King Frederick of Denmark took an awkward and cheap vacation in New York many years ago

Cindy Adams

opinion

by Cindy Adams

Stoic Danes are a royal pain

A new king has been born to Denmark. please do not worry. I do not care. Swiss people are only interested in watches and chocolate.

Danes may be concerned about what else they have to say. For me, all Danish food goes well with coffee.

This king, Frederick, 55, once trained with our SEAL team, and we probably called him Freddy.

Ambassador Edward Elson, President Clinton’s former special envoy to Copenhagen, said most of their majesties were given the baptismal name Frederick.

Anyway, I met him in 2009 when he was Prince. Preking. That’s when I reported the incident. I’ll say it again because this man is the king. And you’ll see why I replay it. Ready?

When I visited New York a while back, this wealthy and stately freebie royale was built like a cheap Hamptons share. He and his wife (now the Queen) rented a local apartment.

I don’t care if they used an aquarium to make a B&B, but the apartment they robbed was next door to mine. I did not know. And no one informed me.

So, the day they arrive, I’m home. He wears a regular schmatta decorated with permanent gravy stains. Hair after sleeping. My face is back to normal. I still have some left over mascara. And barefoot.

Plus, my favorite Yorkie, a 5-pound pure pain in the ass, is in my arms.

With his other hand, he prepares a large plastic trash bag to throw into the hallway trash can.

Hello.

I casually opened the door and went outside. I’m facing each other, inches from three tall royal bodies. Gulliver size. Ramrod stood erect and frozen, staring in horror at me, a complete phantom.

He, her, and his aide. Everyone is dressed like extras in an Ava DuVernay drama set in the 1700s. Their facial mobility was inferior to that of Mount Rushmore’s face. No one even whispered “nice doggie.”

He added Mary, now the queen, in a fully embroidered hoop-skirted ball gown. A gem that is out of reach. Hair like Marie Antoinette (before losing her head).

He is in formal uniform. Epaulette. medal. gold braid. large belt buckle. And by his side is SWORD.

It’s a sword! Manhattan apartment and SWORD. OK, there may be crime in New York, but swords?!

It’s a small hallway. Their aides in equivalent costume ensembles. As I waited for the elevator, the trio stood one tiara away from me. No one spoke. they stared. Ramrod is hard. I froze, waiting for the elevator.

I didn’t invite them over for coffee and bagels because I didn’t get along well with the neighbors.

Forgetting the slightly damp dog, my job was to get rid of the trash bags. I had no idea who they were or why they were there. I thought maybe there was a celebration somewhere that no one was invited to.

Oh, there’s more

That’s part one of the story. part 2:

Soon I will be in Denmark. Copenhagen. And on the same night that I arrive, this same prince holds another celebration. So obviously that’s what he’s doing. His career is a party.

My friends who were attending said they would invite me. forget! no! His Highness didn’t even want me to be in his country. I have zero invitations. And no further follow-up invitations will be provided.

Meanwhile, he’s now comfortable in Amalienborg Palace, with its carriages, motorcades, balconies for waving, and this queen he met in a Sydney bar – and there’s nothing more regal than this. do not have.

The country loves him and says what a good-natured, sports-loving, climate-friendly and hugely popular monarch he is.

Yeah. wonderful. got it. I’m not one to bring up the famous quote, “There’s something rotten in Denmark,” but next time you’re in the Big Apple and this easy-going popular royal sponge lets you drop off a krone for a cheap hotel room. I did.

That way I can leave my trash and my dog ​​alone. Or he can invite me to a party when I’m better dressed than his wife, wearing my American designer shmatta.