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dreams

Surf’s up!

I’ve been in utter lust with all things surfing as far back as I can remember. However, it was my choice to make ours a long-distance relationship; I worshipped board-carrying athletes from afar. How I wanted to learn! However, the barriers against me were too formidable.

First off, you have to do this sport in the arch enemy of females: a bathing suit. That precluded me from attempting it for all of my teen years and throughout my twenties.

Body issues aside, my thirties made me wiser. This meant that instead of admitting the truth (fear was making me too terrified to even try it), my reasons to avoid learning became more clever. I’d offer up seemingly rational excuses like not having health insurance, the time and costs involved or, something that anyone can understand: not wanting to humiliate myself. Under my “reasonable” exterior was a scared-y cat. These justifications allowed me to put aside any thoughts of me surfing. Still, I loved the sport. Often I went to the beach and watched, I took in surf movies, but my relationship remained a long-distance one. And so it seemed destined to always be. Until “fate” intervened.

They say that one can often find courage when he leaves his “normal” environment. I am proof of that. Vacationing in Indonesia, board rentals and lessons were only a few bucks. Finally I had summoned up the courage: the waves were perfect and no one knew me here. The day had arrived! I was so excited (and scared). While walking on a plank in the road, it gave way and I hurt my shin. It wasn’t going to happen this trip after all. Worse yet, I had myself believing that it was a “sign” from above to never try this hazardous sport. My love got shelved.

Two years later, I was again on holiday, but this time in Mancora, a lovely beach town in Peru. I was doing what I do well. Sitting on the sand and observing the amazing athletes. Something caught my eye. A teensy bikini-clad girl, lugging a board that was bigger than she was, ran past me. Fearless, she dove into the ocean, paddled out and waited for the wave. She looked so confident and regal atop her surfboard. I couldn’t believe it. That little girl was keeping up with the much older and more experienced guys! She inspired me so much that I decided to get a lesson, even as my sage self reiterated old obstacles, pointing out that she was young and limber.

Melo, my gorgeous instructor was charming, but his promise that “If you don’t stand up, you don’t have to pay” clinched the deal.

He made the whole thing like a fun adventure. The moment that I stood up remains one of my happiest memories.

“Yessssss!” I screamed. Ah, shoot. Now I’d have to pay the owner.

Melo looked at me and beamed. He high-fived me, “Mi Reina!”

Could it be that I was a natural? The next time, when I almost kicked Melo in the face, I realized he was behind me, holding the board, stabilizing it for me. We both had a good laugh.

Without his assistance, it was much harder. After a few tumbles, I did eventually get the hang of it and was able to stand up on my own. The peacefulness, the sense of accomplishment, the feeling of being one with the ocean. The moments that I am surfing are the most liberating I have ever known.

When surfing, you are forced to be in the moment. If you start to let all that monkey chatter take over, you lose your concentration and go down. You could crash against rocks or bam into another surfer. Surfers die every year; I don’t want to be one of them.

Admittedly, as much as I had enjoyed our long-distance relationship, this new development takes my love with surfing to a whole new dimension. To have overcome the self-made obstacles at middle age makes the entire affair even sweeter. I recommend surfing to anyone. It’s a road to a freedom that so many never get to experience.

About the author: JC Sullivan has been to over 110 countries and every continent and loves the freedom found in backpacking. Since Peru, she’s surfed in Panama and the Galapagos Islands (Isabella). An award-winning author, JC constantly challenges herself creatively believing that comfort zone is a euphemism for “rut”.

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LosAngeles2008I consider myself a city person. It’s perhaps the beautiful skylines and countless things to do that attracts me to these areas with huge, dominant buildings. London, Rio de Janeiro, Barcelona, Macau, Tokyo, and Paris are just a few of the international city destinations that I hope to be able to cross off my bucket list in the section of “Places I Absolutely, No Question, Need to Visit”. And while I hope to be able to spend equal amounts of time in all of these locations, there’s one destination a bit closer to home that I wish to stay in a bit longer. That place? Los Angeles, California. This may seem surprising to some, as it is very uncommon to hear, “I really need a vacation, I should go to Los Angeles!” The more likely travel location for the average overworked American would probably be somewhere with white sands, big seas, and colorful margaritas. In my case, however, I feel as though I have a special connection with this famous (and infamous) town where dreams are born (and often times “reconsidered”).

I’m from Seattle, Washington, a well-known city in the United States. Seattle, and the state of Washington as a whole for that matter, has a popular reputation for its rain. While the rain does impact the state during the majority of the year, summers here are absolutely gorgeous, and are usually rain-free. Los Angeles, on the other hand, has perhaps an opposite reputation, in that it’s almost always nice weather year-round. I’m not an enormous fan of the rain, so in my ideal future, I would spend much of my year in Los Angeles, while enjoying a bit of the summer months back in my hometown. I’m currently a college student who interests include all things media. I have a fascination with the art of movies, television, and popular culture, which is why Los Angeles is more than perfect for someone with my tastes. I have such a passion for wanting to see all of the things I see on screen in person, and in order to accomplish that, I have to spend much of my time in this city. All of the cameras and lights entice me and really drive me to work my hardest to be able to call that my daily surroundings.

It has always been one of my missions in life to spend time doing what I love to do, and one of the unsaid requirements in being able to do those things is being located in a place that interests me. I’ve been to L.A. twice in my life, and during those two times, I knew that there would be more for me to do every single time I would come back to the city. Los Angeles may not be the conventional getaway location for most Americans, but this city is somewhere that I feel I belong. It’s as though it is calling me to go there, and one day, I will gladly answer that call. The times in my life that I have spent traveling have just begun, and I am absolutely ready to go on those journeys.

-Jonathan Keyes

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BOGOTAA heart strives off of dreams and encouragement in life. Whether someone believes they have a dream or not, everybody has hopes and desires. Despite the amazing truth in this, we still let so many things get in the way of us and our dreams. We don’t go out and explore the world or seek to help others accomplish their dreams in the way that we should either. I was lucky enough to experience the joy of traveling and serving others once and I am determined to return again someday.

My name is Cheyenne and 13 months ago, I went on a short term mission’s trip to Bogota, Colombia. I had been looking forward to this trip for quite some time yet when the time actually came, I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to help or serve. It was not that I didn’t want to travel. I simply was afraid to go to another country. What if the language was too much of a barrier? What if I could not handle saying goodbye when the time came? What if I or somebody else going was injured or killed while we were down there? I knew my fears sounded ridiculous but I couldn’t rid myself of the thoughts. I tried my hardest to get out of the trip the night before we were to leave but it was pointless. I had already paid and there were people counting on me.

As the plane took off and we stopped on the way, my mind raced. I slept; I wrote. I prayed and I cried. I could not understand why I was so nervous. As we landed in Bogota and stepped off of the plane, we were greeted by unusually warm weather and a very kind man. The orphanage that we would be working with for those 10 days is called Children’s Vision International and it was started decades back by a woman named Jeanene Thicke. Some years after moving from Wisconsin, United States to Bogota, Colombia, she married a wonderful man named Richard. This was the man that met us at the airport Can you imagine marrying someone in a foreign country who already had about 50 children!? It may seem insane to us but I respect them both so much for their love and courage and dedication throughout the years.

The ride to the orphanage was crazy. Rich drove us in a bus and in the same crazy way as the rest of the drivers. He explained that you see plenty of cars but the most popular form of transportation is by motorcycle because you can weave between cars and there is less chance of being robbed while on the road.

As the days passed by and we would get up every morning at eight to work, it became a blessing instead of an obligation. We played games and bonded with the children. We baked with Jeanene and helped out at the school. We took trips to the local shops, markets, and the mall in the afternoons and bonded with each other as well. The days were busy but they went by so quickly. I was learning a lot but I don’t think that the truth of the circumstances down there had really sunk in yet. If not, it most certainly did that last Saturday there.

A few days before we left, we took a trip up to a mountain. A couple of the children from the orphanage had formed a group to put on skits and others came along simply to help. We went to distribute food and water to the people that lived on the mountain. There was a family of 12 living in a 3 bedroom house that the husband made himself out of wood. They’re bathroom was a hole in the ground with a toilet seat over it. There was another family with a one room house and a new born baby. They had a fridge, a sink, a couple of toys, and one bed. That was all. It really hit me then how blessed we truly are in America – how blessed I am.
Bogota may be a place of poverty and I may not speak the language but no place has ever touched my heart the same. I had always wanted to travel even before that trip but now I am determined to return there as well as travel other places over the years. I want to learn and experience in new ways and help others reach their goals and dreams in the process. I encourage everyone to take a trip to another country, even if it is only for a week or two. It will amaze you how much you can learn simply through travel.

About the Author: My name is Cheyenne Katsma and I am originally from Wisconsin but am currently attending college in Illinois. I am a secondary English Education major but would love to do anything with writing as well.

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travelpicWhere do I feel inspired? It doesn’t have a name. I can only describe the region of space to you. Sometimes this place has four or more walls. The enclosure changes shape and size by the hour. When the temporary barriers finish serving their purpose, they transform into oak trees, mountain ranges, or another face of nature. The scenery around me tends to blend together and make me sleepy. I drift into a dream. My eyes provide no use for me here. Neither do my limbs or my organs or my teeth. Where I go while my body sleeps must stay a secret. For a few REM cycles each night, I know I live in a land without boundaries or expectations.

Once I wake up, I refuse to move before I remember that I don’t need to repeat what I did yesterday. My life at night prepares me for an existence on the edge. I shake off the dust and notice the walls I saw a day ago have shifted their moods. Some appear welcoming with blinding light. Others continue to hold on to the evening that enveloped them. If I spot a window, I gaze beyond the glass. I keep at my pre-breakfast brooding until I register my reflection and morning breath. Out there, in here. Both mean the same thing. I determine their worth. I decide what to take and what to return. I own no coordinates.

In this tangible world of mine, an assortment of actors perform their roles. I never expect much as an adult. If they happen to speak my language, friendship can blossom and persist for ages. A rare event. I get overwhelmed with possibilities and miss opportunities. I drown in thought. When a muse does choose to sing its siren song, I exhaust myself trying to connect with the force by focusing on all components of the moment. I botch most attempts. Logic fails me here. These particular instances possess the qualities of a solid, but I would have better luck if I grasped at vapor. The other bits still exist, but my interactions with them usually dissolve into muted moods or sense data. Perhaps I should give up searching, wandering. The impulse to create appears to disappear as frustration grows…

A sudden burst of insight sprouts from my brain! The rule reveals itself: every minute has the potential to mutate paths and impact the direction of my footsteps. Why chain my mind to time? Or details? I cannot tolerate a marionette fate controlled by money, weather, and no trespassing signs. I crave motion. I think I understand the reason for my triangulation. Shall I call my newfound discovery “freedom”? Labeling a phenomenon brought on by a random firing of synapses with a word like that could throw me off course. The architectural or geological surroundings seem to matter little. The biological bond always triumphs. The camaraderie that develops between beings who will and desire love and acceptance outlasts the duration of any organism. Wherever this link occurs, you might find me.

About the Author: Zachary Tipton lives somewhere between the Redwoods and the Rocky Mountains. He spends most of his free time writing music and short stories. He also enjoys painting portraits of famous figures and family members.

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Prevention Magazine January 2014
Prevention Magazine January 2014
Prevention Magazine January 2014

Thank you to Prevention Magazine for including me in their “Go For It” section for January 2014!

“Staying active is my passport to adventure.”

Lisa Niver Rajna, 45

Teacher, travel writer

When the travel industry went into a tailspin after 9/11, I lost my job as a senior assistant cruise director. Heartbroken over the fact that my days of traveling had come to an end, I wound up back at home, consoling myself with ice cream and chocolate-covered almonds. I was at my heaviest when I met my future husband, George Rajna. George had spent two years in the Peace Corps and was always looking for his next adventure. I quickly realized that it was time for me to get back in shape—for me, for him, and for all of the amazing trips we could take together. We started hiking on the weekends, and I cleaned up my eating habits. Within a year I’d shed 28 pounds, and felt ready to take on the world. Since then, George and I have traveled to 24 countries, started our own website, We Said Go Travel, and published a memoir of our first sabbatical, Traveling in Sin. One of my favorite memories is trekking in Nepal. After four days of walking uphill through rain, sunshine, and up endless stairs, I realized we made it to Ghorepani. As I communed with the tall mountains, I realized I can do anything. 

Thank you to everyone involved for including me in the “Go For It” Section! I really appreciate it! I hope you buy a copy of the magazine today! Personally I cannot wait to hold it in my hands and read it out loud! Did you see me in First for Women Magazine? Check it out here! I loved the photo shoot!

WATCH: Traveling In Sin Book Trailer

 

new zealandI was in familiar territory. In the words of our bus driver who was playing tour guide, on my left was low grass while much farther on my right was Mount Cook, New Zealand’s tallest mountain. “Now isn’t that a lovely view, ladies and gentlemen?” he asked over his microphone. Yes it is, I thought.

We entered a fork in the road and came to a small town. All along the main street were the usual – a general store, a bakery, restaurants and cafés.

The bus stopped and our driver turned to us. “All right, this is Tekapo. We’re stopping here for a while then it’s off to the lake but if anyone wants to walk there, I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.” I left in a flash.

I had first come to New Zealand when I was twelve. My parents packed my brothers and I into a plane and upon landing at Christchurch, rented a bright yellow Mazda 323 and drove us all over the country. For that reason alone, I thought my parents were the coolest old people around. They still are.

It was late afternoon when we arrived at Lake Tekapo back then. We were headed for Mount Cook when my father, who had been driving for hours, took that same fork in the road. “There’s a very nice lake here where we can stop for a while,” he said.

This ‘very nice lake’ had the most crystal clear water I had ever seen. It took my breath away. My twelve-year-old eyes had never seen such beauty- the way the sunlight reflected on the surface and how turquoise blue the water was. And beyond this lake, far away, was a row of mountains, their peaks covered in snow.

“What is this lake, Papa?” I asked.
“This is Lake Tekapo. Do you like it?”
“I love it!” I cried, my voice cracking with joy.

There was a sort of ledge nearby so I sat down after a while. I noticed a small stone house and a statue of a dog but had no idea what they were. I don’t remember how long we stayed there but it seemed like ages. A child doesn’t need to worry about time.

“We have to go,” my mum finally called. “We don’t want to reach Mount Cook too late, it can get really cold there.” And so we left.

I was still thinking of the lake when we reached Mount Cook. In our freezing motel that night, I asked my dad for his guidebook and read about the area.

I learnt that we were in a region called the Mackenzie Country, named after a sheep rustler called James Mackenzie. The statue was a tribute to the loyal sheepdogs that had helped shepherds in the area. The stone hut was the Church of the Good Shepherd and was built in 1935. And of course there was the lake itself. I saw a photo of Lake Tekapo and knew I had to go back one day.

And this was where I was headed, eighteen years later.

I had scrambled out of the bus as soon as our driver said we could get to the lake on foot. Fifteen minutes. Is that long enough? I thought, tripping over my feet.

The road towards the lake went up a slope. There were yellow and purple wildflowers growing on both sides and I stopped to pick some for my mother, who presses flowers in her books. I hurried on. It shouldn’t be too far now.

Then the road disappeared and a familiar blue hit my eyes. The surface of Lake Tekapo, which I now knew was covered with fine rock dust carved by glaciers in the Alps, sparkled in the afternoon sun. The water was as blue as I remembered it. My heart soared and suddenly I was no longer the adult who had quit her job to travel. I was twelve again.

When our bus left Queenstown that morning, I had wondered whether my memory of the lake was accurate or if my childish brain had simply been high from being on holiday. I still have the notebook I wrote all those years ago and under ‘Lake Tekapo’ was: ‘Oh wow it was really cool! The view was so beautiful!!!’ That was all I had written.

But my memory of the place had been accurate. I hadn’t been very eloquent, but maybe eloquence was unnecessary.

A familiar sound reached my ears. It was our bus rumbling up the slope.

The bus stopped by the lake for less than ten minutes, just enough time for us to pose and take photographs.

As he drove away from Lake Tekapo, our bus driver said: “Now wasn’t that lovely, ladies and gentlemen?”

Oh yes, it was.

About the AuthorAnis Ibrahim is a freelance writer from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. She worked as a journalist for nine years and has a regular travel column in the New Sunday Times. Follow her on her blog, Five Feet Flat or on Twitter: @AnisIbrahim

rsz_41085_445034436472_765831472_4816738_7445814_n‘If you had only one wish, what would it be?’
I’d wish the plane wouldn’t crash.

Of course that is not my answer. Marc, the guy I met ten minutes ago, doesn’t need to know that I’m afraid of airplanes, and that I am having a panic attack as we speak.

He needs to hear about my plans to become a worldwide known writer, or maybe to meet the love of my life, or maybe about world peace and stuff like that. Yes, that’s what I should talk to him about.
‘Uhmm… I don’t know. What about you?’

He says something, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking I could have answered anything, but I didn’t. Why? Because I’m scared. I’m afraid that if I told him a wish, maybe the universe would hear it and make it happen and I’m not sure I’d like to spend my only wish that easily.
*
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to LAX Airport. Local time is 6:15 AM and the temperature is 93 degrees Fahrenheit.’
The pilot welcomes us to Los Angeles. My heart slows down to its normal beat.
‘How much would that be in Celsius?’
’93 Fahrenheit must be around 32 to 33 Celsius.’
‘Thanks.’

I’m making small talk, trying to erase the memory of me asking the stewardess for tomato juice, while Marc was talking about his dreams.

Marc is from the UK, I’m from Greece and the only thing we have in common is the fact that we both flew from Heathrow to LAX. I don’t know anything about him and he doesn’t know anything about me. I don’t even know the reason he took this trip. We just shared the experience of flying over the Atlantic Ocean for seven hours in a tin can.
*dPeople come and go, they come and go, come and go… Half of them are in a hurry, the other half looking for something. Where they’re going to pick up their luggage from, where they’re going to meet their loved ones, were the taxi rank is… Nobody is waiting for me, I‘ve already picked up my suitcase from the baggage claim, and I’m pretty sure that I will find a taxi right outside these automatic doors. In the meantime I’m enjoying a banana-strawberry smoothie and watching people as they pass me by. I open my handbag, take out a notepad I bought at Heathrow and start writing. My handwriting on every first page is always exquisite. Then you turn that page over and start wondering how my notepads turned up in the hands of a drunken doctor.
What would happen if each and every passerby had a speech bubble over their head, like the ones in comic books, conveying their dream in life? Would we help them live it, would we laugh at them, would we rule them out as potential life partners?

I’m reading what I just wrote. I will never be a writer.
‘Nephelay?’
I know it’s Marc, before I look up. That is because he pronounced my name wrong and also because I don’t know anyone else in this country.

‘E. Nephele.’

‘Nephele.’

‘There you go.’
‘Are you waiting for someone?’
‘No, I’m just… sitting here.’

Do you want to go get some coffee or something?’
Coffee? Why would he want to have coffee with me?

d 2He’s standing right in front of me, holding his suitcase. Behind him, the automatic doors open and close, letting in the sunlight, that brings out the shape of his body. I keep looking at him and start actually seeing him. He’s tall, with brown hair and loose curls that hide his dark green eyes and a body naturally fit and not after hours at the gym. He is handsome and English, which means that every word coming out of his lips sounds like an invitation to the 18th century. Maybe coffee isn’t such a bad idea.
*
Half an hour later, we’re having coffee at the outdoor area of the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza, where I’m going to be staying for the next ten days. I find out that Marc works at a worldwide known publishing company and spends half his time in the UK and half in the USA. I don’t know what kind of game fate is playing with me, but I’m ready for it.
‘Do you want to take a look at something and tell me what you think?’
‘Sure.’

I show him what I wrote at the airport. As he reads, I gaze at his eyes, his hands and the crooked smile starting to form on his lips. I really like him.

I lean my head back, close my eyes and let the sun shed its red light upon my darkness.
I wish to feel like this more often.

About the Author: Dafni Mathioudaki is an aspiring writer from Greece. She studied in the Hellenic Cinema and Television School Stavrakos and over the years she took many creative writing courses. She also worked as a copywriter, find her on Facebook and Twitter.

Did your first trip with a new partner not go well?

Don’t worry!

Neither did ours!

Read all about it in the CHICAGO TRIBUNE!

Now-experienced Los Angeles traveler Lisa Niver Rajna remembers checking into a hotel on her first trip with her future husband, George, (who booked it) and hearing a dog barking. Later, they saw a dog in a car outside the hotel. Yep, it was a hotel that welcomed dogs — and every room seemed to have one. Neither cared for the noise, the smell or the dogs themselves. Bad start.

Then they had a fight about her weight, which was dropping but apparently not fast enough.

“I thought, this is it, we’re going to have to cancel our trip to Fiji this summer because this is never going to work,” Niver Rajna says. “(But) we found our sense of humor, went wine tasting, found a hot tub and made it through the weekend.”

Read the whole article.

A sunset at Falealupo, Savaii, Samoa.

When I travel, I imagine that I am talking to strangers from a different culture and that I witness different lives to learn about those same lives, but in reality I always reach hidden treasures; insights into my own reality and dreams. Sometimes the action of travel teaches me about myself: I learn to locate my destinations via public transportation in Beijing at night, I determine how to proceed while visiting Taipei, or perhaps that I really might eat fried cricket in Chiang Mai.

I can be bold, courageous and full of adventure. I know because I have succeeded in these endeavors. In The Good Girl’s Guide to Getting Lost Rachel Friedman states, “…sometimes travel and being adventurous do not fit with the model I hold of myself, …but it does not coexist with how I picture myself—a sheltered, scared, predictable kind of girl, definitely not a girl who has adventures. I come from rooted people; people who prefer chlorinated bodies of water and career paths.”

Travel allows us all to step out of “normal” life, to see other cultures, meet people, learn languages—learn about others while learning about ourselves.

This same opportunity is available to us through our daily calendar: we can question if our current routines are what we actually want to follow. Again, as Ms. Friedman says: “What’s the right way to go about … our lives? Should you do what you love, what’s outrageous and unpredictable, and worry about the future later? Or plug away at a steady job first and go off and have your fun when you retire?”

Elisabeth Eaves, in Wanderlust: A Love Affair with Five Continents,tells tales of love, misadventure and wringing every second of life out of every moment. She says:

My life wouldn’t be so easy to fix. I’d woken up at the age of thirty-four to realize that I wanted to go home, only to discover that I had no idea where that was. Wanderlust, the very strong or irresistible impulse to travel, is adopted untouched from the German, presumably because it couldn’t be improved upon.
Celebrating at the Vegetarian Festival in Trang, Thailand.

Her challenges seem much greater while living in varied locales like Cairo, Karachi, a boat shed, or surviving on the Kokoda Trail, compared to those I surmounted on my year trip in South East Asia with my husband, George. But her comments do remind me of our journey; “It was the place that had showed me, for the first time, that when you were somewhere else, you could be someone else.”

Her questions about life are important to me this time of year as I reflect on Rosh Hashannah (the Jewish New Year) and what will I do with the year ahead? What are my goals and what should they be?

Are we obligated to know the important events of our time? Or is the whole project of knowing, of being part of a society, neither moral nor immoral, but just away to pass the time? Is it enough to do no harm to the world, or do you have to contribute too? I wanted to go toward the man-made heat and light, the cultural center, the heart of civilization. At the same time, I didn’t want to get off the boat. (Wanderlust)

So take a moment to hug the ones you love and fill your days with meaning. Maybe this year you’ll decide to wear white for Yom Kippur; a white ribbon, pin, bracelet or shirt may remind you to stop and smell the roses and fill your soul with moments that take your breath away.

Author’s Notes:
This article first appeared in Westside Today September 24, 2011. I decided to share it for the Jewish New Year and I hope all your dreams and goals come true. Please consider participating in my #45×45 Do Good Birthday Solar Cooker Project. One person really can make a difference!

George and I wish everyone a wonderful sweet New Year filled with health, happiness and adventure!! Enjoy this video of song for the New Year:

The Grand Danois hot dog is available from Andersen Bakery, across from the
Grand Danois all-pork hot dogs at Andersen Bakery in Copenhagen
Grand Danois all-pork hot dogs at Andersen Bakery

Copenhagen has countless virtues, but who knew one of them would be a hot dog?

Andersen Bakery, located on the edge of the historic Tivoli amusement park, has a main store for sales of pastries and baked goods, but take note of its demure walk-in extension. This is where we found the meaty goodness of the Grand Danois, a hot dog worthy of its name.

According to the display sign, the organic pork sausage from the Danish island of Bornholm is “Topped with organic ketchup, mustard from Bornholm, handmade remoulade, handmade crispy onions and homepickled cucumbers.”

 

Three options

My husband and I sat on bar stools at the tiny window counter, and we critiqued the hot dog’s virtues. The soft bun was lightly toasted. The slightly chewy meat had a perfect porky, smokey, hammy flavor. The toppings combined salty, crunchy, tangy, zippy and creamy. Best. Hot. Dog. Ever.

The smoked salmon sandwich at the Café Glyptotek in Copenhagen
The smoked salmon sandwich at the Café Glyptotek

The experience was so pleasing that after we went to Mikkeller microbrewery for a few pints of craft beer, we walked back to Andersen Bakery to eat two more Grand Danois.

If you want a little change up on the bun and toppings, try The French. It is the same organic pork sausage, but it comes in a wholegrain baguette and includes homemade French dressing.

Pork is my passion, but if you prefer beef, try The Bulldog. This organic halal veal and beef sausage has the same toppings as the Grand Danois.

 

Salmon and sculptures

If, by some tragedy, these hot dogs do not completely satisfy you, walk around the perimeter of Tivoli to Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek. Not only does this art museum offer antique sculptures and impressionist paintings, but its Café Glyptotek is highly regarded. It is located on an interior terrace overlooking the Winter Garden. No doubt the garden’s palm trees offer a pleasant respite during cold, dark winter nights.

Potato sandwich at Café Hovedtelegrafen in Copenhagen
Potato sandwich at Café Hovedtelegrafen

The café menu offers mainly organic and sustainable ingredients. The day we visited, we enjoyed an open-faced smoked salmon sandwich, a Carlsberg beer (of course) and a tangy lemon tart.

 

Spuds with your stamps

The airy Café Hovedtelegrafen is located on the top floor of the Post and Tele Museum. Its roof top views include the Round Tower and the Marble Church landmarks.

The potato sandwich featured cold sliced new potatoes, a dollop of sour cream, minced green onions and chopped red onions stacked on an impressively high fiber slice of brown bread. Even if you don’t like radishes, try the creamy side dish. The Easter egg radishes are sweeter and less bitter than traditional American radishes.

 Raspberry filed shortbread cookie at Holm's Bager counter at ILLUM's department store

 

What’s for dessert?

For some decadent baked goods, take the escalator to the basement of the fashionable ILLUM’s department store to Holm’s Bager counter.

I had to try the layered cookie with sprinkles on top. Even though I hoped for a savory bacon and pistachio cookie, there was raspberry filling between the two shortbread cookies.

 

About the author

Kristine K. Stevens is the author of If Your Dream Doesn’t Scare You, It Isn’t Big Enough: A Solo Journey Around the World.

This nonfiction book tells the story of what happened when she sold her house, quit her job and solo traveled around the world. Little did she know that she was completing a pilgrimage that would change her life forever.