Just as it did two years ago, I chose Copenhagen as my capping-off city to my time in Europe — and once again, it proved a worthy choice.

Getting here was an already-planned full-day affair; with airfares in normally-competitive Europe on the Budapest-to-Copenhagen route sky-high on my intended travel day, I sought out cheaper alternatives that would enable me to indulge in one of my favorite travel pastimes on the Continent: riding its legendary network of rail links.

I’d scored a (relatively) budget-y fare on a flight from Vienna to Copenhagen, leaving me with the need to span the gap between the two former Austro-Hungarian capitals by other means. No trouble: Austrian Railways had recently introduced the Railjet, a high-speed-ish, ultra-modern link, that spanned the 150 or so land miles in around 2 ½ hours. I’d booked myself on this knowing that my connection in Vienna would be adequate: roughly two hours from when my train was slated to arrive to when my flight was about to depart.

I arrived at Budapest’s Keleti station with my lingering sniffles nearly vanquished. The Railjet, in the traditional red livery of Austrian Railways with oversized lettering denoting the brand plastered along the side, slumbered in the grand old station, sparkling and new next to the rusting blue exteriors of some local rolling stock. Onboard, the cabin was even better: sharp, comfy gray-leather seats in ones and twos crisp and awaiting their occupants. Yep, Mr. Flashpacker here had booked First Class again, at a cost of about $30 more in exchange for tremendous legroom, AC power ports, and yummy in-seat dining. A noisome tour group of Brits occupied the front half of my train car, while next to me sat a sixtyish American couple with whom I soon struck up a lively conversation: Joyce and Mike were fellow Jewish Californians, hailing from sunny San Diego by way of New York City. We instantly had much to compare about our journeys – as retirees, they’re enjoying a longer getaway, visiting some Central Europe spots before jumping off from Venice on a Balkan cruise. Oh, the pangs of envy!

The train pulled out a few minutes behind schedule and remained that way for the entire journey. This made for a less-than-relaxing journey as I wondered if this would hose me on the other end… last time I had a similar issue with my lengthy overnighter from Copenhagen to Frankfurt to connect with a short flight; golly, what is it with me and rail in normally-punctual-to-a-fault German lands? That Murphy fellow must be cackling.

The train remained a few minutes behind schedule for the rest of its run – though interestingly, the medium for determining this itself indicated the conveyance’s overall fabulousness: TV screens throughout the train cars displayed a digital map and time to arrival, much as in some aircraft.

The first part of the Vienna connection went great: I arrived at the station, then – symphonically almost – as I walked out onto the street, a sparkling, gold-colored Vienna AirportLines bus rolled up. I’d now have over an hour to spare before my fight assuming no further hitches in the estimated half-hour ride out to the airport – which seemed generous considering it was only five or so miles away.

Well, I should’ve known why: it was around 4:30 on a Friday afternoon, and even mid-sized Vienna (population around two million) isn’t immune to rush-hour congestion. We crawled through two skinny lanes of traffic as we struggled to leave Vienna’s old city center behind. Instead of marveling at architectural splendor, the density here was stressing me out. Tick-tock, tick-tock, I thought, as it grew closer to our anticipated arrival time and still no airport in sight. Why do I do this to myself? In my zeal to travel creatively, scenically and unconventionally (today’s journey would involve a metro to a metro to a train to a bus to a plane to an airport train on the other end – assuming I made it), sometimes I don’t anticipate the cascading pitfalls of unanticipated delays.

I needn’t have worried, however: soon I saw the familiar round, hulking brick-brown shapes of Vienna’s old gasometers, a sign we were heading out of the city. We were soon on one of the region’s efficient highways and arrived at the airport practically on schedule. A quick check-in and on board the discount-airline Niki (one of Europe’s many discount carriers), and soon I was riding the rails on the airport train from Copenhagen’s tidy Kastrup airport to the center of town.

Copenhagen’s new budget-boutique hotel, the Wakeup, could not have been more different than the previous spot I’d stayed in Budapest: a clean, simple, ultramodern Scandinavian affair (at twice the price, natch) in a once-industrial area redeveloped so recently its Scandinavian-modern buildings post-date even my last visit. I was soon comfortably ensconced in a compact but incredibly efficient room. Best part: a bathroom straight out of a spaceship in a sci-fi film.

It was Friday night, so after a short nap I opted to head out on the town. I wended my way past the forest of bicycles parked near the train station — I’d forgotten about Scandinavia’s fondness for two-wheelers: all throughout the city’s major streets I had to remember to avoid the so-named “Copenhagen lanes,” slightly elevated dedicated bicycle lanes between the sidewalk and the street; I can only imagine Americans giving up their precious SUV-wide automobile-dependent roads for something as hippie-dippie as a bike.

Even though it was past midnight, the city’s compact core was abuzz, almost as much as London’s party spots were last weekend. It still impresses me how Europe pulls this off: American cities the size of Copenhagen such as Denver, San Diego or Portland – all fairly liberal bastions and respectable party towns in their own right – have nothing on Denmark’s urban hub. I stayed out late, catching up with my friend Anna, a fellow pal of Renaissance Man care of a shared childhood with parents who did the “hippie missionary” circuit. As I walked back to my hotel, the sun was already coming up – oh, it wasn’t that late, but this being high-latitude Northern Europe, in mid-May first light happened before four in the morning.

The next day, I strolled the city’s downtown pedestrian shopping district, Strøget, in search of kiddie gifts for my nephews and nieces (the Lego store was a particular delight – a still-going-strong Danish-made wonder from my youth). Best part: a nicely-rendered Lego model of Nyhavn, the pretty inland canal I’d visited last time I was here.

After a splendid dinner at Anna’s flat in trendy Vesterbro, I headed out for another night on the town; since I’d already been to Copenhagen once before I was able to focus on this town’s more social delights and friends I’d made here. Plus I had an ulterior motive: late nights in Europe meant less jetlag when returning home.

Saturday was at least as ebullient a night as Friday as I headed to the place to see and be seen, Club Christopher. More of an alterna-vibe than many gay nightspots, with a far more motley assortment of gays than one would find back home in one place. I liked that; I’m not one of those fashion police types who demand that people conform to a certain look, and I found the general blending among gays and straights here, along with the mix of outfits, to be refreshing.  I spent the night chatting with a preppy straight boy who comfortably claimed to play around with guys, along with some of his pals from the unpronounceable city of Aarhus who were in town for the weekend. They were staying in a hostel dorm room, and even in fab-hostel Copenhagen their reaction was telling.

“We hate it,” one of them said. They were sharing a room with four others and quickly discovered that the backpacker way isn’t for them. Perhaps in a few years, when their income catches up, I shall introduce them to flashpacking.

Next day was another catch-up day with old friends, in this case my old college chum Cindy, her husband Jonathan, and their two kids (only one of whom was around last time), Thomas and James. Islands Brygge, their district, lay right across the water from the Wakeup and is in a sense a mirror image of where I was staying: also reclaimed industrial land, now lined with those clean, simple, ultra-modern mid-rise steel-and-glass structures for which Scandinavia has become legendary.

A couple of Cindy and Jonathan’s friends and their two kids soon join us for this little party for James’ second birthday. Thomas has grown and blossomed from the slightly shy kid I remember two years back (he insists on my photographing the tall towers of block-like toys he builds, asking solicitously in a mixed Danish-and-British accent straight out of Oliver Twist to my Yankee ears). But James, who wasn’t around yet on my last visit, is something of a bruiser, the sort of kid who bashes into things on purpose just to see what’ll happen. He demolishes his older brother’s constructs with abandon – though on the whole the two adorable little blonde kids play well together. Thomas may still look more like Jacob, my nephew who’s about the same age, but James possesses Jakie’s feisty persona. It still amazes me how the template of one’s personality begins to shine through so early.

I opted to stay out late again on Sunday night, my last in the city, again to ward off future jetlag. It proved worthwhile: even though the city was much sleepier than it was the two weekend nights, I still managed to have some fun at another couple of gay spots, where I struck up a conversation with — of all people! — a couple of dyed-blonde 18-year-olds who claimed to be twins and — wait for it — porn stars. A suitable farewell, I suppose, for my last night in Europe. After taking my leave of the boys and their mates, it was time for a checkout at the hotel, a trip back to the airport, and a long, long flight home with many new memories made back here on the Continent.

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