Santa Claus is coming to town?

I think Denmark can best be described through the 4 Bs:
Bread
Bikes
Blondes
Beer

Last night, I experienced the Danes' intense affection for B4, specifically Tuborg Julebryg, Christmas Beer.

The night Carlsberg releases its Christmas beer is known as "J-Dag (day)," an unofficial national holiday in which the vast majority of Danes over age 18 hit the bars. J-Dag used to be on a Tuesday, but was moved to Friday because employers complained of too many workers calling in "sick" the next day.

So, in the name of cultural experience, we decided to check it out.

"Copenhagen Weekly" described the J-Dag events, including a launch party at the Carlsberg Factory at 7:45 PM. When Gabi, Liza and I arrived, we were delighted to see snow in the streets! Fake snow, of course. Snow that looked like... foam? Beer head foam? In the road? Awesome! (but kinda gross, too)

Well, turns out the party at Carlsberg was only for Carlsberg employees. Oops. Awkward. So we joined up with a HUGE group of DIS students to head into Copenhagen proper.

All of the bars on the Strøget were decked out with lights and balloons and, yes, more beer head foam piped out from the roofs like snow. We managed to split off from the gigantic and awkward crew of Americans and find a table near the door of the Irish Rover. Everything was ridonkulously expensive (a pint of Leffe Brune was 49DKK!), but came with a free cup of Julebryg, which is really good.

According to the Carlsberg website, "Tuborg Julebryg (5.6% ABV) is a bottom-fermented, wiener beer brewed on lager, münchener and caramel malt with English liquorice. The beer is dark-golden with a fresh aroma of caramel, grain, liquorice and blackcurrant. It's excellent with traditional Christmas recipes, smoked fish, grilled/fried herring, smoked ham with curly kale, roast pork and duck."

Carlsberg employees dressed as "pixies" (elves for you Americans out there) scamper into each bar once a night with several big cases of beer, blinking santa hats, stickers and other nonsense. Everyone sings "jingle bells" with "Ju-le-bryg! Ju-le-bryg! Tuborg Julebryg!" replacing the normal words. You sing and shout and push to get free beer. Its awesome. We also caught pixietime at The Globe, which was equally a hoot.

A very merry early Christmas, everyone!

Move on up toward your destination

I leave for Sweden in 9 hours. 45 minutes ago, I realized that there are only 2 pairs of clean underwear in my drawer and I have been wearing the same jeans for the past 3 days. While waiting for my laundry so that I can start packing, I'm writing a speedy, yet newsy entry.

Music:

I am addicted to motown/soul music. I don't know when or why this happened, but I actually cannot stop listening to the "curtis mayfield" and "marvin gaye" stations on last.fm. A day without Sam & Dave's "Soul Man" is truly a day without sun. OMG "My Girl" just came on - life is good.

Midterms:

Not awful. A lot of stuff needed to get done in 6 days (3 papers, 2 outlines, 2 exams, 1 oral exam), but I think they went well.

Yom Kippur:

I had an easier fast than usual, probably because I didn't understand people when they bitched about the lack of food/water (Danish: it's all Greek to me!). I had planned to crash at Chabad after Kol Nidre, so I arrived at 3PM, when Ruchel told me to. Um, the place was locked and empty. I rang the bell and nobody answered. Knocked on the door, nobody answered. After 10 minutes, I called Mom. Never in a million years did I think I would be trying to break into a freaking Chabad center. Finally a little girl came by.

"At m'daberet ivrit?" "Kayn! Kayn!" "Bayt chabad?" "Kayn, b'vakasha!"

And she let me in. Thank you, Temple Emunah Hebrew School.

I helped Ruchel the Rebbetzin and her 67 children chop vegetables - it reminded me of Shabbat at the Bayit at Wes, except Ruchel is less of a tyrant than D.Bar.

At dinner, Seth, Gil and I listened to an old man from Jutland pontificate on the history of Danish Jewry. It was really interesting, but Gil bristled when the man told him, "vous n'e^tes pas francais. Vous e^tes Juif." Interesting clash between old and new world Judaism - but maybe the man had a point? I don't know.

Kol Nidre was pretty good. The Great Synagogue is a wonderful location for it because of its majestic size and white and gold interior. I missed the cantorial stylings of David "Srebby" Srebnick at Emunah, but I found a Siddur like the ones we use at home, so that was nice. The inscription was from Tovah Feldshuh, an actress I greatly respect, so that was cool, too.

After services, I walked back to Chabad with Gil and we hung out with Yitzy the Rabbi and 3 Yeshiva boys, just shooting the shit about politics and religion and travel. I stunned Gil by perfectly translating a couple of articles in Le Monde (my French is better than I thought!) and learned about - ready for this? - action movies for ultra-Orthodox jews. I'll try to find some titles from Yitzy and let you know how they are. The Yesiva boys were cool, 2 were British and had cute little Paul McCartney accents when speaking, but when davening, they sounded like little old men from Ze Old Country.

Anecdote: the stairwell in Chabad echoes. You know how American kids test echoes by yelling out stupid things? One of the Yeshiva boys tried it out by going "Koooooooool Niiidreeeee."

Services were spent with my new friends who recognized me from Rosh Hashanah. Sharon from Stockholm and I bonded majorly. And I saw the cute little old grandma with the sweet grandchildren, who greeted me with a, "hello, American girl who misses her family!" She then invited me to her house for the breakfast.

At the Chabad breakfast (bagels and lox! And eggsalad and tuna salad!), the man from Uruguay introduced me ("Ah! Mrs. Boston!") to his son, who is considering spending a semester studying communications at BU. The father was pounding back the whiskey shots, as was the Rabbi and every man over 30. Gut yontif, indeed.

Jonathan's Birthday:

Jonathan turned 11 on Thursday, so Friday was his birthday party with his class from school and today was the family party. The kids were SO CUTE. The party was loosely structured - entertainment ranged from watching the popcorn in the popper, playing "CounterStrike" and watching "Jackass," jumping on the trampoline, freezedance (to Rihanna's "please don't stop the music," obvi) and charades. It was funny to watch the kids: boys on 1 couch, girls on another, things like that. And Jonathan has a cute little girlfriend. Her name is Alberte. Aww...

Culture Night:

After the party, I headed into the city with Gabi, Liza, Madeline and DeDe for KulturNatten, the night when all of the museums, monuments, cafes, etc. are open late with special events. We explored the ruins under Christiansborg with a flashlight, which wasA really neat. Then we wandered around the Stroget, City Hall and Radhusplasen. So many people were in the streets! Young, old, drunk, sober... I have never seen Copenhagen this crowded before! The cobblestones at Amager Torv were sticky from all the beer spilled - it felt like a frat house floor.

Hilarious moments:

"My ex-boyfriend always wore an orange sweatshirt."

"did you date Kenny from South Park?"

On the Metro, we met the Super Mario Brothers and Hunter S. Thompson.

(After getting toasted, sugared almonds)

"You can eat the nuts."

A drunk man dancing to "Get Down (You're the One for Me)" by the Backstreet Boys.

"Are people from the Czech Republic called Czech... Republicans?"

And, oh yes, the Lederhosen boys.

Many other amazing things happened, and several facebook albums shall be made, but I need to get ready for bed soon. Plus I didn't even mention...

The Canal Tour of Copenhagen

and

Jonathan's Birthday Party 2.0

(or, how I ate my weight in carbohydrates - twice).

Hopefully I won't forget after the trip to Sweden and Estonia. I just hope my clothes are dry enough to pack by now...

So this is the New Year (5759)

Happy Jew Year, everyone! Sorry I didn't update over the last couple of days, I tried to avoid using the computer on chag.

Needless to say, spending the High Holy Days (Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur) with a continent's distance from my family and without any Jewish friends resulted in major homesickness on my part. The worst moment was when I realized that I have not given or received a hug in 6 weeks - and all of you should know how much I love hugs.

Walking up to "The Great Synagogue" on Krystalgade for Monday ma'ariv (evening services), I noticed that the entire building is surrounded by a high metal fence. There are no lamps or signs in front of the shul, but there are 2 security guards. I was shocked when they started interrogating me ("what is your business here?" "uh... to pray?"), and became fairly confused and disoriented. My thoughts consisted mostly of "What the crap am I doing in Denmark instead of Lexington, MA?" and "Oh my G-d Oh my G-d Oh my G-d," the latter of which, in retrospect is pretty ironic and hilarious. I think I looked like I was about to cry, because the guard eventually smiled at me and told me I wasn't the only DIS student there.



10 minutes later and relieved to be done with the Danish Inquisition, I walked into the sanctuary and quickly realized that it was Orthodox. I looked down, saw my bare elbows, and worried about being perceived as some Jezebel, but it was too late. I was already inside and couldn't keep my fleece on all evening.

The Great Synagogue is exactly what I'd imagined an old, European temple would look like. The sanctuary is HUGE - men sit on the main floor in front of the biggest aron kodesh (fancy closet that holds the Torah scrolls) I have ever seen. Women sit in a balcony on the sides and in the back of the room, per Orthodox tradition.

Though the building looked just like I expected, the sound of the room was odd. The cantor was positively incoherent and sang far too quickly; basically, he chanted the Hebrew like Danes speak Danish. It was impossible for me to keep up, not that it would have mattered, because no one in the shul was singing along. Most of the women and girls were chit-chatting at obnoxious volumes (Mom, I'm sorry for all of the times I got mad when you would talk at Emunah. These ladies make you seem like a freakin' churchmouse [shul-mouse?]). As for the men, they were also quiet, leaving the praying to the cantor and a small choir of 7 men.

Dinner was at the Rabbi's flat inside a wing of the synagogue. I found a couple of Prozdor girls among the crowd, but our conversations were brief and stilted. Turns out, I was the only DIS student who came without a posse of at least 3 friends. Fabulous. The moments leading up to dinner were painful reminders of why I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to USY events back in the day.

As I resigned myself to an evening of delicious food yet sour company, the girl sitting in front of me at services asked if she and her friend could sit at our table. I might have pulled over a chair with a little too much enthusiasm, but they didn't seem to mind. They were students from Tel Aviv, learning about the fairy tale tradition in Denmark and Norway for 3 months. The Israeli girls and I talked the whole evening, debating politics, religion, food and culture (after playing a quick round of "Jewish Geography" - one has a cousin who goes to Wellesley College! The other was a counselor at YJ!) No real revelations of note: they worry about Obama's "being good for Israel," doubt Livni's potential for success in forming a government, and think I am compromising the integrity of Rosh Hashanah by taking the Metro on chag. Needless to say, we mostly disagreed on the aforementioned subjects, but I really enjoyed talking to them. They invited me to Chabad for lunch after services the next day, and I accepted.

Now, David Baranger, I can feel your eyes rolling all the way from Paris. Yes, I did go to Chabad and yes, I did have a nice time and no, I am not currently wearing a sheitel and planning on having 7 sons named "Yossi." (For those of you who don't know, Chabad is an ultra-Orthdox brand of Judaism who kind of proselytize to less observant Jews) The Rabbi and Rebetzin were young, warm, funny and very kind. I am planning to stay with them for Yom Kippur so I don't have to deal with the commute to and from the city.

Lunch was essentially a refugee camp for wandering Jews. We had a Holocaust survivor-cum-cab driver-cum-businessman from Latvia (now Miami). We had a French Jew who is studying economics/partying in Århus. We had a former merchant marine from Denmark who has sailed around the world. I met people from Uruguay, Morocco, England, Israel and the US. We talked about travels and politics and education... everything! Its like that song we learned in Hebrew School; "wherever you go, there's always someone Jewish..."

Lunch lasted for 3 hours. I forgot about the different courses, so I loaded up on salads (7 or 8 different kinds! Plus hummus and olives and other yummy, Israeli tapas things) and challah before we got to the main course, goulash and rice and kugel and "modern tzimmes" (carrots and sweet potatoes in puff pastry - delicious!).

Funny story: on the way to taslich, we passed a man walking his chocolate lab. The dog affectionately hopped up on my legs, and I gave him a good ear tousel. Gil, with whom I had been walking, ran away. When I finally caught up with him, he looked at me with this glare of disdain that only the French can give and declared, "I 'ate dogs." It was such a French stereotype, I almost fell down laughing. I don't think Gil got the joke...

The next day I came back for more of the same. The food and international company were wonderful - I got invited to join a Jewish women's group! I heard more differing perspectives on the election (apparently, Obama is a self-proclaimed Muslim with connections to the mafia who should get deported. That one was from an American)! I got invited to join a Jewish women's group! Good times.

Anyway, shanah tovah tikateivu - may you be inscribed in the book of life! And have a good and sweet year.
Ahava,

Come on ride the train (hey ride it!)

2 stories about public transportation that can only happen in Denmark:

1. On the bus this morning, the driver was going so miserably, impossibly slow that I was concerned there was something wrong with the engine. Finally, she stops the vehicle and makes some hasty apology to the passengers. I look up from my book and notice that she had taken out a digital camera in order to capture a sailboat gliding across the water. It was a gorgeous shot: the clouds thick and puffy, the windmills churning away, the water bluer than usual, I swear it. Then she thanked us for our patience and started off again for the airport.

2. Boarding the Metro at 10AM, there was a man behind me who reeked of cigarettes. I heard him pop a jumbo can of Tuborg and start to down the beer. 10AM? Who is this dude?
Next stop, another man smelling of cigarettes gets on the bus and sits at the seat adjacent to me. He looks back and notices the first guy, then pulls out his own extra-large can of Tuborg. "Skål," he says to his partner is early mornin' drinkin'.
"Skål," the first man replies.
They drink.

Disco Infiltrator

Friday was the start of my first official EuroWeekend. On my way to Ryan and Toke's apartment, I literally bumped into John and Walter, two of my wandering buddies. They had just bought some Tuborgs from a convenience store and were heading to the park at Kongeporten (King's Gate) to drink them. I bought a can of Tuborg Grøen (green beer? sign this lil' irish wannabe up!) from 7-11 and decided to join them.

I'm standing quietly and, I thought, inconspicuously on line when all of a sudden some dude comes up to me and starts yammering in Danish. From the tone of his voice, I can tell he is teasing me, so I let him know that I don't speak Danish. "Oh," he says, "I just wanted to make sure you didn't go too crazy tonight! You're drinking one whole beer! Be sure to drink a lot of water before you go to bed tonight!" I laughed and thanked him for his concern, thinking that would be the end of it, but he just kept going. On and on with the same joke until I booked it out of there.
This dude was either a) a total a-hole, b) flirting with me, or c) drunk of his ass at 8 PM. I'm betting on A.

We sat on a bench in the park, drinking beer, chatting and people-watching. A group of teenagers started talking at us. When we didn't respond, one yelled, "where are you from?"
"America," we replied.
One kid perked up, "oh yeah? Me too! I'm from New Jersey!"
"Where in Jersey?" I asked, skeptical because of his thick, Scandinavian accent.
"Harlem!"
The three of us cracked up and walked away. "Next time you try that, remember that Harlem is in New York! " I called over my shoulder.

Whoever said Danes were unfriendly was a zillion percent wrong.

For the second time, we saw a group of tipsy young people twirling in a public place. "The Danes enjoy spinning and drinking," John mused. I proposed doing our final project for Danish language and culture class on the alcohol-induced vertigo that plagues the Danish people. "Wait until we see another, then it has to be more than a coincidence," advised John. 20 minutes later, we saw a kid run around a small pond 3 times, then stagger over to a tree, about to yak. I think our thesis is safe.

The DIS party at Luux was fun. I wound up leaving with Toke, Gabriel and a few girls for Vega, a popular Danish nightclub, around midnight. Toke knew a guy, so we skipped the velvet rope and got in for free (although Gabriel had to pretend to be "Simon Werner" and nobody knew why...). The second floor was a total Eurotrash techno bash - Eclectic parties on steroids and ecstasy, if you will. After a little raving, we headed over to Nørreport St. (aka Schwarma Street) for some late-night goodies.

The Danish party scene takes over the night air. House music blares from discos on every corner, drunk people stumble along the sidewalks, taking full advantage of the lack of open container laws, dudes with the munchies fall out of 7-11s like so many Tic-Tacs. Everyone is just stoked that its the weekend and wants you to have a good time as well: that is the best way to describe Danish nightlife.

Sidebar:
The 5 million DKK (1 million USD) question is:
How do these European women manage to walk on cobblestone streets in oh-so-stylish shoes 24/7 without breaking a heel or their necks? Discuss.

Get out the map, get out the map and lay your finger anywhere down

Wander
(verb)
1. To move about without a definite destination or purpose.
2. To go by an indirect route or at no set pace; amble: wander toward town.
3. To proceed in an irregular course; meander.
4. To go astray: wander from the path of righteousness.
5. To lose clarity or coherence of thought or expression.
(source: thefreedictionary.com)

I didn't come into DIS with many expecations about the program (this attitude, according to one of the interns' welcome speeches, is the desired state of mind.); however, what I did expect was to fulfill thefreedictionary.com's first three definitions of the verb "to wander," while never approaching #4 or #5.

Today, after 3 days of forced and awkward orientation, I began my wandering adventure.

I met up with three kids from my Danish class for a little exploring after the day's scheduled activities. John, Madeline and I had earlier explored the Strøget (the Newbury Street of Copenhagen), finding myriad overpriced clothing stores, ice cream shops and bars... and one "Erotica Museum." Meanwhile, Walter had discovered a stairwell in the middle of a street somewhere that apparently led to nowhere. We wanted to find this mysterious, enchanted staircase, too, so off we went.


Our initial goal was quickly forgotten when we came to a square off of Vestergade and noticed a group of Danes running around a giant inflatable can of Tuborg. One at a time, they ran backward around the can 3 times, then they would get hoisted by the remaining members of the group and drop a ring onto a peg, like at a carnival. We stood in the middle of the square and watched them. This was much more entertaining than 'The Mystery of the Hidden Staircase' (which turned out to be a public bathroom, by the way). After the group finished their task, they celebrating by toasting their success with real bottles of beer. Then they turned to us and waved. We went over to say hi, and it turns out that they are students at Copenhagen Business School and this was a teamp-building task for their orientation. After chatting for a bit, we continued on our merry way.

Allowing ourselves one tourist moment for the afternoon, Walter broke out his map. We selected a street at (almost) random: Vesterbrogade. And we were off.

When we reached Rådhuspladsen, Madeline broke into hysterics and Walter blushed. I asked John what was up. "That man's shorts are really small." Sure enough, at a pølsen (sausage) cart, there was an old man wearing a pair of Denim cutoffs that were more the size of a wide belt. It was obscene. I was in shock. "I love this city," I thought, as we crossed the street.
(it was worse than this! much, much worse.)

We walked for about 45 minutes, taking the scenic route. Along the way, we found a block with an awful lot of tatoo parlors. The tatoo parlors then came to intermingle with bars, then sex shops, then a stripper/go-go dancer emporium. Inexplicably, there also were a lot of classy-looking Indian restaurants sprinkled in for good measure. Turns out, we were in the former red-light district of Copenhagen. Super.

It was raining, a steady mist and the city looked beautiful and old. We were all walking together, but the group was quiet, each lost in our thoughts on our new home.

And we kept walking. Past the neighborhood of Muslim immigrants, with the smell of schwarma in the air, Arabic writing on the signs, halal meat in the windows. Past trendy cafes and hair salons. Past the "blue video store," which advertised "bondage and spanking" and was conveniently located next to the "my little pony" shop. Then someone realized we were walking in the wrong direction, and probably had been for the past 20 minutes. It started to rain harder, but we continued, not wanting to wimp out and take the 6A back to Nørreport Station.

We finally made it back to the metro, and each headed back to hir respected host families. I was damp from the rain, but smiled the whole train ride home. Copenhagen is beginning to feel like it can be mine. I can't wait to wander again tomorrow.

Hard-Knock Life

Remember that story about how I got lost this afternoon? Well...

I went into Copenhagen to meet up with Ryan and Liza from Wes, as well as a few other DIS kids and Ryan's Danish roomate, Toke (whose name suits his lifestyle, if you know what I mean). We went to the L.A. Bar, which was a great scene. They were playing oldies by the Beach Boys and Little Richard, everyone was dancing and draft beer was 20DKK (4USD) a pint. We headed onto a street corner to finish our Tuborgs, and the girls promptly got accosted by a group of Danish soldiers who left Afghanistan 3 days ago.

Background: The Danes have been a part of "Operation Enduring Freedom" since 2002, mostly supporting the American and British troops in main battle tanks. 15 Danes have died in combat. (source: wikipedia, and Emil. more on him soon...)

"My" soldier was named Emil, and he had fought in the tanks on the frontline in a mostly British battalion. When I asked him why, at age 22, he risked everything in his life - well-knowing the consequences - to fight in a war that didn't directly concern him, he answered quickly, directly and honestly. "I wanted to do something bigger than myself that I can tell my grandchildren about."

That blew my mind. I thought of my grandfather, the college-educated farm boy who enlisted in the airforce during World War II because he believed in American and helping his people in Europe. That heroism has always amazed me, and I was impressed with Emil's foresight into his legacy. And he seemed sincere! I don't think he just wanted to impress the tipsy American girl who was just really excited to be talking to a handsome, older, foreign soldier with an adorable accent (part Danish, part Brit).

He asked me why I came to Copenhagen. I talked about my desire for independance, my concern about the sheltered life I have led for the past 20 years with few risks, yet many calculations and concrete plans. He seemed unenthused. Of course he would. He literally risked life and limb. I am risking missing a semester of partying and Scott Higgins sightings. Whoop-de-friggin'-do.

I thought about our conversation/kicked myself for not getting Emil's number on the train ride back to Dragør. When I arrived at the last metro stop, I waited alone and in the dark for 15 minutes. I didn't feel too concerned (I am in one of the safest cities in the world, after all), but when my bus sped past the stop without hesitation, I got concerned. It was the last one of the night.

I called Jacob, my host dad. It was about 12:15AM. I asked him what to do. He said they were sleeping and I should just hail a cab at terminal 3. Before I could ask how that would be done, he hung up. I followed the signs to terminal 3, but they just took me back to where I was before. I started to freak out. It is pitch black, the airport is deserted, I am not entirely sober, I have no idea what the signs mean and... and... I was just about to start crying when a cab came.

The driver spoke English, thank the little lord baby Jesus, and I tried to tell him where to drop me. I don't know my host family's address, so I tried to name the bus stop. He had a hard time understanding me until I wrote it down. As soon as he got what I was trying to say, we were off. I was so relieved and tired and tipsy that I starting crying.

"Why are you crying?" he asked me, "what is there to cry about?"
I explained.
"That is nothing!" he said, though not in a mean way. "You are fine! Everything will be fine! I come here from Albania not knowing anything and I am fine. My mother, she has no home and she is fine. No cry, now, no cry."
I giggle-sobbed at his kindness and apologized for being a big baby. I wasn't in my right mind, I said, trying to find an excuse.
"when you have no money, then you can cry," he said.

Well didn't I feel like an asshole. I am no hero for coming to Denmark. My adventure here is only daring when compared to my reality at home. In the harsh, cold, real world (not the MTV version of hot tubs and bisexuality), I am a coddled Westerner, privileged in every way. I am no Gramps or Emil or Albanian cabdriver, doing something greater than myself. I am spending my youth selfishly, despite my attempts at helping the greater good (which as all still so calculated and safe).

With that perspective, I am going to pass out. Tomorrow is a new day.