“The women are all skinny because they can’t afford to eat.”

Riga is a fascinating little town. After a ride from the airport that takes me through my first glimpses of Eastern European squalor, we come into a city that looks out of a fairytale. The first thing I notice about Riga is the architecture, the detail is incredible. Take a look at the pictures. Each window frame and doorway is a sculpture. Take a look at the faces that are built into the sides of the blue brick building (the blue brick on its own is pretty impressive, and on several buildings in Riga.) The second thing I notice is the legs. Despite its nearly Siberian location, the weather in Latvia is the warmest I’ve come across, and it’s mini-skirt season. While the women of Scandinavia were beautiful, the type you want to take home to mom, the women of Riga were hot, the kind you just want to take home. But friendly they are not. When you would catch someone’s eye in passing in Denmark and Sweden, they would smile warmly. If you caught somebody’s eye in Riga, she would scowl at you. And the fashion sense? Not so hot. It was like the stores had to get rid of their stock from before the fall of the USSR before they could get a new shipment. Lots of leopard print and stonewashed denim in the windows, next to shops selling exquisite antiques. It’s indeed a city of contrasts. The economy is still trying to get its legs, which certainly has it’s perks. A liter of their local beer, which is damn fine, costs about eighty cents. (In contrast, a liter of water was a dollar. I like Riga.) Yet while Latvia would be considered a “poor” country as a whole, there’s clearly some people in Riga who have done very, very, well. The cars around my hotel are what I’d expect to see on Rodeo Drive. There are brand new Bentleys, Maseratis, and Lamborghini’s on every other street. And they take it seriously too, almost all the Mercedes are AMG, the Cayennes are all Turbo if not Turbo S, and I see no less than three beautiful women driving brand new drop-top M6’s within the first few hours.

Day 11-08.22.07-Berlin/Riga

I don’t really have any idea where Riga is. I know it’s the capital of Latvia, but that doesn’t help me much. If you gave me an unlabeled map of the world and asked me to find Riga it would be an absolute guess. I’d just point somewhere near Russia. Turns out it’s one of the Baltic States, a sharing it’s Eastern Border with Russia and sandwiched between Estonia, Lithuania, and part of Belarus. I take a cab to the address that Simon has given me for his father’s apartment, and of course, no one is there. I try the numbers I have for both Simon and his brother, both go straight to voicemail. Normally, being in a strange country alone and being unable to reach the only person you know there would be a somewhat stressful afternoon, but for some reason, this doesn’t bother me one bit. I’m in Latvia, and real happy about that. There’s a hotel right across the street from the apartment, so I take a room and set out to explore Riga.

Day 10- 08.21.07-Berlin

The kids are alright.

It has become abundantly clear that Berlin will take far than a few more days to cover, and today is to be my last. I reason that the major monuments and historical attractions will be there the next time I’m in Berlin, and I’ve already decided there will be a next time. What I want to see is Berlin now, the Berlin that’s been labeled as the place to go if you’re a creative youth in Europe. The epicenter of this movement is a neighborhood called Prenzlauer Berg, a former socialist neighborhood that has been completely transformed in the last few years by twenty-and-thirty-somethings into a pleasant utopia of very affordable and stylish living. It’s a bit of a hike to the Berg, and I stop for Berlin’s most traditional street food, the Currywurst, a white sausage smothered in curried ketchup. I’ve got to say I prefer NYC’s dirty water dogs any day. I’m soon in the heart of Prenzlauer Berg, and it’s very, very, cool. With the fall of the wall less than twenty years ago, this is the first generation of youth in Berlin who have been able to grow up in freedom, and are now able to express themselves in ways that no previous generation of Berliners have. They have taken this section of Berlin, with some beautiful old buildings, and made it theirs. The streets are lined with small cafes, bars, and seriously hip boutiques, many run and owned by the designer. In America we call these people hipsters, but I realize that all these kids in the Lower East Side in their skinny jeans, second hand jackets and slip on Vans are just trying to look like the people of Berlin look everyday without putting any though into it. There’s wild art on every wall, vintage shops a plenty, and kids whizzing around on old Vespas with a smile on their faces. I don’t see anyone over 40 years old for miles, and I know I’ve overused this word, but the word that these kids have created for themselves is just so damn cool it’s mesmerizing. You want to sit down at one of these cafes and stay forever. Not wanting to come off as a brash American tourist, I’d left my Yankees cap at home. I shouldn’t have- they’re everywhere, in all the stylish streetwear shops, and the “I heart NY” shirts are ever present. What a disappoint it must be for these kids to get to New York and find out that we’re not any cooler than they are, we just pay five times as much to feel like it. As I move further through Prenzlauer Berg, it gets leafier and nicer, and I notice an influx of strollers and playgrounds everywhere. This is also the area where young families have chosen to move, and I learn you can get a great deal of space in a gorgeous old building for less than a thousand dollars a month. The locals are quick to tell you that this is where Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have said they will move to raise their little model United Nations. I stop and grab a beer in a park that still holds a rare piece of the Berlin Wall. I have found the people of Berlin to be very proud, I have heard at this point the city referred to several times as “The greatest in Europe,” and “Germanys finest.” There are ping pong tables throughout the park, made of huge slabs of stone with metal nets. I play a game with an elderly man, who tells me he has been in Berlin for 58 years. “You must have seen a whole lot in this town,” I said stating the obvious. He sighs and makes a gesture that appears to be of a wall coming up and then coming down. “But it is the greatest city in the world, and gets better every day.”

A Slight Change of Plans.

I was planning on heading to Prague that evening, so I find an internet café to look for tickets. I have found it extremely easy to fly on short notice throughout Europe, and there are a number of no frill airlines that will regularly take you around the continent for incredibly low fares. However this does not seem to be the case with Prague. There’s only one flight, it leaves in two hours, and its five hundred bucks. At this point I get an e-mail from Simon. He and his Brother are heading to Riga, where his father has an apartment. Do I want to come out there for a few days before the rest of his family arrives? Yes I do. I check out Easy Jet and find a flight out the next morning for ninety bucks. Latvia here I come!

The hotel had been storing my luggage, so I go back to see if they can put me up for one more night. They tell me they have no more regular rooms, but they do have one of the apartments available, and the woman at the desk agrees to give it to me at the rate I’d been paying before. After the last room, I’m really not expecting much. I wheel my luggage into the building across the courtyard, and stick my key in door number one. This place is huuuuuge! Its got a king bed, a desk, a sofa, an armoire, a dining table, two chairs, two bathrooms and a kitchen. It’s easily twice the size of my first New York apartment. The first thing I do is draw the blinds, then I take all of my clothes off and jump around the furniture. Pure, childlike glee. I check out a few bars in the neighborhood, including an awesome Judas Priest themed Heavy Metal bar complete with a wall made of Marshall stacks and a super modern stark white lounge where the bartenders are in latex nurses outfits and give you shots of Liquors out of huge syringes. Berlin clearly takes it nightlife quite seriously, and this too will need to be examined further at a later date.

"Berlin ist arm, aber sexy."

I walk further into Berlin, being guided to the west by Fernsehturm Berlins largest structure, their unmistakable 1,200 foot tall television tower, known locally as “telespargel,” or “the toothpick” As I cross into the borough of Mitte, the architecture and cleanliness of the town immediately improve. I pass the beautiful old buildings of Humboldt university, the library of which once educated both Karl Marx and Frederick Engels. The through museum island, and incredible buildings such as the Berliner Dome and the Brandenburg Gate, where Reagan delivered his “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” Berlin is for many associated with Hitler and communism, which is a shame, because Berlin thrived for hundreds of years before this, and they have left behind a lot of magnificent buildings. I stroll down Friedrichststatdpasagen, Berlin’s ritziest shopping area, which seems to have completely recovered from the huge economic disaster of only a few years before. By the time I reach the Reichstag I am completely exhausted, and happy to find that it abuts the Tiergarten, Berlins largest green area. I grab an ice cream and join the many people lounging in the grass. My impression of Berlin is that it’s pretty imposing, the buildings are massive and look incredibly sturdy, though clearly nothing that the bombs made by the blood, sweat, and tears of the hard-working, god-fearing men and women of the good ole’ US of A couldn’t handle. After an hour or so in the park and a walk through the controversial Holocaust Memorial, I head to Potsdamer Plaza, Berlin’s biggest example of the modernization of the city. It’s a hub of many of the largest corporate offices in Berlin, and the wildly extravagant modern buildings were designed by some of the worlds most cutting edge architects. The Sony Center is probably the most famous, and houses a hotel, train station, shopping center and cinema under what can only be described as a gigantic glass parachute. I decide to exploit Berlin’s still struggling economy and have the best dinner I’ll have all trip. In a centuries old “wine house” I am treated to a sparkling Reisling, a huge cut of Reindeer Filet with creamed Chanterelle and a glass of Chateau St. Emilion Grand Cru for a total of about twenty-eight bucks, including tip. Stuffed, I decide to walk back to my hotel, which ends up taking about two hours, so I stop along the way for a few more large mugs of Germany’s famous beer, which are never more than two Euro a pop. Though I’m in a city many consider to have the world’s best nightlife, the twelve miles or so that I’ve walked have taken their toll, and I doze off in my tiny little bed.

Day 9-08.20.07-Berlin

“Ich bin ein Berliner”

I awake to a very strange sensation. Eight nights in as many different cities has caught up to me, and for a few seconds when I open my eyes, I literally have no idea where in the world I am. It is one of the greatest feelings I have ever experienced. It soon dawns on me that I am in Berlin, and for once, I don’t need to check out by noon. So I indulge in one of my favorite things in the world. I sleep. I sleep and sleep and sleep. It’s three o’clock by the time I leave my room, but I’m on vacation, and that’s exactly what I wanted to do. I grab a cup of coffee and a Cuban cigar, and head out to walk the city. My hotel is in East Berlin, which for those us who took our history classes from the US public school system, was the Communist area of the city, responsible for erecting the infamous wall. I have with me a trusty city map, one of many that will guide me along my travels, and one thing becomes quickly apparent to me. Berlin is huge. With many of the other cities I have been in on the trip, I can find myself making very significant progress across these maps in a matter of ten minutes or so. A ten minute walk in Berlin barely moves me an inch. It would be like trying to walk across Orlando. (That has to be one of the most culturally retarded lines I’ve ever written. Berlin, one of the most historically significant cities in all of the world, and the best analogy I can come up with is Orlando? I need to travel more.) Berlin is separated into 12 different Boroughs, which collectively are similar in size to all of New York save for Staten Island, which is how most people think of New York anyways. (Sorry Cryan, but you know it’s true. Wu-Tang Forever.) I’m staying in Friedrichshain, a part of town that’s still pretty gritty, but quickly filling with younger people and the types of bars, restaurants, and boutiques that they spawn. There’s a lot of graffiti along the walls, but it adds character. I walk along the Karl Marx Allee, lest I forget the recent past of my current locale. This was one of the main roads of East Berlin and is lined with enormous apartment buildings, known as the GDP Palaces, that held thousands of residents in identical apartments. After walking the road for several miles, I stop into a place called “Alberts” it’s main feature being a massive bust of Albert Einstein, tongue out, above a pipe organ. The waitress approaches, and it soon becomes clear that English is not nearly as widely spoken as in Scandinavia. “Sorry” I stammer. “No spreitchen Deutchen” “Ah” she replies, “You want food?” I nod. “You like hamburger with cheese and with bacon and with fries and with large beer?” Now that’s a good waitress! Normally I would have gone for something a little less typically American, but hey, they do call it a Hamburger. A gigantic burger and even larger beer are brought forth, all for the tune of about seven bucks. I am beginning to like Berlin very much.

Day 8-08.19.07-Malmo/Berlin

“I’m with the band.”

In keeping with the nature of the Mayfair hotel, this is the most polite “you missed check-out” call yet. I’m having coffee in the lobby when I hear something I haven’t heard in a while, a good dose of American sarcasm. The crew is Yves Jean and his band, a “rock n’ soul band with a world music beat” who is here to play the festival. Yves is from the Bronx and his band from Philly, and we spend an hour trading our stories of Scandinavia. They have been staying with Simon, a 29 year old Dane who they met online, and has come along for the festival. I was planning on going to Berlin at some point that day, but I had no definite plans. “Why don’t you get a late flight, and we’ll go get a few beers while they’re at soundcheck then hangout backstage for their set?” proposes Simon. Sounds like a plan to me. Simon turns out to be a very likeable guy. He’s from a wealthy Danish family that has found some great business opportunities in the fall of the Soviet Block. He has just finished his masters in IT, and wonders if I know anyone who can get people jobs in New York. Yeah, I think I can help there. We wander around Malmo sampling beers, and then get all access credentials as Yves Jean’s “manager and New York booking agent.” Backstage is a blast, but I’ve got the last flight out, so I need to make my way to the airport. My hotel in Berlin is unremarkable, and I do something I haven’t done the whole time I’ve been on the trip. Stay in and go to bed.

Salem al Fakir-

After a short nap and a shower in my gold plated and marble bathroom, I decide to join the denizens of Malmo at their festival. All ages are represented, and it’s a prime spot for people watching. I grab an assortment of foods and sweets from the various vendors, along with a big mug of cold Carlsberg. At about 11:00pm I find myself in Malmo’s main square, where the largest of the Festivals nine stages has been erected. The headlining band for the night is just about to begin, and a crowd of thousands has assembled. The backdrop and drum head read “Salem al Fakir” so I decide to stick around for their set. I’m glad I did. Salem Al Fakir is a Swedish pop/rock singer, and he is clearly very popular. The crowd of mainly young revelers seem to know the words to every one of his songs. Salem plays the keys and sings, a melodic pop that falls somewhere between Coldplay and the Scissor Sisters, and his backup band can seriously groove. Salem seriously knows how to work the crowd, running to the sides of the stage and leaping into the crowd. The girls go wild. I stick around for the full 90 minute set, and make a note to get a copy of this guys CD while I’m here. I want to check out Malmo nightlife, so I hit some of the larger clubs. Its clear I’m in the touristier spots, and as in new York, the Saturday night crowds at the highly publicized places are a bit of a riff-raff. It’s nearly three am and logic tells me to go home, but how often am I in Sweden, so I press on. I head across town to an area that’s supposed to be favored by the local youth, in hopes that I’ll find something there. Wandering the streets without much success, I come across a group of nattily dressed guys and decide to ask them for suggestions on where to go. The guy in the fedora looks oddly familiar to me, and I realize that I’ve stumbled across Salem al Fakir and his band! I tell them how much I enjoyed their show and show them my hand written “Buy Salem al Fakir” note, which they get a kick out of. They are headed to their afterparty at a local rock club and invite me to join them. The bar is a super cool crowd of local Swedish kids, and we are well taken care of. I learn that Salem is somewhat of a musical prodigy, he recorded his first cd all by himself, playing every single instrument a la Dave Grohl and the first Foo Fighters CD. They have been wanting to come to New York and by 5am they have agreed to play Snitch some time in November. They are hoping to get a buzz in America so my record industry folks- Lauren Amsterdam, Kate Landau, et al- you should really check this kid out, he’s something special.

Day 7-08.18.07-Copenhagen/Malmo

With no plans of where to stay in Copenhagen the night before, I take Lonely Planet’s advice and check into Hotel Fox, which labels itself the “World’s first Art Hotel.” The hotel has 28 rooms, and each one has been decorated by a different designer or artist from all over the world. The result is Funky with a capital Unky. I don’t know if www.hotelfox.dk has any photos, but it’s well worth checking. Granted, my room is probably one of the least visually stunning in the place- the theme is “spares” and it has car parts drawn in what appears to be magic marker all over the walls, drapes, carpets, and bedding. Furniture design is clearly the forte of my group of decorators, and the bed, desk, dresser, table, and bench are all one piece of unique geometric design. Very cool. Being Friday I decide to get a taste of Copenhagen nightlife, and wander around to a few bars and clubs. Space is not nearly at as much of a premium as in New York, so even the “small” lounges have soaring ceilings, many with gigantic chandeliers over the bars. The next morning, as with every morning so far, I am awoken by the “check out was half an hour ago” phone call. How can you make check out at noon in a city where the bars are open ‘til 6am? It’s just not right. I realize that I still have the keys to the Porsche, so after lunch I meet up with Lars and Ulrikka, the handsome Viking couple who work for the club and had arranged my itinerary. The afternoon is spent checking out the shops off Copenhagens side streets, and climbing a soaring bell tower for a birds eye view of the city. After one more stop in Christiania, I’m getting the urge to return to Sweden. Back to Malmo it is! The train is clearly the way to go, only half an hour, and a third of the price of the 40dollar toll to cross the bridge. When I arrive in Malmo, the city festival is in full swing. I read that 1.5million people will pass through the festival over its seven days, and judging by these crowds, I absolutely believe it. I am hoping to be able to get a room at the hotel I had been in a few nights before, but as it is located right on Malmo’s main drag, it is unsurprisingly full. I had seen a few places on the way from the train station so I head back to see what I can find. The first place I see it the Mayfair Hotel, located in a building whose foundation is some seven hundred years old. I stick my head in the lobby, and this place is plush. I imagine it will be well out of my price range, so I’m shocked to find that they have one room left- a deluxe double- and for a very reasonable rate. Loving Malmo more and more, I settle into what is easily my nicest room so far, with oriental rugs, antique furniture, a plasma tv, and a crystal chandelier over the bed. Life is good.

Thank you for the music-

I realize with dismay that I have left behind my ipod, a relatively new piece of technology to which I have acquired quite the attachment. Furthermore the Porsche, being a 1991, had only a Blankpunt cassette player for a stereo. Have you tried to buy a cassette tape in the last few years? Not an easy feat. So, for my three day drive, I am left at the mercy of Scandinavian radio. Though for much of the trip there is no reception, I don’t know if that’s the fault of the antenna or that I am in the middle of Jutland. I pass the time instead doing calculations from kilometers to miles to figure out how fast I’m going, and the answer is usually “incredibly.” So when Barry Manilow’s “Mandy” finally comes in clearly, I’ve never been so happy to hear a Bee-Gee. For a solid couple of hours, I get a taste of mainstream music in Denmark today. While the Scandinavians have a reputation for birthing a large number of death-metal bands, the radio clearly leans towards sugary pop music. Think of the bands from the area that made it big worldwide- Abba, Ace of Base, the Cardigans, “Barbie Girl.” And that was the good stuff! While the stations do play mainly American music- lots of Justin Timberlake, Nelly Furtado, Pink, etc. I do get to hear some current gems. I’m quite certain these were the words to a particular favorite- “I wanna have your babies- I’m serious like rabies- They’re poppin up like daisies- here’s a baby, there’s a baby, babies, babies, babies!” Well, it’s that or listening to the wind whip through the sunroof at 150 miles an hour, so babies, babies, babies it is. The choices in Sweden are considerably better, and I find a station of “Heep-Happ Klassiks” which included “Ice-Ice Baby” “Cool like that” and Warren G’s “Regulators” (Mount up.) I must say I rather enjoyed cruising into Malmo to “Funky Cold Medina”

“In Denmark, they will take your license for that”

I call Albert from a restaurant in Helsingor and get the directions to his house. He is suggests I stop off at the castle in Frederiksborg, and any excuse to extend my time in the car is good enough for me. This particular castle is much more beautiful than Kronborg, and is still in official use, which explains the armed guards who pace the square. I stroll through the gardens- my father would love them- and then race back toward Albert. He has agreed to park his Cayenne Turbo S, an 525 horsepower monster of a truck along the road, so that I will know his estate. The roads towards his small town are enticingly empty, and I’m flying by when I see his truck, Albert aside it, standing at the road. “You know that’s much too fast” Albert chides as I pull a quick U-turn and enter his drive. Albert’s home is typical for the Danish countryside, a sprawling thatch-roofed home with several outbuildings. Everywhere I turn, there are incredible cars. I park next to an E55amg, just a few feet away from an MGB, a 1966 Ford Mustang Convertible, and a brand new Ford GT supercar. He takes me around the estate- one barn houses British roadsters- a Morgan, a Healey, and an MGA, and another modern race cars, including a rare Porsche 996 GT3RS. Tool sheds hide a vintage Mercedes, and there is an Audi R8 and a Ferrari 360 peeking out of the carriage house. Albert clearly knows his cars. He takes me in his Mercedes G-Wagon (with the backseats removed so it can be registered as a truck, avoiding the 180% taxes) back into Copenhagen, and drops me off in the center square.

What dreams may come

Having spent a significant part of my time in both college and high school in lit classes, I felt owed it to Uncle Roy, Connie Shelnutt et al. to go see Helsingor, which served as the setting for Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The drive along the coast passes by some sizeable homes and handsome seaside towns, but the traffic is much heavier than before. Kronborg Slot is would be the castle that inspired Hamlet, and it’s clearly the biggest draw in Helsingor. There’s a slight drizzle as I pull up to the castle, which seems an appropriate setting. The castle is imposing but not particularly beautiful, though you can definitely feel the sense of history.

Day 6-08.17.07-Malmo/Helsingor/Frederiksborg/Copenhagen

Malmo continues to delight in the morning, and I splurge on a great lunch of sirloin with béarnaise and a good glass of red at a restaurant in the basement of one of Malmo’s oldest buildings. Unfortunately I must return the car to Albert today, though I have no desire to leave either Sweden or the Turbo. I find a route that will take me along the Eastern coast of Zealand and past a few significant castles before reaching Albert’s house, which is in a rural area about thirty kilometers outside of Copenhagen. I put another small fortune worth of fuel into the car, and blast back across the bridge.

Day 5- 08.16.07- Skagen/Silkeborg/Malmo

I was awoken by a housekeeper at around 10:00am, and told I needed to check out of my room, no time for a shower. I wandered along the Skagen harborfront for a while, but it was quite chilly, and most of the vacationers were long gone. I stopped at a waterside seafood spot for a sandwich of tiny little shrimp- a local specialty- topped with caviar, and then promptly headed south. While I liked having the car, save for visiting the castle, the rest of Denmark had been kind of underwhelming. I decide to head to Sweden. But first, one last stop in Jutland, in the town of Silkeborg, to visit the Tollund man. In the 1950s, a great deal of work was done in the Bogs around Jutland, mainly mining the peat. The peat cutters were amazed to finds hundreds of human bodies, which had been shockingly well preserved by the unique chemical composition of the peat. The bodies were sent to scientists, and found to date from the Iron Ages- around 300BC. The bodies were remarkable for a number of reasons, not just the state of preservation they were in. Cremation was common then, so the fact that these bodies were buried was odd. Furthermore, many had clearly died gruesome deaths. Many bodies had gaping stab wounds, and the Tollum man still had the woven leather noose around his neck from which he was hung. Others seemed to be in a ritualistic sacrifice- a 14 year old girl was found in a ceremonial robe with her hair closely cropped. It is suggested that perhaps these bodies were offered to the supernatural spirits thought to inhabit the bogs. The Tollund man is the best preserved of all of these bodies, and absolutely haunting. He appears to be made of leather, and the detail in his skin- the wrinkles of his fingers, his nails, the stubble on his chin, is amazing. He is displayed as he was found, in a fetal position. From Silkeborg its off to Arhus, where I take a typically expensive ferry over to Zealand. The ferry lasts an hour, and I find the coasts of Zealand to be much more picturesque than Jutland, though the roads are quite twisty, so the 911 attempts to get away from me on a number of occasions. From here I drive across to the Swedish city of Malmo, my destination for the evening. After hundreds of years of discussion, a bridge connecting Denmark and Sweden was finally built in 2000, and it is awesome. Imagine the way the Golden Gate Bridge would look if it was built today, and by the top Scandinavian designers. The bridge is not very crowded, probably due to the heft toll, and I am able to reach ungodly speeds while crossing it. Malmo turns out to be an absolute delight. I find a great hotel filled with antiques right off the main square, and at a very reasonable rate. I grab dinner in a lively square, and find that the people of Sweden are absolutely beautiful. Though it is nearly eleven by the time I finish dinner, I walk the streets of Malmo for hours, stopping in a number of bars and clubs. Everyone is very friendly, and I find Swedes to be very proud of their country, and happy to give suggestions. Most people are surprised to find I am American, apparently I am neither obese nor obnoxious. One of my favorite insights on foreign relations came from a guy that I met in a bar that would be Malmos version of the Lower East Side. “The Americans” he started, clearly hesitant not to offend, “You really need the syrup on your pancakes, you know?” Indeed. At about 4:00am, I head back to my room.

Vroom Vroom

If I were to sum up my thoughts on the 911 in one word, it would be “Wheeee!” 1991 was the first year for an updated body style of the iconic 911, and was referred to internally as the 964. While the 964 also included an updated engine from its predecessor, the engineers were still working on a turbocharged version when the car was released. However there was an overwhelming demand from European customers for a turbocharged version of the 964, so Porsche decided to release the 964 with the turbocharged engine from their previous model, the legendary 930. The 930 was Porsche’s first turbocharged offering, and it rocked the automotive world from its release in the late 1970s. Turbocharging was a relatively new technology, and therefore, it still had some quirks. The most noticeable was the fact that it took a little while for the boost to kick in, something that journalists would coin the now notorious “turbo-lag.” What this means is, at low revs, say under 3000 rpm, the car is very docile and drives much like a normal 911. However stomp on the gas, and something peculiar happens- absolutely nothing. Then about 3-4 seconds later, your heart is sucked into the backseat as the car launches forward like a midget out of a cannon. It is absolutely thrilling, and utterly addicting. However, the engine in the 911 is in the rear, and the car is rear wheel drive, meaning all the weight and power of the car is behind you, and when it is ready to go, it launches you in only one direction- straight forward. Which is stellar if you are headed in a straight line, however, if your wheels are at any sort of angle, this car slides around like a puppy on a wood floor. There is a very good reason that all 911 turbos since 1994 have had all wheel drive. Luckily for me, most of the drive through Jutland was straight. There were very few cars on the road, and I didn’t see a single police car the whole time I was in Denmark. The Porsche was a rarity, and people who saw the blue beast approaching in their rear view mirror swiftly changed lanes. This gave me about 700 kilometers of left lane all to myself, and I was able to cruise at an effortless 200+km an hour for most of the trip. Save for a few “oh my god I’m going to lose it” moments when traffic would slow or twists would appear, (and one long, loud, tirespinning burnout in a small towns center ) it was a thrilling and manageable drive.