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.

Simple as Do, Re, Mi

What I learned today:

- Jeg hedder Franni. Jeg kommer fra USA. Jeg læser psykologi. Jeg bor på Amager, i Dragør.

(My name is Franni. I come from the USA. I am studying psychology. I live on Amager, in Dragør.)

Keep in mind, this is all pronounced: Yai HILleh Franni. Yai KOMmeh fra oo-ess-ay. Yai LAYser sookohloGEE (hard g). Yai bohr poh AHmah, ee Draeur. I kind of speak Danish with a French accent, especially the Rs, but it seems to be going well.

- the Danes don't call danish pastries "danishes", like we do in the States. Instead, they call them wienerbrød, which means "bread from Vienna." I <3 irony.

- The prime minister's wife is a contestant on the Danish version of Dancing with the Stars. Wow.

Twinkle-toes Rasmussen is on the left. Will Laura B follow her fancy footwork?

- Alfred Hitchcock was on the cover of today's newspaper. The headline described him as "uhygglit" or "not cozy." The Danes are nothing if not apt.

- The 76E, 75E and 35 buses all run from my Metro stop (Lufthavnen - the airport and end of the M2 line). Funny story: they all take you to different places, even though they should all stop at A.P. Møllers Alle. I got a little lost yesterday, and so painfully lost today that I wound up back at the airport! In addition to my aching feet from all the walking today, I had to carry not only my general crapola, but also all of my schoolbooks. So there I was, in the wilds of Amager (I had no idea what town I was in), walking down streets with no sidewalks and no signs, carrying all of my earthly academic possessions on my back. I was starving, but then remembered that I had a few carrot sticks still in my lunchbox (I had Baranger-ed... j'ai barange´, if you will). So I am walking along the highway with 2 huge sacks, eating a carrot. I probably looked like a hobo. Cars slowed to stare at me. I felt ridiculous. Fortunately, I found my way home 20 minutes later. Lesson learned: bus numbers are different for a reason. Genius, I know.

Now that I have shared all I have learned, I'm heading out to a bar with Ryan and his roommate to kill a few brain cells.

Hej hej!