall, in Langelinie harbor, Copenhagen. Public domain photo

If it weren’t for the short summers and long, snowy winters, it might be up there as a tourist destination with Paris and San Francisco. For it is one of the easiest cities in the world to get used to—for Americans, especially, as almost everyone speaks fluent English—and local transportation is excellent, from a fleet of Mercedes sedan taxis to a superior local bus and railroad system (along with a popular subway system that opened after I left). The Stroget walking-street is a shopper’s paradise (depending on how much money you brought). And the food is quite good—superior, especially the smorbrod (think open-face sandwich) and Danish version of (Swedish) smorgasbord. I never did get used to blood sausage (pudding), or pickled herring, both a slowly-acquired taste—but you’ll never go hungry. (Our embassy had a 4-star restaurant run by a renowned chef—open to the public, before 9/11, anyway …) Or thirsty, especially if you like Danish beer—who doesn’t?

The huge Tuborg bottle near the former brewery north of the city, built in the 1880s as a kind of observation tower, is a memorable landmark …

The Tuborg bottle, 26 meters tall, now located at Hellerup, Denmark. Courtesy Leif Jørgensen, Copenhagen.

I know, it all sounds like a paid travel documentary so far, eh? Well, Copenhagen isn’t perfect—it gets very cold there in winter, although the Danes still operate just as efficiently in the snow, and the summers are notoriously short. There are also things you have to learn to endure—like the nearly-astronomical cost of almost everythingm driven up by the unseen but ubiquitous MOMS value-added tax (23% at one point)—and the all-but-demented bicyclists, who have their own paved, private lanes between traffic and pedestrian sidewalks and seem to travel in packs, bedeviling unwary passengers who step off a bus without first looking both ways. One of my out-of-country colleagues, a doctor, was knocked down, nearly run over, and cursed loudly by a pack of dozens of bicyclists for disrespecting their “space”—her broken arm took longer to heal than her pride—but that is just the Danish way.

We diplomats had to pay full price for just about everything, although we were allowed to claim rebates for value-added tax on especially large purchases, and I seem to remember we could claim back a portion of taxes on gasoline purchases (far higher than in the States). When I was there, the U.S. dollar was still quite strong against the Danish krone, which helped soften the blow somewhat—and we did receive a small cost-of-living allowance to compensate for higher costs. Danes grumbled a little—well, more than a little—about their high income taxes, which approached 60 percent, as I recall, but generally did not want to give up any of the social benefits it paid for, including superior medical care, cradle-to-grave social programs, unemployment compensation, retirement, and the like.

But I never got used to seeing Tuborg beer served at breakfast before I arrived, and am still no fan of that practice, but Danes took it in stride; I love beer, just don’t think I could work well with a morning buzz on. All Scandinavians have certain issues with alcohol—the Danes particularly razz their cousins, the Swedes, for visiting without learning how to drink properly (Sweden strictly controlled liquor sales, while Danes are far more flexible.) I saw a research study once that purported to compare causes of death: Danes die more often of the effects of long-term regular exposure to beer, causing cirrhosis of the liver, while Swedes die far more often from alcohol poisoning, caused by sudden intake of large amounts.

A popular Danish cure for hangovers is a bitter tonic called Gammel Dansk (old Danish), and believe me, it is more effective than the American remedy (hair of the dog)—if you can get it down—especially after too many toasts with Aquavit, another much tastier beverage. Rare indeed is the Danish teetotaler! When I lived there, Danes also smoked cigarettes like chimneys—despite the prohibitive cost—and anyone who invited a Dane over was forced to put ashtrays at every possible location, or risk the consequences. (One Embassy friend’s German-born wife, who claimed to be allergic to smoke, thought simply posting a no-smoking sign at the door was sufficient … but she was quickly disabused of that fanciful notion after one memorable party by where she found discarded butts … everywhere, beer bottles, plants, carpet, floor …)

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The housing, whether Embassy-owned or rented, was excellent. If we could not get that old-style apartment with high ceilings we had once been promised, around the corner from the Embassy—a slightly senior communications officer pulled rank and insisted he needed to be closer than I did, although as the general services officer, I really needed to be as close as he did—so we ended up in a far more modern and spacious flat a few kilometers away in a larger building, on a street called Vordingborgade. It had minor design flaws—the kitchen had no room for a dishwasher, for which I was roundly cursed, and only a tiny European-style refrigerator, under the counter—Danes, like many Europeans, shop almost every day. It also had a shared community laundry, but was otherwise perfect—three bedrooms and two baths, for the many visitors we had during our tour—with real advantages for entertaining, including a large balcony, glass doors, and plenty of parking in the large underground parking deck. Many U.S. embassy staff also lived there, and once Margaret brought her miniature poodle, Cognac, over from Jamaica, we quickly developed many neighboring Danish friends, as well.

Danes simply loved dogs … and somehow, Cognac managed to squeeze through the balcony slats separating our apartment from the one next door—sparking a long-lasting friendship with the Wensell family, Erik, Else, and their two adult sons, who moved in a few months after we did, and soon invited us over for dinner. The previous occupants of that flat had been extremely unfriendly to us, refusing to speak on our small landing (three flats per floor), and I was still puzzled. Erik told me, later, that while most Danes genuinely liked Americans, even when they disagreed over U.S. foreign policy—which in the Reagan years, was widespread—that his predecessor, a young doctor, had been a rabid Marxist, rare in Denmark, who detested Reagan’s strong anti-Communist rhetoric. He simply disliked Americans, especially diplomats—so I was happy Cognac had not arrived before Dr. Death moved out.

Bride, groom, and lazy friend—not Cognac!—enjoy the brief summer at a friend’s rural Danish home. Author’s collection

That militant doctor proved to be the rare exception in Denmark, in my personal experience. And while Danes could be a bit quirky—rarely returning a dinner or party invitation, early on, at least—I soon learned why: many Danes believe that inviting a friend into one’s home signifies the establishment of a kind of closeness akin to family. One of our best friends at the Embassy was another party-loving Southerner, Dorothy, who was married to a Danish military officer, Kurt—they lived on our building, as well, and between them, they gave us a crash course in learning to “think Danish.” We have been close friends ever since.

My job as general services officer was a grueling one, requiring long hours and constant attention to complaints about housing and other matters from the Embassy’s medium-sized staff (more than 50 officers and specialists) from variety of USG agencies, civilian and military. My boss, Larry, head of the Admin section, was a veteran FSO of nearly two decades, who handled budget matters and high-level issues. My far larger GSO staff was led by Lilly Zilstorff—a legendary, somewhat crusty figure who knew more about procurement matters than any five people I ever met, American or Danish—and her longtime assistant, Viktor Binkowski, a younger Polish refugee, polished and helpful, who advised me on housing matters and other issues. My staff taught me everything I needed to know, always rescuing me with timely advice and generous natures.

They even made it possible for me to actually get some traveling time in—and that kept my batteries recharged after 60-to-70-hour work-weeks. Margaret and I hit the road nearly every weekend to see the rest of Denmark’s main island, Sjaelland, and points west (Fyn, the next big island; Jutland, the main Danish peninsula) and south, to Germany and the continent, all by ferry. We also took one memorable trip to Lolland—a smaller island just south of Copenhagen, where my great-grandfather, Rasmus Justesen, had been born on a farm near Maribo in 1841 and spent the first 10 years of his life, before immigrating to the U.S. with his parents and brother, after being proselytized by Mormon missionaries and eventually ending up in Utah.

For all my efforts, I never found any close relatives in Denmark—there were only a handful of Justesen-surnamed families left on Sjaelland—but one of the larger duty-free firms in Denmark was the Peter Justesen company, a former grocery firm gone global, better known as “PJ.” It was one of Lilly Z.’s favorite procurement haunts, and she took me there once. The original Peter J. might have been distantly related—unlikely at best—but any family connection at the firm had long since faded away; because of the ancient (early 19th-century) “change” in patronymic naming habits, there was little likelihood of any blood relation to me, anyway.

When Rasmus was born, his “correct” traditional surname in Denmark should have been Rasmus Larsen—as the son of “Lars” (Lars Alexander Justesen). But because that alternating naming system was not accepted in America, and was being phased out in Denmark, he became the first in my father’s ancestral family to take the same surname as his father when they immigrated. (Lars, by the way, was married to Karen Rasmusdatter—literally,” “daughter of Rasmus” (Rasmus Hansen Moller)—and gave her oldest son her father’s first name …)

The folks at PJ chuckled when I told them my name—and laughed when they heard me speak Danish. They assumed I only came in because I wanted a family discount on purchases … I assured them that while that was appreciated, as a U.S. Government employee, I was not allowed to accept favors (or free gifts)! (Darn it…)

Margaret and I traveled once to a lovely old cathedral city, Ribe, in South Jutland, near the German border, and stopped to have an afternoon drink in a sparsely-occupied tavern. I ordered the drinks—red wine for her, beer for me—in Danish, and the bartender cocked his head quizzically, but handed me what I had ordered. We were sitting at table chatting when a complete stranger came over and just sat down at our table, starting to speak to us in rapid Danish. He had overheard my order, too. I had almost no idea what he was saying.

I finally convinced him, in my halting, too-clear Danish, to slow down. He looked at me for a moment before asking, in perfect English, “just what part of Denmark are you from?” I shook my head, began to laugh, and said, in slow, distinct English, “very, very Southern Denmark.” Our new friend threw his head back and began to laugh. “Ah, yes, the U. S. of A.—I knew I had never heard that accent before!”

Next time: Come to Copenhagen, to love and play—but don’t forget to see the rest of Europe!