COPENHAGEN

"No, by rail."

A puzzled lift of bushy eyebrows. "A pleasant trip by rail, but a long one; two ferry rides. And then you will wish tickets to somewhere else?"

"No. I am staying at Copenhagen." "Oh, I see, business." But it was apparent he did not see. He had been attuned to the tourist who must go places at top speed; and, having gotten there, must move along in a hurry.

Two major streams of travel pour into Copenhagen each spring and all summer long, but not by way of Germany.

The English arrive in jaunty steamers from Harwich, land at the peninsular port of Esbjerg, and span the flat, water-furrowed breadth of Denmark by rail and ferry.

Most Americans come by liners that cross Kattegat, salute the gray towers of Kronborg Castle at Hamlet's Elsinore, and steam south between the more rugged coast of Sweden and the fishing villages, woods of green beeches, and the well-groomed villas that line the Danish shore; then nose into the channel that cuts the heart of Copenhagen like a giant cleaver.

There is something to be said for the leisurely approach from Germany through vast fields of rye, potatoes, beets-now all "factory crops" bound for bakery, distillery, and refinery-and fine stands of silver firs, pines, spruces, and larches.

That approach emphasizes one of Europe's sharp border transitions-this transition being to the level ride across the rambling islands of Danish Falster and Zealand, with their neat dairy farms, the world's most scrupulous pig pens, thatched cottages nearly always painted red and white - frequently so small they seem merely the base for the lofty storks' nests-platforms atop poles planted on their roofs.

But before Denmark the train halts at Lubeck, proud Hansa capital that once signed itself "head of 22 cities," where venders swarm around the station with that curious confection, marzipan, compounded of sugar, almonds, rose oil, and fruit conserve. And soon thereafter, with incredible ease and lack of jerks and bumps, the train glides on a commodious ferry with the interior whiteness of an enameled bathtub.

"You can eat on the train, but why not go aloft (aloft from the train!) for your first Danish meal?" advised the English-speaking Dane who shared the compartment.

There is always an English-speaking Dane at hand in Denmark. When a country of some 206,000 "chain-store farms" sells in a single year 38 million dollars' worth of bacon, 40 million dollars' worth of butter, and 35 million dollars' worth of eggs to England, it very naturally learns the language of its best customer.

Luncheon was served. Ready at each diner's place was an amazing array of foods, colorful as a flower garden, diverse as samples at a food show, each tidbit patterned neatly as a German hedge, all on spotless, blue-tinged porcelain.

"Pickled herring, fish pudding with capers-that's chopped herring with radishes and egg-erayfish tails, fresh lobster (tiny but true), liver paste with cucumber," pointed out my gustatory guide. There were others.

"You Americans come to Denmark and right away get indigestion. That's all because you don't have snaps. Try this," and he held to the light a glass of liquid…”