Copenhagen, Denmark
Outside of Britain and Ireland, I have yet to discover a country with a better pub culture than Denmark. Pubs here, like those in the aforementioned islands southwest of me, are more than just places to drink. They are extensions of people's living rooms. Even in big city Denmark, everyone seems to have his or her local watering hole where everybody knows their name (cue "Cheers" theme music), unless you happen to be a foreign tour guide with a week off.
When I walk into such neighborhood pubs, people stare. I'm not one of them. Then I open my mouth and words come out in Norwegian -- which is intelligible to the Danes -- just not the proper way to speak here. I received one of the biggest compliments of my life a couple of weeks ago when a Danish bartender informed me that people at the bar had been placing bets as to whether I was Norwegian or Swedish.
"I'm speaking Norwegian," I told him. "But you all lose."
This afternoon, I wandered into Falcon, a local pub in Christianshavn, a distinctly non-touristy neighborhood in Copenhagen, where my friend Britta rents a few rooms out in her home. I ordered a Tuborg Classic (a maltier, tastier rendition of generic Tuborg) to wash down my shot of licorice-flavored liquor, another traditional Scandinavian booze.
Falcon is a smokey place with front pages of Danish tabloids shellacked to the ceiling. (By the way, does anybody know the proper spelling of "shellack?") I sat at a corner table and watched the scene around me.
"Mads!" a middle-aged lady with a beer and a cordial glass filled with whiskey shouted to a man across the bar. "You look so deep in thought! What are you thinking about?"
"I'm thinking of you!" Mads answered.
The bar erupted in laughter.
"We need some music," another, younger guy announced from across the room. He asked the bartender to turn on the jukebox.
A minute later, some funky drumming was filling the room.
"What the hell is this guy playing?" I wondered.
Then the violins kicked in. And the horns. I recognized the song. It was "Copacabana" by Barry Manilow.
Only it wasn't Barry Manilow at all. It was a Dane, singing a Danish version of the song.
"Copacabana" is cheesy enough without being translated into Danish. "This is insane," I thought as I looked at my now-empty beer glass.
Yes. It was so insane that I had to order another beer, just so I could sit and listen to the rest of the song.
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