Rick Steves Travel as a Political Act Read online

  This strong social ethic permeates the whole of Danish society. A traveler can find it in its raw and indigenous form in the rural corners and small towns—places where anyone is allowed to pick berries and nuts, but “no more than would fit in your hat.”

  On a recent visit to a Danish small town, I saw this social ethic in the way a local friend of mine reacted to a controversy. The biggest hotel in his town started renting bikes to compete with Mrs. Hansen’s bike rental shop. My friend was disappointed in the hotel manager, saying, “They don’t need to do that—bike rental has been Mrs. Hansen’s livelihood since she was a little girl.” Of course, there’s no law forbidding it. And with our American business ethic, we’d just say that competition is good. But in Denmark, to look out for Mrs. Hansen’s little bike rental business was a matter of neighborly decency.

  Immigrants: Treasure Your Heritage … and Melt

  I’ve painted a rosy picture of Denmark. But the country is not without its challenges. One key issue facing Denmark, along with the rest of Europe and the US, is immigration.

  When my grandparents migrated from Norway to the US, they lost contact with their Norwegian relatives, and had little choice but to melt into American society. (And, while they arrived speaking barely a word of English, just two generations later, I barely speak a word of Norwegian.) Today they could use the Internet to read newspapers and watch television shows from home, and talk to relatives around the world for free on Skype. Modern telecommunications advances allow communities of foreigners to settle in more comfortable places while remaining in close contact with far-flung friends and family. Like the Algerian family I mentioned in Chapter 3 (who’ve been in the Netherlands for three generations, speak barely a word of Dutch, and are still enthusiastically Algerian), these people have no interest in assimilating. Consequently, rather than “melting pots,” wealthy countries such as Denmark are becoming cafeteria plates with dividers keeping ethnic groups separate.

  Immigration can be a major wedge issue—especially in formerly homogenous nations. Only 40 years ago, there were virtually no foreigners in Denmark. As in many European countries, part of the population, especially older and more insular Danes, fears immigrants and gravitates to right-wing, racist parties. Meanwhile, progressive Danes—who celebrate a multicultural future—wonder why their wealthy nation of high-tech, multilingual globalists is still struggling to get along with their relatively small community of Muslim immigrants. While some Danes view their growing Muslim minority as a problem, others are willing to see a more colorful society as an opportunity.

  A Muslim Dane catches the changing of her country’s guard.

  At Copenhagen’s City Museum, I met a Pakistani Dane who worked there as a guide. He spoke Danish like a local and talked earnestly about the exhibit, as if his own ancestors pioneered the city. Thinking of assimilation, I got emotional. Surprised at being choked up, I was struck by the beauty of a Pakistani Dane as opposed to a Pakistani living in Denmark.

  Am I wrong to wish that a Muslim living in Denmark would become a Dane? Am I wrong to wish the US would speak only English, rather than Norwegian or Spanish as well? Am I wrong to lament districts of London that have a disdain for all things British? Immigrants energize a land—but they do it best (as is the story of the US) when their vision is a healthy melting pot. Melt, immigrants… treasure your heritage while embracing your adopted homelands. But it’s more than just an “immigrant issue.” Europeans (like Americans) fearful of encroachment, change, and differing hues of skin need to show tolerance, outreach, and understanding. From what I’ve seen, with these attitudes, it works better for all involved.

  Other countries have struggled to become more social-istic…and failed. So how do the Danes pull it off? I think their success relates to their acceptance of their social contract. Any society needs to subscribe to a social contract—basically, what you agree to give up in order to live together peacefully. Densely populated Europe generally embraces Rousseau’s social contract: In order to get along well, everyone will contribute a little more than their share and give up a little more than their share. Then, together, we’ll all be fine.

  The Danes—who take this mindset to the extreme—are particularly conscientious about not exploiting loopholes. They are keenly aware of the so-called “free rider problem”: If you knew you could get away with it, would you do something to get more than your fair share? The Danes recognize that if everyone did this, their system would collapse. Therefore, they don’t. It seems to me that the Danes make choices considering what would happen to their society (not just to themselves) if everyone cheated on this, sued someone for that, freeloaded here, or ignored that rule there.

  In contrast, the United States subscribes to John Locke’s version of the social contract: a “don’t fence me in” ideal of rugged individualism, where you can do anything you like as long as you don’t hurt your neighbor. Just keep the government off our backs. In some ways, this suits us: As we have always had more elbow room, we can get away with our independent spirit. Thanks to our wide-open spaces, determination to be self-sufficient, and relative population sparsity, it’s easier—and arguably less disruptive—for us to ignore the free rider problem.

  If I had to identify one major character flaw of Americans, it might be our inability to appreciate the free rider problem. Many Americans practically consider it their birthright to make money they didn’t really earn, enjoy the fruits of our society while cheating on their taxes, drive a gas-guzzler just because they can afford it, take up two parking spots so no one will bump their precious car, and generally jigger the system if they can get away with it. We often seem to consider actions like these acceptable…without considering the fact that if everyone did it, our society as a whole would suffer.

  The consequences of ignoring this reality were thrown into sharp relief with the crippling financial crisis that began in 2008. In the lead-up to the crisis, smart people knew deep down that existing policies would not be sustainable if everyone jumped in, trying to make money from speculation rather than substance. They gambled that they could pull it off, and the free rider problem wouldn’t kick in. But then it did. As Europe, too, got caught up in this “casino capitalism,” we saw how interconnected our world has become, and how—with globalization—there’s now only one game in town.

  A good example of how the Danish social ethic differs from others is a simple one: Danes are famous for not jaywalking. Even if the roads are empty at 3 a.m., pedestrians still stop and wait at a red light. If there’s no traffic in sight, my American individualism whispers, “Why obey a silly rule?” And so I jaywalk, boldly, assuming that my fellow pedestrians will appreciate my lead and follow me. In most countries, they do. But when I jaywalk in Denmark, the locals frown at me like I’m a bad influence on the children present. That social pressure impacts even a hurried, jaywalking tourist. So, rather than feel like an evil person, I wait for the light.

  I don’t know how well I’d fit in if I lived in Denmark. But their personal and societal formula intrigues me. On my last visit, I asked Danish people I met about their society—and why they’re so happy. Here’s a sampling of what they told me:

  “Yes, we are the most contented people. Regular workers pay on average a 35 percent income tax—big shots pay more than 50 percent. Of course, we expect and we get a good value for our taxes. We’ve had national healthcare since the 1930s. We know nothing else. If I don’t like the shape of my nose, I pay to fix that. But all my basic health needs are taken care of. Here in Denmark, all education is free. And our taxes even provide university students with almost $1,000 a month in educational support for living expenses for up to six years. We Danes believe a family’s economic status should have nothing to do with two fundamental rights: the quality of their healthcare or the quality of the education their children receive. I believe you in America pay triple per person what we pay as a society for healthcare. Your system may be better for business… but ours is better for
people. Perhaps a major negative consequence of our socialism is that since Danes are so accustomed to everything being taken care of by the government, we may not be very helpful or considerate towards each other when in need.”

  When I saw a tombstone store with Tak for Alt (“Thanks for Everything”) pre-carved into each headstone, I figured it was a message from the dearly departed after enjoying a very blessed life in Denmark. But I asked a Dane, and learned that it’s a message from the living bidding their loved one farewell (similar to our “Rest in Peace”). Still, I think when a Dane dies, it’s a good message from both sides: Tak for Alt.

  Living Large While Living Small

  An interesting side effect of the Danish system is that sky-high taxes make things so costly that people consume more sparingly. The society seems designed in a way that encourages people to use less, waste less, chew slower, appreciate more, and just sip things. A glass of beer can cost more than $10. A cup of coffee can run $7—and refills are unheard of. A big box economy à la Wal-Mart is just not very Danish. I think Danes know they could make more money if they embraced the “Big Gulp” track and started super-sizing things. But the collective decision is based on what’s good for the fabric of their society rather than what’s good for the economy.

  One example that’s obvious to any visitor is cars… or the lack thereof. Figuring in registration fees and sales tax, Denmark levies a 180 percent tax on new automobiles. So to buy one car, you have to pay for nearly three cars. As a result, throughout Denmark, a third dimension zips along silently between pedestrians and drivers: Danish bikers. With so many bikes, traffic congestion and pollution are reduced, parked cars don’t clog the streets, and people are in shape. (What’s safe for the environment can be dangerous for absentminded pedestrians. On my last visit to Copenhagen, on two occasions I was nearly flattened as I stepped from a taxi into the bike lane.)

  London and Paris have taken lanes away from drivers to create bike lanes, but so far the lanes are underused and the entire effort just seems to make things worse. Somehow, Copenhagen has it figured out. During Copenhagen’s rush hour, there are more bikes on their roads than cars, and everything moves smoothly.

  You’ll see more bikes than cars on Copenhagen’s squares.

  While walking through one of Copenhagen’s main squares, I noticed it was dominated by people, cobbles, and buildings. It felt calm, spacious, and inviting. I looked again and saw that there were also about fifty parked bikes—blending into the scene almost unnoticed—and absolutely no cars. If instead of bikes, those were parked cars, the charm would be gone.

  Many hotels even provide their guests with loaner or rental bikes. I find having a bike parked in my hotel’s bike rack is a great way to fit in and literally “go local.” Copenhagen has as many bike lanes as car lanes, and I can get anywhere in the town center as fast on my two wheels as by taxi. When you get out of the city to explore the Danish countryside, you’ll see that newly paved roads are lined by perfectly smooth bike lanes—one for each direction. Even out in the country, it seems that bikes outnumber cars.

  Christiania: Copenhagen’s Embattled Commune

  I was strolling through the commotion of downtown Copenhagen, past chain restaurants dressed up to look old and under towering hotels that seem to sport the name of a different international chain each year. Then, as if from another age, a man pedaled by me with his wife sitting in the utilitarian bucket-like wagon of his three-wheeled “Christiania Bike.” You’d call the couple “granola” in the US.

  Looking as out of place here in Copenhagen as an Amish couple wandering the canyons of Manhattan, they were residents of Christiania.

  The Denmark I’ve described seems to be a model of conformity, where everyone obeys the laws so that all can be safe, affluent, and comfortable. And yet, Denmark also hosts Europe’s most inspirational and thriving nonconformist hippie commune. Perhaps being content and conformist is easier for a society when its nonconformist segment, rebelling against all that buttoned-down conformity, has a refuge.

  In 1971, the original 700 Christianians established squatters’ rights in an abandoned military barracks just a 10-minute walk from the Danish parliament building. Two generations later, this “free city” still stands—an ultra-human communal mishmash of idealists, hippies, potheads, non-materialists, and happy children (600 adults, 200 kids, 200 cats, 200 dogs, 17 horses, and a couple of parrots). Seeing seniors with gray ponytails woodworking, tending their gardens, and serving as guardians of the community’s ideals, I’m reminded that 180 of the original gang that took over the barracks four decades ago still call Christiania home. The Christianians are fighting a rising tide of materialism and conformity. They want to raise their children to be not cogs, but free spirits.

  Everyone knows utopias are utopian—they can’t work. But Christiania, which has evolved with the challenges of making a utopia a viable reality, acts like it didn’t get the message. It’s broken into 14 administrative neighborhoods on land still owned by Denmark’s Ministry of Defense. Locals build their homes but don’t own the land; there’s no buying or selling of property. When someone moves out, the community decides who will be invited in to replace that person. A third of the adult population works on the outside, a third works on the inside, and a third doesn’t work much at all.

  For the first few years, hard drugs and junkies were tolerated. But that led to violence and polluted the mellow ambience residents envisioned. In 1979, the junkies were expelled—an epic confrontation now embedded in the community’s folk history. Since then, the symbol of a fist breaking a syringe is as prevalent as the leafy marijuana icon. Hard drugs are emphatically forbidden in Christiania.

  Christiania says yes to marijuana and no to hard drugs.

  Marijuana has always been the national plant of the free city. “Pusher Street” (named for the former sale of soft drugs here) is Christiania’s main drag. It was once lined with stalls selling marijuana, joints, and hash. But in the 2000s, Pusher Street has come under fire. To pre-empt city forces shutting down the entire community for its open sale of pot, residents bulldozed the marijuana stalls lining Pusher Street in 2004. Since then, in spite of regular police raids, marijuana remains prevalent. But the retailing, while still fragrant, is no longer flagrant. On my last visit I found a small stretch of Pusher Street, dubbed the “Green Light District,” where pot was openly, if cautiously, being sold. Signs acknowledged that this activity was still illegal, and announced three rules: 1. Have fun; 2. No photos; and 3. No running—“because it makes people nervous.”

  The recent crackdown has provided a classic case study in the regrettable consequences of a war on marijuana. After the crackdown, for the first time in years, the Copenhagen street price for pot is up, gangs are moving into the marijuana business, and crime is associated with pot. There was actually a murder in 2005, as pushers fought to establish their turf—almost unthinkable in mellower times. (For more on marijuana laws, see Chapter 7.)

  Get beyond the touristy main drag of Christiania, and you’ll find a fascinating, ramshackle world of peaceniks shuffled with some irony among the moats, earthen ramparts, and barracks of the former military base. Alternative housing, carpenter shops, hippie villas, cozy tea houses, children’s playgrounds, peaceful lanes, and interfaith stupa-like temples serve people who believe that “to be normal is to be in a straightjacket.”

  There are a handful of basic rules: no cars, no hard drugs, no guns, no explosives, and so on. A few “luxury hippies” have oil heat, but most use wood or gas. The community has one mailing address. A phone chain provides a system of communal security because, as people there report, they’ve had bad experiences calling the police. As a reminder of the constant police presence lately, my favorite Christiania café, Månefiskeren (“Moon Fisher”), has a sign outside saying: “The world’s safest café—police raids nearly every day.”

  And an amazing thing has happened: Christiania—famous for its counter-culture scene, geodesic
domes on its back streets, and vegetarian cafés—has become the third-most-visited sight among tourists in Copenhagen. Move over, Little Mermaid.

  I recently got an email from some traveling readers. They said, “We’re not prudes, but Christiania was creepy. Don’t take kids here or go after dark.”

  I agree. The free city is not pretty. But hanging out with parents raising their children with Christiania values, and sharing a meal featuring home-grown vegetables with a couple born and raised in this community, I find a distinct human beauty in the place. And I have come to believe more strongly than ever that it’s important to allow this social experiment and give alternative-type people a place to live out their values.

  As I biked through Christiania, it also occurred to me that, except for the bottled beer being sold, there was not a hint of any corporate entity in the entire “free city.” There was no advertising and no big business. Everything was handmade. Nothing was packaged. People consumed as if how they spent their money shaped the environment in which they lived and raised their families. It’s not such a far cry from their fellow Danes, who also see themselves as conscientious participants in society.

  With little money, advertising, or styles to keep up with, Christianians do a lot of swapping.

  But ever since its inception, Christiania has been a political hot potato. No one in the Danish establishment wanted it. And no one has had the nerve to mash it. While once very popular with the general Copenhagen community, Christianians have lost some goodwill recently as they are seen more as a clique, no longer accepting others to join and looking out only for themselves. Mindful of their need for popular support from their Copenhagen neighbors, Christianians are working to connect better with the rest of society. Its residents now pool their money, creating a fund to pay for utilities and city taxes (about $1 million a year) and an annual budget of about $1 million to run their local affairs.