Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
aback to see myself billed for three phone calls. I explained this to the girl.
'Yes,' she said. 'You must pay for any phone calls you try to make, whether or not you are connected.'
'But that's insane.'
She shrugged, as if to say, Maybe it is, maybe it isn't.
'You're telling me,' I said slowly, my head feeling like the gong in a Rank movie, 'that I have to pay for
phone calls I didn't make?'
'Yes, that is correct.'
'I didn't use the spare blanket in the cupboard. Do I have to pay you for that, too?' She looked steadily
at me, clearly unaware that she was dealing with a person who could tip over the edge into violent insanity at
any moment. 'I didn't use the shower cap,' I went on. 'Shall I give you a little something for that? I didn't use
one of the bars of soap or the trouser press. This is going to cost me a fortune, isn't it?'
The girl continued to gaze levelly at me, though with a certain noticeable diminishment of goodwill. She
had obviously weathered these storms before. 'I am sorry you find these small charges inconvenient, but it is
the normal practice in Copenhagen.'
'Well, I think it stinks!' I barked, then caught a glimpse of a seriously demented person in the mirror -
wild hair, red face, Parkinson-like shakiness - and recognized myself. I gave her my credit card, scratched
a wild signature on the bill, and with a haughty turn exited, regretting only that I didn't have a cape to sling
over my shoulder and an ebony stick with which to scatter the doormen.
I should have gone immediately to a caf￩ and had two cups of coffee and caught a later train. That
would have been the sensible thing to do. Instead, still steaming, I proceeded towards the station at a pace
that did my body no good at all, stopping en route at a bank on Strget to cash a traveller's cheque. It was
for only $50 - a snippet in Scandinavia, mere pocket money until I reached Sweden in the evening and
would require some serious cash - but for this I was charged the whopping sum of thirty-five kroner, well
over ten per cent of the total. I suddenly realized why the Irishman from the night before was swearing at
everyone. He had paid one Danish bill too many. 'That's an outrage,' I said, clutching the bank receipt like
bad news from a doctor. 'I don't know why I don't just pin money to my jacket and let you people pick it off
me!' I shrilled, leaving a row of clerks and customers looking at each other as if to say, What's his problem?
Not enough coffee?
And it was in this dim and unfortunate frame of mind that I boarded the morning express to Gothenburg,
abused a hapless young conductor for giving me the unwelcome news that it had no buffet car, and sat
morosely in a corner, watching the garden-like suburbs of Copenhagen slip past, every nerve ending in my
body tingling for caffeine.
