There were five of us, and we were hungry.

After wandering the Copenhagen streets for a few hours looking for a place to eat we had all finally agreed upon a nice little restaurant right on the water in Christianshavn. We were shown our table and given menus from which we would choose our food and drink. All was good in the world and we were all relieved to be sitting down at such a nice place on such a nice day for what we hoped would be a very tasty meal.

And then Trainee walked into our lives.

I knew that Trainee was the name of our good looking young waitress because that’s what the name tag on the left breast of her button down work shirt that was open to the fourth button said. “Hello, my name is Trainee.” No confusion there, nosireebob. But, just to make sure I thoroughly comprehended and understood what her name was, when she leaned over to fill my water glass, I took a good, hard look at that beautifully crafted name tag. That was pinned to her open-to-the-fourth-button button down shirt. On her left breast. You could say I studied that name tag and committed the softly rounded edges, slight surface bumps and smooth creamy colors to my memory for future reference.

Oh man, I just love name tags.

Anywaste, after much debate amongst ourselves we finally decided what we would order. TD, a very worldly man, wanted to know about a signature dish listed on the menu as simply “Delicious Potato Sandwich.” Trainee explained it to TD as, and I quote, “Some potatoes on some bread. Very good, you will like it.” When asked if it alone was enough for lunch Trainee’s only reply was, “That would depend on whether you are hungry or just want to eat something.”

It was at this point that I began taking mental notes for this post.

Undeterred, TD asked Trainee how big the sandwich was, to which Trainee replied, “It fits on the plate.” Trying once more, TD inquired as to the size of the plate and Trainee, in her own special way, rolled her eyes, heaved a big sigh and said, “It is big enough for the sandwich. Do you want it now or do you need to ask more questions first?” At this point it was obvious that TD was going to have to order the Delicious Potato Sandwich if only to see how big it would be. Looking him over, Trainee put a hand to her hip and stated, matter-of-factly, “You, my friend, might want to order something more. You look like an eater.”

As the rest of us laughed up our lungs, a red-faced TD asked for an additional chicken salad sandwich.

After we had all placed our orders, Trainee posited to us a most interesting question. Would any of us like to partake of some locally flavored Schnapps? Three of my friends decided that yes, they would love to try some schnapps, and would Trainee be so kind as to explain to all of us the different choices in flavors?

Her mouth said yes, but Trainee’s eyes told a whole different story.

Leaving us briefly, Trainee quickly returned holding a picnic basket filled with different schnapps flavorings and a single large bottle of unflavored schnapps. She then proceeded to explain to us, in small, monosyllabic words, how the unflavored schnapps would be mixed with one of the various flavoring bottles’ contents to produce a custom glass of flavored schnapps just for us. She then pointed to each flavor bottle and told us what was in it.

“This one is a flower. The essence, of course, since you can see there is no flower in the bottle. I can’t remember the name of the flower, but it is white. This one is a fruit. I do not know what kind of fruit, but it is fruity in flavor. This one tastes like… it is spicy. Not hot, but like a pepper. But not pepper, understand? This one here is very popular with the ladies. It tastes like candy. And this one is apple. It is different from the other fruity flavor because it is an apple and not just fruit. There are others here, but they are not as good as these so I will not mention them. You should not even ask since you will not like them. So, which flavor will you have?”

TD, of course, could not leave well enough alone.

“Do you have Aquavit?”
“Aquavit?”
“Yes. Isn’t that the name of the popular Schnapps here?”
“Oh yes. We have Aquavit, but it is not for you. It is only for real men.”

Much derisive laughter.

“Are you saying that you don’t think I’m a man?”
“Oh no, I see you are a man, but I did not think you wanted such a strong, real man drink.”
“Well, I am a real man and I want a real glass of Aquavit, please.”
“Please? Are you sure you can handle such a real manly-man drink?”
“Hey! I am a real manly-man.”
“OK. If you say so.”

That’s when I fell off my chair.

When Trainee brought over the drinks she placed them down on the table and, I kid you not, she stood next to the table and watched TD drink his glass of Aquavit. When he did not immediately fall over and die, she seemed surprised and grudgingly stated, “Well, I guess you are a real man after all.”

TD’s face was priceless.

There were other things about this lunch that make it one of the best lunches in the history of lunches. Like how I asked for ketchup for my fries and was greeted with an incredulous look of disbelief, as if using ketchup on fries was blasphemy. And how, after she had delivered the ketchup without my noticing and I asked yet again for the ketchup, she leaned down to me and stage whispered, “It is right there. Should I draw you a map or do you think you can reach it on your own?”

Man, was my face red as everyone pointed at me and laughed.

Oh, and the Delicious Potato Sandwich? It consisted of three very small boiled potatoes sliced thin and placed on two teeny, tiny pieces of bread. With mayo. On a plate large enough for a whole turkey. And his chicken salad sandwich was about the size of a Saltine with a melon scoop of chicken salad. I actually think TD left the restaurant hungrier than when he sat down. Actually, I think we all did.

Which is why we immediately went next door and bought ice cream.

Even so, we had a fabulous lunch filled with a whole lot of laughter, some tasty food and one very saucy serving wench. Feeling generous after such a good time, we decided to leave Trainee a very large tip amounting to about 35% of the bill, even though we knew that in Denmark the tip is already included with the cost of the food. Unfortunately for Trainee, when she tried to process the bill the credit card machine rejected our generous tip because it was more than 15% of the total bill. We told her to put the 15% on the card and, as a last act of rebellion, TD whipped out his wallet and handed Trainee enough cash to make up almost 30% more. And, after shoving the cash into her pocket, what did Trainee have to say about such a show of generosity?

“A real man would have given me 40%.”

India was nice. Copenhagen was nicer.

That pretty much sums up my last three weeks very nicely. I would elaborate more if I really had anything more to add, but unfortunately I don’t really have anything else to say. Sure I could tell you about the hotels I stayed at, and how comfortable the bed in India was and how uncomfortable (and inclined to the right) the bed in Copenhagen was, but would you truly care?

I didn’t think so.

I mean, just because I went to India doesn’t actually mean I SAW India. In truth, outside of the frightening taxi rides both to and from the hotel I didn’t actually go anywhere but my room, the hotel restaurant and the hotel ballroom. Did I get to see the sights of India? No. Was I able to go out for meals? No. Did I have a night on the town, meet the natives or take in the sounds and smells of Bangalore nightlife? No. Did I even have a chance to shop for cheap foreign goods?

You bet your butt I did.

On my last day in India I left my hotel 4 hours early and, on my way to the airport, I made the taxi driver bring me to a couple of shops so I could buy souvenirs for friends and family because I knew I would be a very dead Geek if I returned home from such an exotic place without even a trinket for HoBiscuit. There was no way I wanted to relive the Barcelona Incident of ’99, or lord help me, the Tokyo No Intercourse Experience of ’98!

Brrrr… Just the memory makes me shiver in fear.

So, now that I’ve been to India I’ll need to go back one day and actually see the country because for some odd reason it seems to upset people when they ask you how India was and I say, “I don’t know. Since all I saw was the airport and the hotel it was kind of like a friendlier New Jersey, I guess.”

And that’s usually when I get hit.

Copenhagen was better only in the sense that I was able to leave the hotel a couple of times. At first that sounds great, but then again you need to understand that I was staying at the Airport Hilton which means that when I left the hotel it was only so I could wander the airport until security politely asked me to leave.

Whoopee.

Luckily for me then that I managed to finagle my way into staying an extra day in Copenhagen so I could explore the fabulous city. And it really is beautiful to see. There are lots of beautiful buildings, canals, art and people to see.

I enjoyed it muchly.

I do have a boatload of photographs of Copenhagen to share with you and I’m trying to work my way through them so I can pick out a few to post here later this week. Right now though I have to take care of a few minor details, like paying bills, that seem to have piled up while I was gone. I’ll take care of the pictures a little later this week and I’ve also got a great story to tell that involves lunch, plate sizes, snarky waitresses, finding ketchup and real men drinking real drinks, but you’ll have to wait until Friday or Monday for that story.

I know you’re disappointed, but try not to cry too much, ok?

Hello.

Guess what? I’ve had quite a horrible travel experience so far, that’s what. I won’t bore you with all the minor details now, but I will give you a bit of the story to help whet your appetite for when I return next week.

Correction. IF I return ALIVE next week.

First, due to traffic, I nearly missed my outbound flight and had to run, run, RUN through the airport to make the plane… only to sit sweating on the runway for the next two hours waiting for the fog to clear so we could take off. Did I mention it was hot? And that I had just run a million miles to get to the plane? And that I was sweating profusely, not only from the run but also because the plane was warm and stuffy? Because, of course, turning on the air conditioning would waste fuel and in these uncertain times we couldn’t afford to waste precious fuel, now could we?

My, oh my, did that flight stink. Literally.

Now of course, due to the flight delay, I missed my connection in Frankfurt and had to be rerouted on a later flight. But, since there were no more direct flights to Bangalore I would need to make another connection before reaching my final destination. And what glorious place would I be going? Why, Bombay, of course! Bombay, where I spent six glorious hours in the airport (beginning at 1am and ending at 6am) with nothing to do but enjoy my own delicious travel scent and watch the other people waiting for the connection drift off to sleep on the floor one by one, almost as if they were quietly dying off and leaving me to suffer in misery all alone. Luckily, since I had nothing better to do, I had taken a sitting positioned at the ticketing booth and was second in line when it opened at 5am.

Unluckily, not being a native I didn’t know the local customs concerning lines.

A quick note here about the way things are done here in India. Specifically, how people go about their business when there is, oh, let’s say only one person offering help and many people who wish to receive said help. Like at a ticketing counter, for example. In America, people will naturally form a line, one behind another, and wait patiently for their turn to receive help. Oh sure, sometimes people will resent the line for moving slowly, but they will still wait their turn even as they curse and sigh and fume.

Not so in India.

It has come to my attention that in India there is no such thing as a line. Lines are nonexistent. They are fabrications of myth, fairytales of lands far, far away. Velvet ropes are decorations, not unbreakable force fields designed to herd people to and fro in an efficient and effective manner.

Simply put, and to paraphrase the One; in India there is no line.

In India, anyone silly enough to believe that simply standing behind a person means that you will be next in “line” will be sorely disappointed. Especially when, as soon as the person ahead of them leaves, all of the other people behind them suddenly surge forward like a tidal wave of selfishness in their efforts to become “next”. The downside is that one must fight like mad just to get one’s airline tickets or move past the security check-in counters. On the upside, while killing is frowned upon, maiming or crippling those whom you wish to pass is considered perfectly acceptable and civilized behavior.

Which may be the only reason I’m not in jail.

Anywaste, when I finally got to Bangalore I discovered that the car and driver that was supposed to pick me up at the airport was, surprise, not there. So I just wandered about the airport until I found a pre-pay taxi booth and ordered myself a taxi. Fortunately, by this time, I was so mentally and physically drained that I believed I didn’t care what happened to me as long as I got to my hotel so I could shower.

Unfortunately, I quickly discovered that I DID still care.

When I was younger I used to think that the drivers from New Jersey were the worst drivers in the world. Then I went to France and I realized just how wrong I had been. Then I went to China and realized that I had been FAR too limiting in my worldview since it was obvious that there was absolutely no way that ANYONE could be more psychopathic on the road than a Singapore taxi driver battling for street supremacy against 200 million bicyclists.

And now I’ve been to India.

Funny thing about India, when driving they tend to use the horn far more than the gas, brake or common sense. It seems that no matter what vehicle one drives in India, if you do not honk your horn at least 5 times every minute you are breaking some Indian law. I quickly discovered that honking your horn was not only necessary for driving in India, it was vital. Without honking Indian drivers would be lost. Honking was their way of conversing on the road and without their incessant honking they would have no way to say things like, “Look out!” or “Hello!” or “I’m going that way!” or “Watch me scare the crap out of this American idiot.”

Although come to think on it that last one might have been my imagination.

And once again lines, and by extension lanes and turning signals, were little more than optional suggestions rather than rules to be followed. If there was an inch between two cars, then someone on a bicycle would squeeze in. Two inches and a motorcycle would zoom through, and if you dared to leave three inches a bus would appear as if by magic! It was fortunate indeed that by halfway through my Ride Of Screeching Doom I had given up on life in general and would have been thrilled to welcome death. Miraculously, my driver’s honking prowess proved unmatched and I arrived safe and sound (relatively) at my hotel without him hitting anything or anyone.

That I saw, at least.

So now, my minions, I think I’ll take a shower, eat some food, report to work and then, if the gods are merciful, I will sleep for the next year and a day. If the gods are not merciful… well, then I’ll simply curl up in a ball in a corner and cry.

And knowing my luck, I’ve already picked out the corner.