Intelligent Design

There is something remarkable about the light in Copenhagen. By this I do not mean the faultlessly bright sky on high summer days, when the sun sets at midnight and rises a few hours later, although a friend tells me that days such as these are euphoric. Rather, I'm referring to the amber glow that emanates from the jewel-colored row houses lining the city's cobblestoned streets. Some might say I'm biased: if one's temperament could have a season, mine would be autumn. But I would argue that Danish culture, which prizes the idea of coziness — the Danes' special word for this is hygge, roughly pronounced huh-guh — is best revealed during the dusky months, when evening creeps in ever earlier and the Nordic winds, whipping off the North Sea, tap against the windows.

It was the light, in fact, that initially drew me and my sister-in-law Rachel to Copenhagen. Or, put more accurately, the lighting: Poul Henningsen's iconic Artichoke chandelier, Verner Panton's delightful FlowerPot pendant, Louise Campbell's laser-cut Collage lamp. Rachel and I have always shared a passion for interior design, but when my husband and I moved into a new apartment and made Rachel our de facto decorator, this mutual interest became an obsession. She and I lost whole Sundays to poring over fat stacks of coffee-table books, analyzing the homes portrayed in their pages. Often on waking, I'd find a flurry of e-mails she had sent me in the middle of the night with suggestions for the living room console. There was no mistaking Rachel's distinctive sensibility, and while it is difficult to summarize, this much is simple: she loves Scandinavian furniture.

Rachel is hardly alone in admiring Danish design; Copenhagen has been renowned for its aesthetics for decades. Still, given the dollar's lackluster performance overseas (not to mention the growing ubiquity of Design Within Reach stores across North America), the lure of Arne Jacobsen chairs and Georg Jensen silver was not reason enough for us to make a trans-Atlantic trip. Lately, however, I'd been hearing that Copenhagen had much to recommend it besides its long-standing good taste. And whenever I read about the current state of the city, certain words kept recurring, like "renaissance" and "revitalization," "cutting-edge" and "cool." I was told that the dining scene was thriving, with eleven Michelin-starred restaurants. Once-dodgy neighborhoods were now packed to the canals with boutiques and galleries. Alongside the medieval copper-topped towers, celebrated contemporary architects, like Daniel Libeskind and Henning Larsen, had erected gems of glass and steel. But what really sold me on a visit to Copenhagen was discovering that — according to a 2006 study by the University of Leicester, in England — the Danes are the happiest people on Earth. Whereas traveling abroad for a lesson in living stylishly seemed decadent, traveling abroad for a lesson in living contentedly seemed essential. One would be a trip; the other, I reasoned, a journey.

Rachel and I arrived on separate flights, hers preceding mine by a few hours, so we agreed to meet at the First Hotel Skt. Petri, where we'd stay for part of our trip. I found her waiting for me in the enclosed second-floor courtyard, just beyond the main lobby, a sleek space furnished in brass and dark wood. That you must take an escalator to reach the check-in desk is one of the only remaining clues that the property was a department store before its 2003 refurbishment.

"Welcome to the Land of the Beautiful People," Rachel said. Even during the brief taxi ride from the airport, I, too, had been struck by how attractive the Danes were — tall, lithe, blond — and how young. (Of the city's 510,000 or so residents, 34 percent are between the ages of twenty and thirty-four.) Equally noteworthy is the proliferation of bicycles. Two wheels are very much the preferred mode of transportation; six out of ten Danes bike daily, and specially designated lanes abound. Tourists are also encouraged to travel this way, courtesy of the 2,000 free bikes, each with a map built into the handlebars, available at more than a hundred locations.

Not that a map is necessary. Copenhagen's small size makes it exceptionally easy to navigate. StrØget, the longest continuous pedestrian-only street in Europe, wends its way through the city center. Here we found some of the premier shopping destinations, like Georg Jensen, Royal Copenhagen and Illums Bolighus, a four-story temple of luxury furnishings. VesterbrØ, formerly the red-light district, is to the west; once a seedy tangle of brothels and junkie squats, the neighborhood is now flush with jazz bars, clothing boutiques and chic cafés. NorrebrØ, which lies north of VesterbrØ, is undergoing a similarly radical transformation — vintage shops and upscale bars are quickly cropping up among the ethnic bakeries and student hangouts — yet not without eliciting some anguish. The area has a large immigrant population, or large for Denmark, where a mere 7 percent of the residents are foreign born, and was targeted by the far-right-wing Dansk Folkeparti (Danish People's Party) in a nationwide "cleanup" (put less politely, an anti-immigrant crackdown). Meanwhile, the country became the focus of jihadists two years ago, after a conservative paper published cartoons of the prophet Muhammad, and Islamic terrorist activity remains a concern as a result.

Generally speaking, though, progressive politics is the rule: health care is universal, education is subsidized, paternity leave is granted with full pay. And no part of the city exemplifies the live-and-let-live ethos better than Christiania. On the other side of the harbor, in Christianshavn, the self-proclaimed free state of Christiania was established in 1971 on eighty-four waterfront acres of an erstwhile naval base by a group of hippies. Its 1,000 inhabitants have insisted on abiding by their own set of laws since the community's founding. In fact, until this summer, when taxes were scheduled to be imposed on Christiania and a number of buildings razed to make way for new homes, residents paid the state only for water and electricity. But even with such changes under way, a renegade spirit endures: a sign posted at the exit from the neighborhood reads "You Are Now Entering the EU."

Rachel and I were able to cover a large swath of the city on our first afternoon. We strolled by plenty of open-air flower stalls, where rows of metal buckets brimmed with tulips and hyacinths, and stopped to rest in sweet shady squares; we marveled at an impossibly handsome man cruising down Elmegade on a rickety bicycle with what appeared to be a salvaged Wegner chair strapped to the front. I do not exaggerate in saying that my always cool sister-in-law practically gasped at the sight, while I wondered aloud whether this kind of loot was merely sidewalk litter here.

Because we had been blessed thus far with brisk, unimpeachable weather — we would not be quite so lucky in the days that followed — we decided to walk to dinner that night. As we looked for Kiin Kiin, a Thai restaurant opposite Sankt Hans Torv (Saint Hans Square), I pointed to a two-story town house at the end of the block; its yellow light called to me like open arms, and I said to Rachel, "I hope that's where we're eating." Lucky for us, it was. Once inside, we were led toward a deep, low sofa and welcomed by the chef, Henrik Yde-Anderson, with glasses of Champagne. Minutes later, a plate of appetizers arrived — beef satay, spring rolls — artfully presented in a lacquered bento box. Although Yde-Anderson has a seriously impressive pedigree (he worked at the Paul, the Tivoli Gardens' glass-enclosed venue, then studied Thai cuisine in Bangkok) and his cooking is sublime, the mood at Kiin Kiin is refreshingly unpretentious. The chef greets the many regulars among his customers in the first-floor lounge before ushering them into the dining room, over which Buddha statues preside. "It's a way to make people comfortable," he says.

That easygoing attitude was the norm everywhere Rachel and I ate. At Bacino, an Italian restaurant in the Custom House, a harbor-front dining emporium in which Terence Conran is a partner — there's also the Bar & Grill, a Danish brasserie; Ebisu, a Japanese restaurant; and two bars — we lingered over pasta, spellbound by the stylishness of the silver and gray room. Noma, in Christianshavn, where one of my colleagues had what she described as "quite possibly the best meal of my life," was a feast for the eyes as well as the palate. With contemporary Nordic cuisine emphasizing such Scandinavian ingredients as razor clams, reindeer, wood sorrel and aquavit, Noma's innovative menu is reshaping the world's idea of what Danish dining can be: sheep's-milk mousse with garden-sorrel granita, for instance, rather than smØrrebrØd, the open-faced sandwiches that have dominated the country's cooking for centuries. Still, for all chef René Redzepi's high-minded foams and gelées — evidence of his training at the French Laundry, in Napa Valley, and El Bulli, in Catalonia — eating at Noma is a comforting experience. The conceptual dishes sacrifice nothing in the way of taste; hard-backed wooden chairs are blanketed with downy sheepskin throws. "You should do this in your dining room," Rachel told me, rubbing her hand across one of the white pelts.

Unlike in so many old European cities, there's little risk of suffering rococo overload in Copenhagen. It is possible, however, to long for an alternative to the clean lines and minimal trappings. To find such an antidote, Rachel and I headed to the Hotel Fox. If the Tivoli Gardens, the historic amusement park erected in 1843 at the urging of King Christian VIII, was the 19th century's idea of whimsy and play, this madcap property is the 21st century's. Twenty-two international artists created the sixty-one rooms, each with a different design, with wild and wonderful results. We were given the key to the Heidi Room, along with a warning. "It's not for everyone," Lina, the check-in clerk, said. "Some people hate it. Others love it. If you wish to change, come back down." We loved it.

Dreamed up by the Swiss illustrator Benjamin Güdel, the room is a lunatic homage to the classic Alpine tale: green shag carpeting, wooden furniture that wouldn't look out of place in a 1970s ski lodge, wall-to-wall murals of herds of goats and, above the bed, the little lass herself. Not every room is quite this kitschy. The London-based design firm Container, for one, fixed on a royal theme for its four sumptuous spaces, and the elaborately tiled room created by the American design collective FriendsWithYou looks like a chic Turkish hammam by way of Miami Beach.

Had we been left to our own devices, Rachel and I surely could have spent the night wandering the hotel's halls, studying door after decorated door as if they were some kind of amazing gallery installation, which, in a sense, they are. But we had plans with Jess Wolfsberg, a Danish film student a friend of mine met when she lived in Copenhagen last year. Noticing the hotel bicycles when he picked us up in the lobby, Jess suggested we ride to dinner. Rachel was game, but I hesitated. It had rained all day, and though the storms had stopped, the roads were slick and the sky was dark. "Don't be such a baby," Rachel said. "It'll be fun." And, sure enough, as we crossed the bridge to Christianshavn, picking up speed as we went, it was fun.

Jess had made a reservation at Spiseloppen, a bohemian restaurant in a converted warehouse in Christiania. Because of what I knew about the free state, I was expecting a somewhat menacing community characterized by dilapidated dwellings, a cloud of hash smoke hovering above the rooftops. Instead, the area reminded me of Berkeley or a hippie summer camp, with its tree-lined paths and jigsaw of idiosyncratic makeshift homes. Following a tour of the neighborhood, Jess asked if we would like to see the Copenhagen Opera House, or Operaen, as it's called, before dinner. We secured our bicycles — you just insert a small key to lock the wheels; heavy metal chains are unnecessary here — and walked along a residential stretch to Henning Larsen's soaring waterfront complex. The shipping magnate Maersk McKinney Moller commissioned the architect to build it as a $636 million gift to Moller's hometown.

The Operaen incited massive controversy when it was unveiled, in 2005. Larsen, known as the Master of Light, and Moller fought over its design, and no one involved in the building's construction was allowed to talk about the work until it was completed. Such secrecy, as well as Moller's insistence that he alone determine the structure's every detail, undermined the value the Danes place on equality and shared decision making. Moreover, the immense Operaen seemed to overshadow the queen's palace, across the harbor, and among a people who place a premium on humility, this was perceived as the worst kind of hubris. On the night that Rachel and I stopped by, though, the Danes appeared to be enjoying themselves just fine. Queues snaked outside the doors, and the benches lining the harbor were crowded.

Jess was a superb tour guide, but as we sat down to dinner at Spiseloppen, one question still gnawed at me: what was the deal with all the baby carriages? In Copenhagen, you see covered prams everywhere: parked outside cafés, seemingly abandoned in front of clothing shops. Yet inside these establishments, you don't see any babies. Just that morning, Rachel and I had watched a young woman pull a carriage beneath a café awning, take a last glance at what was tucked inside and then stroll into the restaurant for breakfast.

"What was in the pram?" I asked Jess.

"A baby," he answered, baffled by my confusion.

"She left the baby outside while she had breakfast?" Rachel asked.

"Yes," Jess answered, now amused. It's hard to believe, but in a city as civilized as Copenhagen, a young mother can enjoy coffee and eggs with a friend, without fear, as her infant lies contentedly asleep outside.

No sooner had we begun our ride back to the hotel than the freezing rain that had plagued the better part of our day resumed. Jess seemed entirely unmoved by the abrupt and unpleasant turn in the weather, while Rachel and I muttered profanities and struggled to keep the hoods of our coats up. When we reached the Fox, the rain stopped suddenly. Rather than rush inside after we dismounted our bicycles, we followed Jess's lead and stood for a moment on the sleepy sidewalk. "It's lovely out — lige nu," he said. The expression, he told us, means "just now" and is characteristically Danish. I think it goes a long way toward explaining the Danes' happiness. It's not so much that they maintain low expectations, which some people claim, but that they appreciate what they have while they have it: the sun-drenched days of summer, the break between rains, the clean lines of a Jacobsen chair, a candlelit dinner among friends, a bicycle ride along an empty street.

Surely there is much to be learned from this attitude; my trip had given me much to consider. But a fuzzy glow called from inside the Fox, so I opened the doors and went in.