Here's me writing the diary entry below in our Hotel Skt. Petri room. Our south-facing view is of said church and the university district. Beats the bathtub.
Saturday night, October 3, 2010. Copenhagen, Denmark
Back in the room, after hugs and affectionate good-byes with Jens Ulrich, Nora is chipper from her long nap. She's entranced by a TV show of children doing flips, otherworldly stretches, feats with hula-hoops, singing and hip-hop dancing. It's kind of Cirque du Soleil-style extreme gymnastics meets the broad smiles and pre-teen peppiness of Irish stepdancing.
Later, the girls and I start watching a 1950's studio-bound romantic comedy musical I assume is Danish (still can't distinguish between the Scandinavian languages) starring what looks like the Northern European version of Doris Day and Rock Hudson.
A young wife asks her husband for more romantic attention, but he's distracted by his new sportscar. When she hears news that he danced at a nightclub with another woman (a racecar driver whom the husband met cute while dragging on the highway), the wife moves out of their modern newlywed townhouse into a bohemian boarding house full of flirty musicians. The landlady's daughter loves one Italian singer but he makes the moves on our young heroine, who resists him a bit and gets a job as a model at the same dress designer's studio where she used to shop. The husband, who finds his wife's whereabouts from their sympathetic cleaning lady, was unrepentantly teasing his wife by showing up for a fashion show with his racer friend when Randy and I told the girls it was time for bed.
The funny thing, every performance was so stylized and every plot point so telegraphed and cliched, I had no problem narrating the entire movie to the girls. They were engrossed even through the yucky kissing.