Something Rotten in Denmark

“Something Rotten in Denmark”
For us, one of the best things of traveling is that we inevitably come back with a hilarious experience or two. Such was the case of “The Rottenest Cab” in Copenhagen, Denmark.

The wheels of fate began to turn when we’d decided to walk from our hotel, down to the Little Mermaid statue, a good 2.1 miles away. One way. Not outside of our typical travel M.O., as we tend to explore cities through walkabouts.

We saw Ariel. Andy hummed the lyrics of “Under the Sea” to the chagrin of several tourists. We walked by the Amelienborg Palace, saw the Opera House across the canal, walked through the Fredickskirche, the shopping street of Stroget, the gardens of Rosenborg Palace, several parks.

By the time we made it back to our hotel room near 4pm, our phones read 6.7 miles. We went out again to the City Hall area, then Tivoli Gardens – and clocked 8.5 miles for the day.

The next morning we were back at it, hitting 4.6 miles before heading back to the hotel to rest for a bit before heading out for dinner.

Understandably, our tired feet were in need of a cab to get to our dinner destination that eve.

Enter “The Rottenest Cab in Denmark.”

Andy gave our destination through the window before we got in, the driver nodded and we scooched into the back seat. Andy, ever the gentleman, opens the cab door for me – I scoot across the back seat, which places me directly behind the driver.

At this point I realize our mistake – but there’s no chance to tell Andy before he gets in.

​A dumpster filled with diapers in July heat would’ve smelled better. I have no idea how long this man has been farting in his car, but the stench is horrific.

Being the 12-yr old I am, I couldn’t wait to snicker “There’s something rotten in Denmark” and tried to make eye contact with Andy. He briefly catches my gaze, and immediately looks away – knowing if he makes full eye contact with me, I will howl laughing till the point of tears – absolutely unable to contain myself.

It was the longest, most foul 6-minutes of pure, unadulterated funk. Every red light was agony. Those poor cloth seats had reached maximum absorption eons ago. Each shift in the seat, even the faintest of movements unleashed more.

I gave up all pretense and wrapped my scarf across my face like an ancient traveler crossing the Sahara, in a last-ditch effort to stifle the laughter and the gag-reflex fighting to break loose.

Let's put it this way. If that cab driver ever decided he'd want to clean out this car, he'd need an industrial-strength fire hose - and a crucifix. 

The car was still moving as we neared our destination, and I opened the door to bail out. Andy paid the man as fast as humanly possible and bolted. We gulped in huge breaths, as if we’d just run a marathon, and laughed until we cried. Fresh air had never, ever smelled so sweet.

​As we walked into a pub, Andy leaned over and said, “Onions? Onions and ketchup?” Free from our torment, we couldn’t help but laugh the rest of the evening.

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