Landmarks

Today we went into Copenhagen and Ellen gave us a tour of family landmarks (her favorite aunt's former apartment, the primary school her mother attended, the family plot at the cemetery, and other places from her childhood), as well as more obvious points of interest (the queen’s residence, the famous port neighborhood, beautiful parks). I had been to Copenhagen once before and remembered it fondly but didn't quite recall the booming metropolis it has become. And all those bikes... everywhere, ridden by everyone ("bike clothing" rarely seen [people are in their work clothes], helmets are non-existent except on very young kids who aren't seen much on the city streets anyway; city riding is about transport not leisure). I love walking around cities, but being on foot seemed uncool and inconvenient in this realm; we had a really nice day of city sightseeing, but it was a beautiful sunny day and we were all wishing we could join the crowds on two wheels.

lots of old courtyards...

...and new buildings

modern architecture

the new opera house

needs no explanation

Nyhavn

the queen's palace

 

Copenhagen: City of Bikes

[Prologue re: traveling with extremely limited internet access. Okay, maybe it wasn’t like losing an appendage, but I definitely did felt the loss of not being able to email my friends and post the blog as I went. The house where we stayed didn’t have a connection so every once in a while I’d peddle to the nearby library and use their wifi for a few minutes to check my email on my phone and say a quick hello to Peter and Cheryl; it would never occur to me to miss my work email while traveling, but it was a little strange not to keep in close touch with my friends or post to the blog every night – the whole point of the blog being to document a trip, as much as I can, while it happens, since I will have forgotten so much by the next day. That being the case, I wrote the posts each evening and saved them and I am inserting the photos now and uploading. – M. June 21, 2013]

I think people know about Amsterdam's bike culture but I can't imagine it has anything on Copenhagen. Most city streets have designated bike lanes with designated bike traffic signals, there are huge parking lots for bikes near the Metro stations, the commuter train we take from the little town where we're staying into the city has designated train cars for bikes, and even the highways out of town have bike lanes -- the entire population seems to travel by bicycle. The country being so flat - it's no wonder; the country being so cold... not sure how that factors in so many months of the year - probably not at all, they're hearty folks, these Danes.

bike parking lot in Copenhagen

I arrived two days ago after a quick transfer in Reykjavik. Ellen met me at the airport in Copenhagen and we took the Metro to the S train (the commuter line) to the town of Sølrod Strand, a little town south of Copenhagen where Chuck and Ellen had rented a little holiday cottage. Chuck, Ellen, the kids, and Susan, a friend from Sacramento, had arrived the previous day and settled into this great little seaside bungalow. It was a ten minute walk from the S Train station to the cottage which is at the very end of a dead-end road; the backyard has a gate right to the beach – nothing fancy but very comfortable for the six of us with easy access to Copenhagen.  

bike car on the S Train

The rest of the day was spent visiting with some of Ellen's relatives who dropped by to greet me. Ellen picked this town for our base because it’s where her cousin Laila and Laila’s husband Bo live. I also took a nap as I hadn't slept at all on the overnight flight to Reykjavik; we had an early dinner on the back porch where we have so far eaten all our meals, the dining room in this house promises to go totally unused given the glassed in back porch, and then we all went to bed early with the northern night sky still completely full of light.

 

our little cottage

dinner on the back porch
Chuck, Steen, Susan, Torunn, Ellen

 

the gate connecting our backyard to the beach is just beyond the big tree to the right

the stretch of beach behind our cottage

Snow, Spa, Seven Bottles of Wine*

*plus two more bottles in the fridge

First thing we did was unpack the snacks and determine that the main difference between the guys going to Whistler (two weekends ago) and the girls going to Whistler (last weekend) was that guys see no difficulty in refugee camp-like accommodations (one bedroom, one bathroom, six dudes), while we three ladies had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a bottle of sparkling wine in the fridge.

It was pouring rain when we arrived on Friday and it continued to rain as we headed into the Village for the evening's entertainment. We ended up in the Irish pub which was packed, but somehow managed to find three stools at the bar next to a guy with a wolf-hat. Brooklyn-Keith and his brother Dan were basking in the glory of West Coast snowboarding, and the guy next to them, Gordy, was up from San Francisco. The difference between resort towns that center around an activity and resort towns that center around simply atmosphere (like Puerto Vallarta), I've discovered, is that everyone wants to chat about the central activity, so there was much talk of snow conditions, Vermont versus Tahoe versus Stevens Pass, fashion accessories made from stuffed animals, and why the Shake Shack on Columbus Avenue is better than the one in Midtown (http://www.placestogo-manomi.blogspot.com/2012/09/shake-shack.html) - in Puerto Vallarta, I can easily go three days without anyone talking to me.

On Saturday morning, Wendy, Christina, and I headed to Blackcomb for our first day of snowboard and ski camp. We split into our individual groups: Wendy to the intermediate ski group, Christina to the bad-ass snowboard group, me to the intermediate snowboard group, and then spent the day battling massive snowfall and not being able to see our own feet. It was a tough day and when we compared notes before getting into the hot tub at the hotel, Wendy had had a great day with her group and an exceptional coach, Christina was a little skeptical of her class having spent most of the day in the terrain park, and I was sadly disappointed with my coach, having received little to no actual instruction, but just basically spending the day snowboarding with a bunch of very nice women (ranging in age from 20s to one lady who was probably 60) with the coach just acting as a guide to the runs, which is not what I'd paid for. It takes more than a bad coach to make for a bad vacation though, so I was still happy as a clam to be outside, not at my desk, hanging with such lovely friends, and the aforementioned many bottles of wine were there for the taking, so we poured ourselves some red and headed for the hot tubs.

People come to Whistler from all over the world. The highest "foreign" population is from Australia, and it seems like half the workers in the Village are from Oz, with a fair number of Kiwis thrown in the mix. The place is also full of Brits, some of whom we chatted with in the hot tub. After soaking for a while, we changed for dinner and ran into Gordy from the Irish pub in our hotel lobby and ended up having dinner with him and his friend Paul at the restaurant at the Whistler racket club, which was totally dead on a Saturday night, but we had a very fun dinner. Christina and I split the surf n' turf -- an incredibly mediocre steak which would have come with two prawns had Gordy not had the foresight to inquire about the quantity of "surf," the answer to which prompted us to order an extra side of surf to go with it, and Wendy had a pasta dish that appeared to have been made with an entire can of tomato paste. But once again, the important point that good company trumps bad weather and bad food was illustrated, and it was a very nice evening.

On Sunday we woke up to blue skies and sunshine and headed back to camp. Unfortunately, my coach really seemed to be phoning it in and after crashing onto my rump twice in quick succession on a narrow run which was lousy with ice and herds of skiers, I was done. I bailed on the rest of class and headed back to my room and a soft bed and HGTV. I went back for the camp's wrap-up events and actually had a chat with one of the managers about my experience. I debated whether or not I was going to do that but then I realized there were some safety issues at play. My instructor never made a point of checking on the riders behind her, let alone actually coaching us, and when I was on that narrow run, I was a couple minutes behind the group with a pretty steep cliff of powder on one side - if I'd gone over the edge, I wouldn't have been found until spring. Wendy said her instructor went down every run first then watched every member of her group descend and gave individualized comments after each run; Christina said her group was big so one coach went down first while a second one rode sweep to make sure everyone was accounted for -- this made me think some feedback might be in order, but the clincher was when a couple of us in my group realized that two girls weren't back yet even though most of us were already settled into our beer and waiting for the wrap-up events to start. One of the missing girl's friends tried to call her, no luck; I noticed that some friends of the other girl were back and we checked to see if they had heard anything; turned out one of the girls had taken a bad fall (oh, and she was ten weeks pregnant), the other girl was waiting with her for the ski patrol. The friend of the injured girl rushed off while our coach didn't seemed concerned at all, and um, said she had to get home and left. The manager I spoke to seemed fairly appalled by all this and apologized for my experience and told me she'd be glad to give me a discount if I'd like to come back to camp again some other time. I think my experience was unusual and I appreciated her response and was glad that Christina and Wendy got much better value for their camp dollars. But AGAIN, I had a good time... any vacation in a beautiful town is better than the best day working, and unless you shatter a femur or something, I think you have to be trying pretty hard to have a bad time in Whistler (hopefully the injured girl from my group wasn't hurt too badly).

Sunday night we hit the hot tubs again, this time we chatted with a couple of guys from Ontario who worked at the resort, and one of the guy's father
who was out west visiting his son - none of these gents were surprised that none of us could name the Prime Minister of Canada. Stephen Harper, people... THE PRIME MINISTER OF CANADA IS STEPHEN HARPER!! After our soak, the three of us went out to dinner (mediocre pizza, a large pitcher of sangria), and then to a nice bar where a dj was spinning in a corner while the bartender crushed up gooseberries for Wendy's cocktail and Christina and I had something hot and chocolaty and topped with whipped cream.

And then on Monday we had an awesome morning at the Scandinave Spa down the road before heading home. Jenine had been there before and I was really hoping we could hit it this time since I missed it last time I was in Whistler. 

(http://www.placestogo-manomi.blogspot.com/2011_09_01_archive.html) We managed to book three massages for 10:15 and quickly checked out of the hotel. The place is beautiful -- you walk from the parking lot down a path to a lovely building nestled in the woods. The property is terraced with pools of different temps on different levels, there are two relaxation solariums, and I sat in the nicest steam room and sauna I've ever been in - both huge, and the steam was so thick in the steam room it took me a minute to realize Wendy was already in there when I walked in. We soaked and lounged into the afternoon and finally hit the road for home around 2pm.

Great way to spend four days.

Three Days in a Row

Some people might get bored but three (and before I check out tomorrow, and a half) days of sitting by the pool in 80 degree weather reading fluff novels and eating tacos is a great way to spend some time. It's the same M.O. (exactly) as last year, but when you've figured out what you like, variation is overrated.

I really think he's going to miss me

wedding on the beach this evening

B.Y.O.T.

three shades of blue: sky - sea - pool

I realize I'm going on about this far more than the suject warrants, but I really don't care for corn tortillas (unless they're fried). They get soggy and fall apart, and they're just too... corn-y. So my triumph last night when I pulled a packet of flour tortillas out of my bag just as the taco-cart guy was going to run off to buy tortillas, corn, no doubt, to make my dinner, turned out to be more than a fluke when today at the pool I ordered fajitas (with flour tortillas) and the nice señorita told me the kitchen was out of flour tortillas. No problem, I told her, I have some in my room.

I went back to the same taco-cart guy for dinner later, he remembered me and had stocked up.

Taco Time

dinner

I have now mastered taking the bus in two languages,* the first of course being Icelandic http://www.placestogo-manomi.blogspot.mx/2011/11/snowy-day-in-reykjavik.html. This resort no longer offers a shuttle into town so the options are a $10-taxi ride or the bus for seventy cents.  Being in dire need of tacos and not wanted to add $20 to the bill, I opted for the bus today. The stop is across the street from the hotel and I was surprised to find that it was more than half filled with gringos going into town from the various resorts on the coast. Everything in town looked familiar from last year and I was sure I would be able to re-find the tortillaria at which I'd had so much success buying flour tortillas last year, but even though I focused on where I was going and what turns I was taking, my deficient sense of direction kicked in and I couldn't find the tortilla factory and got mildly lost for about five minutes. Flour tortillas were a must-find for the day since taco-cart tacos were a must-eat, and most of the carts only have corn tortillas, and luckily they had them at the Mexican 7 Eleven I walked into (it's actually called OXXO and there's one on half the street corners, but Mexican 7 Eleven is as apt a description as any). I got some yogurt for tomorrow so I don't have to spend $17 on eggs at the hotel restaurant again, milk for my coffee (which was lukewarm and weak at the restaurant this morning; luckily I brought some Starbucks instant singles to have in my room - say what you want about Starbucks, those packets of instant are great), and the vital flour tortillas. The first couple of carts I stopped at didn't have carnitas (although I don't think pork is called that here), and by the third one I was tired of walking around so I switched to pollo and the guy was going to make them for me but first said "uno momento" and something about "tortillas" and made to run off, and I was able to put together that he didn't have any tortillas and was going to go get some, but luckily I had a whole package on me. So I gave him the tortillas, he made me some muy delicioso tacos, I got back on the bus and got dropped off right in front of the hotel.

*Full disclosure: I didn't actually have to speak Spanish beyond "señor" and pointing out the door while smiling at the bus driver, but still.

Same Time Next Year*

This could have been the view from my room

It was not an auspicious start to my re-vacation here but all is well now. Getting through immigration at the Puerto Vallarta airport took almost an hour; I shared a cab with a slightly crazy woman from Los Angeles who had packed a microwave in one of her suitcases (she lives here part time); and when I got to the resort, my room wasn't ready or there was an issue - whatever it was, I was in the lobby for a good 30 minutes before I had a key and was being escorted by Jose to my room. I knew something was amiss when we got into the elevator in the main building instead of heading toward the building near the pool which is where I stayed last year. We took the elevator up, then across the sky bridge to the residence tower (is there a hotel anywhere in Mexico that isn't also a timeshare property?). We got part way up when Jose asked me to wait while he got a golf cart. He returned, did an eight-point turn in a very large golf cart, and we continued up the hill. Up, up, up, and then up some more. I saw a sign that said "golf carts only beyond this point" which I found troubling because a person should always be able to escape by foot. I was getting concerned and asked Jose where we were going and he said my room was in the new tower (which was under construction last year when I was here). I told him it seemed a long way from the pool and the main building and he said it was, but there was another pool near my room. I told him I'd really prefer to be where I was last year and he said he would find out if they could give me a different room. When we got where we were going, the view was SPECTACULAR and I wondered if I was making a mistake in my plan to raise hell until I got the room that I wanted, but the area was really isolated and there wasn't another soul around. I like my solitude but this was almost creepy. I told Jose I really didn't want to stay up in the hills but I'd like to see the room - which was probably a mistake because it was gorgeous. Brand new, beautifully decorated in super-modern white, silver, burgundy, and dark wood. The bathroom was the entire length of the bedroom and sitting area and had a white oval tub on a bed of pebbles overlooking a wide expanse of the bay. There was a balcony with a hammock and a lounge chair - I'd never have to leave my room (but if I wanted to, I just had to make a call and someone would come and fetch me in a golf cart). But it felt weird to be up there all by myself, so we motored on back down the hill, with Jose talking into his secret-service-type-phone, trying to find me another room. When we got back down to the lobby, I told the woman at reception that I didn't want to be so far from the rest of the resort, that I appreciated how lovely the room they had given me was (it was in fact an upgrade to a junior suite) but that I didn't want to stay up there. She told me that all the deluxe rooms which is what I had booked were full in the main building but she could put me in a honeymoon suite for an additional $80 a day. I told her I didn't want to pay any more than what I had booked, and suggested very politely that she should give me the honeymoon suite (jacuzzi on the balcony) for the same price. She said she couldn't do that and I kept pushing ("this is my second time here, I came here last year and returned because I liked it so much..." yadda, yadda, yadda) and I think I almost had her but instead, she bumped someone else who had a deluxe room booked but who hadn't checked in yet to the hilltop suite, and gave me the deluxe, which when I finally got there, looked exactly like the room I stayed in last year, and was almost shabby (not really) in comparison to the suite I had just given up.

By then I was tired and slightly buzzed from the ridiculously potent margarita I had while waiting for them to find me another room so I unpacked, took a shower, turned on the TV and watched Li Na upset Maria Sharapova in the semi-final round of the Australian Open.

*Re: the title of this post, I love this movie http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0078199/?ref_=sr_1 and I love the sappy song that plays throughout it, sung by Johnny Matthis and Jane Olivor, but composed by Marvin Hamlisch who was truly one of the greats. The movie version of the song is too sappy to post here, but here's Mr. H playing it on the piano http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCJMUshSZA8