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So, somehow my back tire had lost air on our way to Denmark. When we got off the ferry in the tiny town of Gedser at like 10pm
(with yet ANOTHER raging
downpour to greet us), we ran immediately to a gas station to fill it up. Of course, we didn't have
an adapter for the pump, so there was nothing we could do except stand there looking nonplussed and damp.
Two actual bikers who had also just come off the ferry rode over to us to see
if we knew a place nearby to stay for the night.
The dude (a Columbian by way of Canada) was well equipped for such minor disasters and lent me his adapter.
We filled the tire, pushed the tube gently back into the frame, and it
just EXPLODED. I mean literally. Boom. We were all in complete shock.
Apparently, the last person who had changed the tire had used a tube that was five inches too large, so he/she
just FOLDED IT OVER.
Which as you may imagine, is not the best way to have your tire not explode.
The fella and his German girlfriend (by way of Paraguay) said they'd help us change the tube in the morning, but
I felt terrible about wasting their time. So I tried to
get someone at the scuzzy smoky filled-with-drunk-old-Danish-dudes hotel to help us... the fella at the desk said there
was only one guy in the town who could help, because he has all the tools. (???) He said I should talk to "Anders" in the hotel bar.
Which I did. Anders dunkenly explained that I should talk to his wife in the morning, who worked at the supermarket across the
street.
Because she would know where the Tool Dude was. Maybe.
Long story short, the Columbian changed my tire.
Beautiful town in Denmark called Nykøbing.
Soph and I were so tickled by the Danish language. You can see us flailing dumbly in the sign's reflection.
Soph in Nykøbing.
Little yellow plums on the side of the rode. We picked about a pound, then I carried the rotting fruit bag around for a week
because while we thought it was adorable that we picked road-fruit, neither of us could bring ourselves to actually EAT any of it.
Our single thirty-minute window of sunshine in Denmark! We rode right to the beach and immediately tore off our clothes...
... but the water was like, FREEZING....
... so we just ate instead. Our answer to many a thwarted attempt at merry-making during our sojourn.
The bike trail cuts through the Isle of Møn, but you need to ride a ferry to get there.
We thought it was funny that the bike trail sign actually pointed to the ferry. I just imagined tons
of bikers riding off the pier into the water because they didn't see the little boat icon.
Look at our sweet little bikes in the background... awwwwww.
Enigmatic sign on the boat. I think it means "don't slice through your child's genitals with a plank," but I could be wrong.
Danish spider.
I'm laughing because the sheep are looking at me. No idea why that's funny. I may have been loopy from all the water in my brain.
"Slutspurt" basically means "everything must go." Apparently, all English speakers visiting Denmark cannot stop themselves from taking endless
photos of these signs.
Praestø. Another sweet (wet) Danish town.
Building in Praestø.
The Danish love their hotdogs. This one shoved into a baguette with a hole carved in the center was
so phallic I could barely stand to eat it in public.
Typical Danish breakfast. Meat meat cheese cheese cheese cheese cheese cheese and three cucumber slices.
We stayed on a farm in Rødvig, where Soph made a new friend.
A goal of mine-- to be able to ride with no hands by the end of our trip. Mission accomplished, mofo!!!!
This icon is somehow supposed to represent the main bicycle path. But what the hell is it? A wheel?
A religious symbol? A gun sight? Seriously, WTF?!
NOTE: Soph just informed me that it is a compass. The little squiggle at the top is an "N". How could I have missed that?
And how long has he known? It still doesn't explain the red slash on the right, however...
Now THAT's more like it.
A church on the coast. Half of it fell down the cliff into the water in the 20's. Luckily, it was not during a service.
The white cliffs of, oh, someplace whose name I can't remember.
I nearly rode my bike over this little fucker.
That woman was GARGANTUAN. Denmark is filled with Amazonian blond women. I constantly felt like I was on the verge of getting eaten.
I rode my bike very fast everywhere.
SIX different kinds of hot dogs.
The trains in Denmark have special cars for bikes, with incredibly well-designed tire grips and fold-out seats. Everyone rides bikes, of all ages and all backgrounds.
It is heaven.
Same in Germany, although unlike Berlin everyone rides great bikes in Copenhagen. Our poor little dudes were about to acquire inferiority complexes.
I became a little obsessed with the bike icon on the train to Copenhagen...
...sometimes it looks like it is flying over the city...
... and now it's like riding alongside the train...
... and note how it changes color depending on the materials behind it...
... my God! It continues to reveal itself endlessly. Like any great work of art.
Scandinavians speak perfect English. Every single one of them. And they can be snarky in English, too. Bastards.
Bikes bikes bikes.
Half our time in Copenhagen was spend cobbling together different maps to try to find the "Latin Quarter",
which I am convinced doesn't actually exist.
As ubiquitous as the H&M stores was Madonna's pointy little mug selling fake athletic wear.
This place is called the Round Tower, and for the life of me I can't remember what it used to be.
Now it's an art gallery, an observation tower, and one of the best places for photo ops in Copenhagen.
NOTE: Soph just informed me that this photo is NOT the Round Tower. We don't actually have a photo of the exterior of the building. This is some other random building.
Photo-licious.
No stairs... just a winding brick floor all the way up and tiny archways with little hairy trolls inside.
And excellent light from every direction.
Top of the tower. We're looking wistfully out at the city and contemplating a potential album cover.
Found at the Erotic Museum: a diaroma illustrating an incredibly dirty poem about the largest orgy in Scottish history.
The choice of details is quite alarming...
While none of the people have fingers, toes, or faces, the tip of the dude's penis is painted red-- because, according to the poem,
that woman has her period.
I have to imagine the lack of faces was just an oversight.
Fountain on the huge pedestrian walkway.
This is the largest pedestrian walk-way in the world, according to our little guidebook.
The livingroom of the place we stayed in Copenhagen.
Doorknob in the john of the National Theatre.
Across the river in Copenhagen is a place called Christiana--
once a bunch of government barracks that was transformed into a functioning village of squatters 30 years ago.
It's basically a tourist trap masquerading as a hippie commune, with dirty people selling veggie burgers and brownies.
No one who lives there pays taxes, and pot is legal-ish.
And evidentally they don't like
pork products.
Sign at the border of Christiana and the rest of Copenhagen. I think it's kind of serious.
Botanical garden in Copenhagen.
Caption: "Quit breathing on my ass, dude!"
Ditto.
TWO phallic hotdogs. Look at the lady in blue behind us... she can barely contain her tittilation.
A ride in the famous Tivoli Gardens, the first amusement park in the world and also the place that inspired Mr. Disney to make
a few American-y versions. Tivoli is a completely magical place at night.
Kitchen of the place we stayed. We were tempted to change the locks and barricade the doors and never ever ever ever ever leave.
I like stacked kitchen stuff.
Cool poster in said apartment.
The Little Mermaid, a homage to Hans Christian Anderson's tale.
Soph had a little crush on that man there. The dude was just so happy
standing there on the rocks next to one of Copenhagen's most beloved icons.
We found out later that over the years the mermaid has been defaced, blown up, and decapitated by its inhabitants.
Lotta angst for one little half-fish-girl.
If you don't have a bike in Copenhagen, no worries! You deposit 20 kroners into a bike valet and you get to ride one of those
spastic little numbers all around town, then when you return it you get your 20 kroners back. Amazing.
(My bike was little jealous, as you can see.)
Hans and Soph, BFF.
Subtle, folks.
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