The Joys of Travelling, Part I

aka For Want of a Danish Hotdog.


Sometime around 7:55, on the morning of June 16, 2010, in Terminal C of Coppenhagen International Airport the name Daniel Potts was being mispronounced over the loud speaker. I know this because because around, 8:05 am Danish time (GMT +1), I arrived to Gate 18 to see the pressurized door to Air Baltic Flight 132, departing at 8:00 am, being sealed for takeoff. Around 8:07, an embarrased 'Daniel Putz' retraced his steps, with significantly smaller strides, through Terminal C, Terminal B, and the maze of tax-free Lego sets, Carlsberg beer novelties, and Swiss Annie's Fine Chocolates.

After two seperate transfer desks and an hour and a half of patient waiting, successive ranks of Scandinavian Airways and Air Baltic superiors confirmed the fact, that, yes, the Copenhagen to Riga 8:05 am Air Baltic flight was an illegal transfer. My transfer failed to allot the 45 min. required at Int'l Airports, a well known wirt of Sky Law. And since I had purchased my ticket through a third party, j'accuse- Kayak.com, it became clear that neither Scandanavian Airlines or Air Baltic was resposible for arranging, or paying, for my transfer.

By 10:10 am, with all 17.5 kilos of my worldly possessions strapped to my back, I set off to purchase a new ticket to Moscow. And even though I still begrudge all Danes for the injustice of mispronouncing my name, I must say that the verdant spaces, and vaulted stainless steel terminals, did provide a strange peace to me, the waylayed traveller. The etymological significance of utopia soon proved painfully apt, as I was informed that the Aeroflot terminal's computer ticketing system was down, meaning that the one person staffing the desk, would have to arrange all new booking by phone with another office, and then have the information sent to her through a pre-AOL dial up modem, with Windows 95 OS.

With the obligatory socializing that accompanies indeterminate waiting peroids, I made a new acquaintance, Valerya, whose trip home had been sabatoged by a mis-set alarm clock. Through a conversation utlizing the two parites intermediate to advanced English-Russian language skills, our conversation quickly carried from commisseration, to education, to secret career hopes exchanged among strangers, and the glorious and demanding vocation of the ballet.

After paying for my new flight, in crisp Danish crowns, I decided to feast with the rest of my coin, and Valerya, the Russian ballerina, had the perfect suggestion. After my travails, I took great pleasure in throwing down my foriegn coin to pay for my meal (a joy denyed to Americans), like a medieval pilgrim in a poorly lit pub. As I lunched on a Danish hotdog, with mustard, ketchup, Danish remoulade sauce, and french fried onions appropriated from a holdiay green bean cassarole, Valerya expounded on the superior quality of Danish meats and the pervasive fear of GMO foods that unites friend and foe alike in the greater EU region. Once settled on my Aeroflot flight, an hour later, I utilized a copy of Konsomolskaya Pravda as a Hoover blanket, and fell fast asleep.

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