COPENHAGEN — I’d never been to an opera. I don’t know Italian. I don’t know Danish. I don’t  know the story of Falstaff, although I remembered to nod several times as Courtenay tried to fill me in. But there I was sitting in a well-dressed crowd of several hundred Danes watching a Saturday afternoon performance of Falstaff, the opera, performed in Italian, with Danish subtitles flickering across the top of the stage.

And yet it was, even for me, a pretty good show.

The Copenhagen Opera House is an impressive building. From the outside, coming across the water on one of my beloved harbor buses, it looked a little like a fencing mask, with narrow belts of metal lining the windows. The reception area was full of light, with amazing views of downtown Copenhagen and up and down the colorful waterfront.

The stage and three tiers of seating were all inside a huge, heart-shaped structure made of beautiful mahogany. The acoustics were amazing. I’m not the guy you ought to turn to for a cogent review of the individual performances, but the Falstaff character, an American, had a great physical presence, he made you smile just to look at him, although there were a few others whose singing voices had more power.

The sets were impressive, the costumes were strong, too. I don’t know what the hell happened, exactly, but there tricks played on Falstaff, tricks played on other main characters, and it all ended pretty much on a high note. *

And then we rode the harbor bus home.

*(I told Courtenay she should have been the one to blog about the opera, but she’s asleep.)

COPENHAGEN — We’ve fallen behind in our writing, having so stuffed our days with museums and food and walking that we’ve had no energy when we’ve returned home to the Hotel D’Angleterre.

Roskilde, the ancient village that was at the center of the Viking era and remains one of the holiest, most important sites in Denmark, is less than thirty minutes from downtown Copenhagen. It is a quiet, pretty little town, with a stunning cathedral that sits on a rise in the center of Roskilde. Inside, below the soaring ceilings, lie the ornate caskets of all of Danish royalty.

Outside the cathedral, through the old trees and quaint houses, you can see streaks of blue, the first glimpses of the protected harbor that was so important to the Vikings. We walked down the hill to lunch at the edge of the harbor, and then on to the Viking Ship Museum, where they have the remarkable remains of six original Viking ships. The Vikings apparently had deliberately scuttled these ships in an effort to block one of the access points to the harbor, and keep invaders out. The Viking Ship Museum is in an uninspiring concrete bunker,but the restored ships, with their scarred wood, were amazing. Outside the museum was a row of seagoing replica ships, built to the actual dimensions of the originals, constructed all by hand, just like the Vikings. A crew had sailed the largest of the ships, a long narrow battleship, all the way to Ireland. On our visit, that ship was up on blocks in the winter grass, a lone man sanding on its stern.

A day later we were wandering through the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, an international attraction and one of Denmark’s most popular museums. It sits about forty minutes north of Copenhagen, looking out over the Oresund, the sound, towards Sweden. The setting is beautiful, with a sculpture garden that sits on the bluff overlooking the water. The exhibits and the museum were intentionally disorienting, with a collection of “Optic” art that plays tricks on your eyes and brain, and a “Fire and Snow” exhibit that included strangely moving videos, including one of a young girl, Ruth, trying to copy a Picasso. (You had to be there.)

Last night we had one of our most memorable dinners ever, traveling twenty minutes or so north of Copenhagen to Den Rode Cottage, a tiny restaurant of eight tables or so situated in a dark forest of trees. We were there almost three hours, eating small, perfectly prepared dishes and watching the lights of fishing boats move slowly across the sound.

COPENHAGEN — Courtenay likes trains. I like the door-to-door convenience of cabs, especially when I’m tired.

Wherever we go, inevitably, there will be a small argument about the way to go.

It’s over now, though. There is only one way to travel, at least in Copenhagen: Harbor bus.

We caught our first one today, outside the Copenhagen library, a muscular-looking bright yellow boat that seated around thirty or forty people. We shared it with a group of five-year-olds out on a field trip, all of them snug in their Danish snowsuits. They ran to the back of the boat, gathering below the Denmark flag that snapped in the breeze, and stood gripping the rail and watching the boat wake as we sped north on the canal.

They loved it, and so did I, speeding the mile or two so up the canal to the stop at the Nyhavn wharf, outside the Danish Royal Playhouse, saving us another tiring 30-minute walk. There was sunshine and great views of the Opera House and other landmarks, there were no subway crazies, no surly cab driver, and no cost. The Harbor Bus is free with our Copenhagen Travel Cards.

We got off at Nyhavn, but all those kids stayed on board. The last I saw of them they were looking back at me, still gripping that back rail, enjoying the ride.

Portland needs a Harbor Bus.

COPENHAGEN — Note to self — you only start to feel yourself after your third night in a new country — Woke up feeling great this morning and had a wonderful breakfast at a large window watching Copenhagers bike-commuting to work. We are staying on the large central square, Kongens Nytorv, which is currently a vast construction site with huge cranes and sad barriers trying to conceal the  subway construction project underway, but that didn’t affect the wonderful people-watching. Unlike in Portland, where bike commuters seem to be either a) heavily-tattooed militants just hoping to trick a driver into misbehaving and then pounding wildly on the top of their car and hoping for a good chain fight or b) sleek psychedelic-colored, lycra-clad speed freaks with hips the width of my left knee, here in Copenhagen EVERYONE seems to bike commute. A swank middle aged woman (we figured she ran an art gallery) with a coffee cup in one hand and a cell phone in the other, yes, talking on it; a portly man (accountant?) in his navy rain coat; a young woman in high-heeled boots and a determined look on her face (aspiring lawyer?); an elderly woman with no helmet and the same black upright bike with a front basket and baby seat behind that everyone seems to ride. And the occasional tourist dragging their suitcases over the cobbled sidewalk. It just made you want to get out and get one of those bikes and join one of their stories as they hurtled off to work…

Well, we decided to hurtle off to the Fredericksborg Castle instead, on a super convenient commuter train (which left on its one-hour trip north every TEN MINUTES!) Lordy, the street car in Portland doesn’t even come every 20 minutes, what is it about once an hour now? We sat in a QUIET CAR (loving the caps today, sorry) — yes, a section of the train that had a sealed door so that no one inside could TALK ON THEIR CELL PHONE, or sing along with their iPod, or mutter to themselves, or carry on an inane conversation in the seat next door. It was pure silent bliss as we sped northwest to the fantastisk (favorite Danish word of the day) 16th-17th century Renaissance castle built by our favorite new King, Christian IV. This party animal, who rocked the English court of King James I in the early 17th century with his wild drinking and fantastisk Danish ships, built some of the most memorable landmarks in Denmark, including the Rosenborg Castle we visited yesterday that so impressed Rick with its boring furniture. I think that was the adjective he used. Anyhow, this picturesque, copper-turreted brick castle, set on a lake with the view of a lovely Baroque garden across the water, contains the national picture gallery, with a wonderful tour through Danish history as you walked through its ornately decorated rooms. Christian IV was larger than life, portly, and wore a signature rat-tail braid straggling down from behind his left ear. So Portlandia. He ruled at the height of Danish power, apparently spent most of their money, and it was all downhill from there. Well, I exaggerate, but it’s late and I’m tired and I want to get up early again tomorrow to watch the bike commuters.

Last note – best meal of the the trip so far at a Chinese-French fusion restaurant called The Red Box. A family-owned place, it is apparently run by a collective of chefs who hail from all over China and southeast Asia, who have honed their dishes over the past six years to appeal to a Danish palate. Highly recommended. The next time you are in Copenhagen, also highly recommended.

No word from Will tonight, so I’m sad. And we got a photo of Pippy from Angie and Rick claims Pippy looks sad and misses him. Actually, I think he has it backwards. But Rick, at least, had a good dinner. Tomorrow early — we try out a Danish gym!!!

COPENHAGEN–So we woke up Sunday morning, early again, after only four or five hours of sleep. Courtenay tried to persuade me to go running, and only later, long after I vetoed the idea because of the cold and fog outside, and went back to sleep, did I realize that she meant running in the hotel gym on treadmills. Anyway, we didn’t run anywhere.

We did, however, end up walking a long way. We finished breakfast and hit the road well before 9 a.m., which turned out to be a mistake. Our morning destination, Rosenborg Castle, didn’t open until 10. We wandered the chilly streets to the northeast of our hotel, through the empty square in the center of the Amalienborg Palace, where we had the place to ourselves except for a half dozen of the Queen’s guards, made up in ceremonial garb, and a small group of Thai tourists. We also went by the great dome of Frederik’s Church, also known as the Marble Church, for its rococo architecture.

We were trying to kill time, but the time was killing us. It seemed like we’d walk and walk, check our phones, and discover that only a few minutes had passed. We walked through the gardens of Rosenborg Castle, which are supposed to be one of Copenhagen’s most visited places, occupied by some three million or so Danes a year, but not, it seems, in late winter at 9 the morning on a Sunday. We were out there with three or four shivering dog walkers. No Labradors, either.

Anyway, by now it was still only 9:10 or something like that, the clock just wouldn’t move. We walked around and past the castle to the Geology Museum, which seemed too bleak and boring to enter, even if it was open. We went on to the Botanical Garden, which sounded good, but again, it turns out that any kind of outside garden isn’t all that amazing in a Northern European country in March. There were signs marking all kinds of great plants and flowers that will make their appearances months after we go home. There were warm-looking greenhouses full of plants at the perimeter of the Botanical Garden, but they weren’t open to the public. It seemed wrong to break in and try to warm up.

So we went back to Rosenborg Castle and waited with a tour bus or two that emptied out some more Thai tourists. Eventually we got to go into the castle, which was beautiful on the outside, and garishly furnished and decked out in the inside. We saw some crown jewels, some weapons, some tapestries, a lot of pretty ugly furniture, and hit the road again, this time for the nearby Danish National Art Museum.

It didn’t open until 11. It was 10:50 or so by this time, and we stood in front watching Danish kids rumble around in their obligatory snow suits, which are always too big, and often kind of dirty and scruffy.

Standing there after two hours in the cold, I only wished they had my size.

The art museum was truly impressive. It was loaded with the best of Danish and Northern European art dating back to before the 1600s. There were also works by great Italian and French artists. It wasn’t crowded, the art was amazing, and we had a really nice time.

Afterwards, we wandered to a well-known local deli called Aaaman’s, and had some more cold smorrebrod, the open-faced sandwiches that Copenhagen in known for.

Then, more walking. Past the lakes that form a loose belt around the central city of Copenhagen, part of a former ramparts that protected the city. And then into the Norrebro neighborhood, where there was a street sale going on, sort of an Albany-style “Crazy Days,” with mostly used junk, including little kids sitting on the sidewalk selling their used toys.

As the fog burned away and the sun came out, we walked  to Assistens Cemetery, a huge urban cemetery where famous people such as Hans Christian Anderson and Soren Kierkegaard are buried. The cemetery was both burial place and public park, and was full of hundreds of people out with their families, pushing strollers, enjoying the Sunday. We’d never seen a happier, more joyful cemetery.

We walked some more before bravely catching a bus and coming back to the hotel. I slept for an hour or so before dinner. Courtenay went to a nearby grocery store. We had a very nice dinner at Geist, a well known Copenhagen place, and now, at only 9 p.m., Courtenay has fallen asleep next to me as I write this. This long, slow Sunday is finally over.