Most of the people I have met here are fairly worldly. Often they are foreign nationals, they have gone to school abroad, they work for the UN, they spend their summers researching in Africa... it's easy to forget the other half. It's very easy to forget that some of my neighbors have never been so far away as the airport.
Yesterday, I stop into a convenience store. When I space out, as I often do, on the debit card machine, the young man behind the counter asks me where I'm from. I get this a lot. When I say the US, his eyes light up.
"The US!" he says with heavy accent. "I want to go to New York!"
I nod. "New York is great."
"I hear it is big--much bigger than even Copenhagen."
I almost laugh. How would you compare the endless urban landscape of the five boroughs to tiny, genteel Copenhagen? There are more people in New York City than in all of Denmark. "It is bigger, yes."
"I hear that the trains in New York," he continues, making excited gestures now, "travel underground, on top of each other." His tone and expression turn skeptical, so I nod again. "Yes, that's true."
"And they built the tallest building in the 1930s..." I realize he means the Empire State building, which is now, again, the tallest building in NYC.
"Yes."
"Amazing..."
He looks wistfully at some midpoint near the Dorritos, and for all my world-weary condescension, I suddenly remember a 20-year-old me in New York for the first time... I remember how I felt: humbled, scared, exhilarated. I realize that I still feel that way.
"It's very big and very exciting. You should go if you ever have the chance," I say, sad because he probably won't. I turn to leave.
"Yes," he agrees. "Yes, I want to go to New York. And to Detroit City!"
"Um.." Okay, sure. Rock on.
The weird thing is that I have more in common with the guy behind the counter than I do with most of the people I know here. I've been starstruck by Europe. Much like my first trip to New York, I walk around amazed. So different... so old... so beautiful.
I can just imagine this kid hopping up and down in front of the Statue of Liberty, because if I ever get to see the Eiffel Tower, I'm going to pee my pants.
December 3, 2009
November 24, 2009
Barackstar
I was walking by the lakes the other day, and I saw this boy playing with his friends. They were all maybe about 12 or 13. Now that's an age where what your friends think of you matters. That's an age where--particularly here, it seems--kids start claiming a sense of style highly influenced by their peers. So what was this boy wearing?
An Obama t-shirt. Specifically the ubiquitous "Hope"/Fairey image, which we could argue is losing all meaning and impact based on its now-iconic status--much like Che Guevara--but that's a post for another day.
The point is, when was the last time you saw a teenager wearing the face of a US president in a non-ironic way? In Europe, he's crazy popular. In Denmark, his name is spray painted on buildings. Not "Suck it Obama," but honest to God... just "Obama."
That there is a collective sigh of relief in Europe over Obama's election is hardly news. And I'm probably the 40 billionth blogger to say it, but I understand how deeply reviled Bush must have been here when I see things like this:
And this:
I know that Barack Obama isn't the Second Coming--there can be no such thing in politics--but gosh it's nice to have him there... especially while I'm over here.
An Obama t-shirt. Specifically the ubiquitous "Hope"/Fairey image, which we could argue is losing all meaning and impact based on its now-iconic status--much like Che Guevara--but that's a post for another day.
The point is, when was the last time you saw a teenager wearing the face of a US president in a non-ironic way? In Europe, he's crazy popular. In Denmark, his name is spray painted on buildings. Not "Suck it Obama," but honest to God... just "Obama."
That there is a collective sigh of relief in Europe over Obama's election is hardly news. And I'm probably the 40 billionth blogger to say it, but I understand how deeply reviled Bush must have been here when I see things like this:
And this:
I know that Barack Obama isn't the Second Coming--there can be no such thing in politics--but gosh it's nice to have him there... especially while I'm over here.
November 17, 2009
Bright Blessed Day
I was thinking about Maslow's hierarchy of needs, today--you know air, water, food, shelter. And then farther on down the list, things like companionship, confidence, creative outlets... essentially all of the reasons that self-help programs are so popular. But you know what's not on the pyramid? Not anywhere? Not even in the highest levels (and therefore lowest priority)?
Sunlight. It's just not there. And you can't piggyback it with something like homeostasis. That's simply a catch-all for the fact that we need to be generally not ill or, say, stuck in a walk-in freezer.
We are not algae or bacteria. On a very technical level--even if you take in the whole vitamin D business--sunlight isn't a requirement. Isn't that odd?
Today, I went for a walk and took this picture. This is high noon in Scandinavia.
While I was trying to get a shot light enough, I realized that this strange woman was speaking to me.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I said," she repeated in English, pointing to the sky, "that it's beautiful isn't it?"
And even though I took this picture because I knew you all would be incredulous--even though it was a weak, watery sun behind our traditional blanket of grey--I couldn't help but agree.
"It is," I said. "It really is."
Sunlight. It's just not there. And you can't piggyback it with something like homeostasis. That's simply a catch-all for the fact that we need to be generally not ill or, say, stuck in a walk-in freezer.
We are not algae or bacteria. On a very technical level--even if you take in the whole vitamin D business--sunlight isn't a requirement. Isn't that odd?
Today, I went for a walk and took this picture. This is high noon in Scandinavia.
While I was trying to get a shot light enough, I realized that this strange woman was speaking to me.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I said," she repeated in English, pointing to the sky, "that it's beautiful isn't it?"
And even though I took this picture because I knew you all would be incredulous--even though it was a weak, watery sun behind our traditional blanket of grey--I couldn't help but agree.
"It is," I said. "It really is."
November 15, 2009
Voyeur
The view from our apartment, from all three windows of our apartment, is... other apartments. Other people, other rooms, other candles flickering over other lives. I cannot tell you how seductive this is, how very much I want to look.
From the sink, as I wash dishes, there are two or three lives that specifically draw my attention. There's the family across and below--the baby there just graduated to a "big kid" bed. They have colorful dishes, which the father always washes in a separate dish pan. I wonder why.
There is the couple down to the right. He wears boxer shorts; she is small and pretty and dark. They don't often cook, but they entertain friends now and then, congregating in their kitchen with beer in bottles--never cans. And then there is the young woman above them, whose bedroom is also visible. She likes espresso, and has no qualms about being naked in front of her open windows.
They all have one thing in common: they never look back. Is this part of the Danish "mind your own business" personality? I suppose I'm being terribly rude. I suppose I should keep my eyes on the sink, on the cars in the street. But how human is that?
Maricris, who probably doesn't look much herself, tells me that if we were in Puerto Rico, everyone would look. You couldn't stop them; grandmothers would be swapping stories about how the people in the adjacent apartment probably couldn't afford that big screen TV... how if they spent less time in front of it, they might have a baby or two by now...
Honestly, I can't believe the Danes don't look. They must. They must look up from their sinks every so often and wonder about the strange girl who sits at her computer so much of the day. The girl with the crazy hair and the Polo shirts. "Bet she's not Danish," they say. "I wonder why she never looks back..."
From the sink, as I wash dishes, there are two or three lives that specifically draw my attention. There's the family across and below--the baby there just graduated to a "big kid" bed. They have colorful dishes, which the father always washes in a separate dish pan. I wonder why.
There is the couple down to the right. He wears boxer shorts; she is small and pretty and dark. They don't often cook, but they entertain friends now and then, congregating in their kitchen with beer in bottles--never cans. And then there is the young woman above them, whose bedroom is also visible. She likes espresso, and has no qualms about being naked in front of her open windows.
They all have one thing in common: they never look back. Is this part of the Danish "mind your own business" personality? I suppose I'm being terribly rude. I suppose I should keep my eyes on the sink, on the cars in the street. But how human is that?
Maricris, who probably doesn't look much herself, tells me that if we were in Puerto Rico, everyone would look. You couldn't stop them; grandmothers would be swapping stories about how the people in the adjacent apartment probably couldn't afford that big screen TV... how if they spent less time in front of it, they might have a baby or two by now...
Honestly, I can't believe the Danes don't look. They must. They must look up from their sinks every so often and wonder about the strange girl who sits at her computer so much of the day. The girl with the crazy hair and the Polo shirts. "Bet she's not Danish," they say. "I wonder why she never looks back..."
November 9, 2009
It's Oh So Quiet...
Riding my bike home from a friend's apartment tonight, I could hear only one thing: my own breath.
Okay, so maybe I'm not so fit. Maybe I do sound a little like a hyperventilating walrus when I pedal through the city center. I'll concede that. But the fact is that Copenhagen is revealing many sides of herself to me, and the most profound of these is that she is silent.
I mean silent like worship. I mean soft as snow. Muffled. Hushed. Riding my bike this evening, it was me, my walrus breathing, and the sound of this city -- the wind, the crystalline, almost gothic, cackle of leaves over cold streets... the nothing.
When I am in my apartment -- on the third floor -- I can hear the clip of a kick stand across the street. I can hear a car over cobblestones three blocks away. At three in the afternoon, I hear the children laughing as they come home from school; I hear church bells at six. In short, I can hear everything -- and nothing.
The peace is immense, almost painful, but this is not to say that nothing is happening. This is not the quiet of a small town on a Sunday evening. This is not the quiet of desertion. It's the quiet of Denmark. Of the Danes.
Copenhagen is a city packed with people, with bars and gatherings and a hundred thousand bicycles. And there are children -- so many tiny children! At the risk of seeming trite, they are undoubtably the happiest, most contented, quietest children I have ever seen. They put something in the water here; even the dogs are reticent and mild-mannered. I've yet to hear one bark.
But this is the funny thing. In a city where babies sleep noiselessly outside of genteel restaurants, a city where I might hear a petal plucked from the garden on my street, I am somehow ten times louder. I am American, hear me talk!
And talk. A lot. I can't seem to shut up. Whenever I meet someone new -- and this city is full of someones new -- even I am embarrassed as my lips move. I am helpless to stop them. What is it? Is it the fact that I am often alone? Is it that I don't speak the language, and am all too happy to exercise my own? Is it the very Danish silence that burdens me to break it?
I've been criticized for talking too much -- perhaps from the time I could talk. It's not so sad a quality of itself. I do it because it's sociable; I despise the awkward lull. I do it because I want you to feel comfortable. And I do it because I want you to understand.
But I've come to find that, with all of these words, I'm not saying much. I'm not saying all the things I thought I was saying. I am reverb; I am white noise. I am the sonic equivalent of a porno mag: all reveal and no revelation.
Then so, among the many lessons this city would teach me, perhaps I am listening. I'm getting that what I say is not the same as what I do. I get that what I do prevents me from learning who you are. And the revelation -- as sound as a breath over silent streets -- is that I very much want to hear it.
I want to hear it all.
.
Okay, so maybe I'm not so fit. Maybe I do sound a little like a hyperventilating walrus when I pedal through the city center. I'll concede that. But the fact is that Copenhagen is revealing many sides of herself to me, and the most profound of these is that she is silent.
I mean silent like worship. I mean soft as snow. Muffled. Hushed. Riding my bike this evening, it was me, my walrus breathing, and the sound of this city -- the wind, the crystalline, almost gothic, cackle of leaves over cold streets... the nothing.
When I am in my apartment -- on the third floor -- I can hear the clip of a kick stand across the street. I can hear a car over cobblestones three blocks away. At three in the afternoon, I hear the children laughing as they come home from school; I hear church bells at six. In short, I can hear everything -- and nothing.
The peace is immense, almost painful, but this is not to say that nothing is happening. This is not the quiet of a small town on a Sunday evening. This is not the quiet of desertion. It's the quiet of Denmark. Of the Danes.
Copenhagen is a city packed with people, with bars and gatherings and a hundred thousand bicycles. And there are children -- so many tiny children! At the risk of seeming trite, they are undoubtably the happiest, most contented, quietest children I have ever seen. They put something in the water here; even the dogs are reticent and mild-mannered. I've yet to hear one bark.
But this is the funny thing. In a city where babies sleep noiselessly outside of genteel restaurants, a city where I might hear a petal plucked from the garden on my street, I am somehow ten times louder. I am American, hear me talk!
And talk. A lot. I can't seem to shut up. Whenever I meet someone new -- and this city is full of someones new -- even I am embarrassed as my lips move. I am helpless to stop them. What is it? Is it the fact that I am often alone? Is it that I don't speak the language, and am all too happy to exercise my own? Is it the very Danish silence that burdens me to break it?
I've been criticized for talking too much -- perhaps from the time I could talk. It's not so sad a quality of itself. I do it because it's sociable; I despise the awkward lull. I do it because I want you to feel comfortable. And I do it because I want you to understand.
But I've come to find that, with all of these words, I'm not saying much. I'm not saying all the things I thought I was saying. I am reverb; I am white noise. I am the sonic equivalent of a porno mag: all reveal and no revelation.
Then so, among the many lessons this city would teach me, perhaps I am listening. I'm getting that what I say is not the same as what I do. I get that what I do prevents me from learning who you are. And the revelation -- as sound as a breath over silent streets -- is that I very much want to hear it.
I want to hear it all.
.
October 26, 2009
Time Change
I have been consoling myself lately with Ecclesiastes 3, the famous passage from the Bible that says "To every thing, there is a season..." Sure, it made a groovy song in the 60s, but this is also just profound advice. There is a time for every purpose, great and small, wise or wicked. However set those times may be, however, it seems governments the world over are not content. It seems that even Denmark is not immune to the idiocy of "Daylight Savings."
I realize there is a history and yes, sort of kind of, a purpose for the time change. The only thing it has ever meant to me, however, is that we lose an hour of evening light in winter. Of course, in Florida, that doesn't mean much, particularly when every single winter day brings a glorious gift of sunshine so abundant and clear and brilliant, that each morning fills with bird song and squirrels help you tie your apron into place...
The descent into the winter season here in Copenhagen -- whose nearest neighbors are countries like Sweden, Russia, Norway -- is a little more profound. By my calculations, we've lost something like six hours of light in four months. It's amazing, actually. It makes me wonder exactly what sort of position we're in, here. Where, exactly, are we in relation to the sun?
That's a picture taken by the "lakes" here in Copenhagen, around 2 pm. These days the sun doesn't get up much higher than that. It comes up over the buildings, and then slides along sideways for a few hours before dipping back below them. And it's only October.
Aside from the sadness of losing the sun -- of feeling guilt prickle over the years of light and heat I often complained about -- I find this whole process somewhat fascinating. And just a little bit ominous. People here talk about "winter" as if it were an animal, a beast to guard against. "Be careful..." they say; "Just wait."
Theoretically, I'm going to learn a lesson, here. To everything there is a season, indeed. A time for light and a time for dark; a time to get, a time to lose. A time for plane tickets to Florida, and a time to gather your flip flops together.
I realize there is a history and yes, sort of kind of, a purpose for the time change. The only thing it has ever meant to me, however, is that we lose an hour of evening light in winter. Of course, in Florida, that doesn't mean much, particularly when every single winter day brings a glorious gift of sunshine so abundant and clear and brilliant, that each morning fills with bird song and squirrels help you tie your apron into place...
The descent into the winter season here in Copenhagen -- whose nearest neighbors are countries like Sweden, Russia, Norway -- is a little more profound. By my calculations, we've lost something like six hours of light in four months. It's amazing, actually. It makes me wonder exactly what sort of position we're in, here. Where, exactly, are we in relation to the sun?
That's a picture taken by the "lakes" here in Copenhagen, around 2 pm. These days the sun doesn't get up much higher than that. It comes up over the buildings, and then slides along sideways for a few hours before dipping back below them. And it's only October.
Aside from the sadness of losing the sun -- of feeling guilt prickle over the years of light and heat I often complained about -- I find this whole process somewhat fascinating. And just a little bit ominous. People here talk about "winter" as if it were an animal, a beast to guard against. "Be careful..." they say; "Just wait."
Theoretically, I'm going to learn a lesson, here. To everything there is a season, indeed. A time for light and a time for dark; a time to get, a time to lose. A time for plane tickets to Florida, and a time to gather your flip flops together.
October 20, 2009
My Polo Shirts Give Me Away
I am known in certain circles as a trendsetter. I brought wool socks to Florida. I single-handedly popularized safari hats for everyday wear, and I have extended the appeal of flannel shirts well beyond their normal life span.
Still, it was a small surprise when, speaking with a new Danish friend recently, I learned the full extent of my otherness.
"I suppose people here can tell I'm not Scandinavian pretty quickly," I admitted, considering my outgoing personality and general doofiness on a bicycle.
"Yes," she said. "It's mostly the Polo shirts."
Really? Polo shirts? Since when are Polo shirts not cool?
Okay, you see, trend-setting status aside, the style genre I am generally most comfortable with would fit somewhere in the mid 1990s. I'm talking preppie GAP-cum-wannabe grunge. I like plaid. I like Army/Navy stuff. I like layering long-sleeve shirts under skater t-shirts. I like Doc Martins.
This look is the antithesis of now. Particularly now in Scandinavia. The look here is (and I am surprised to find, has been for some time) skinny jeans. Aptly named because you do need to be skinny to look good in them. Lacking that, there is even a revival of what I'm hoping is an "ironic" tight-roll. Exhibit A:
Those socks and shoes are totally rad, too, apparently. (In my world, grunge rockers and riot grrls beat the crap out of dudes like this.)
So, fine. Scandinavia is all big scarves and long sweaters and leggings and leg warmers. So what? I rocked the eighties once already. I think once is enough. I'm just going to stay right here in my boot-cut GAP classics until they come back around again. By my calculations, it could be any day now.
Still, it was a small surprise when, speaking with a new Danish friend recently, I learned the full extent of my otherness.
"I suppose people here can tell I'm not Scandinavian pretty quickly," I admitted, considering my outgoing personality and general doofiness on a bicycle.
"Yes," she said. "It's mostly the Polo shirts."
Really? Polo shirts? Since when are Polo shirts not cool?
Okay, you see, trend-setting status aside, the style genre I am generally most comfortable with would fit somewhere in the mid 1990s. I'm talking preppie GAP-cum-wannabe grunge. I like plaid. I like Army/Navy stuff. I like layering long-sleeve shirts under skater t-shirts. I like Doc Martins.
This look is the antithesis of now. Particularly now in Scandinavia. The look here is (and I am surprised to find, has been for some time) skinny jeans. Aptly named because you do need to be skinny to look good in them. Lacking that, there is even a revival of what I'm hoping is an "ironic" tight-roll. Exhibit A:
Those socks and shoes are totally rad, too, apparently. (In my world, grunge rockers and riot grrls beat the crap out of dudes like this.)
So, fine. Scandinavia is all big scarves and long sweaters and leggings and leg warmers. So what? I rocked the eighties once already. I think once is enough. I'm just going to stay right here in my boot-cut GAP classics until they come back around again. By my calculations, it could be any day now.
October 14, 2009
All the Little Steps
A year! It's impossible that it's been a year. It can't possibly have been a year since I last wrote.
Let's see... we were just thinking about selling the house... painting... getting ready. It wasn't real until the furniture started to go, piecemeal--the porch stuff to Cathy, the sofa to Karen, the bistro table to Amber and Eve. It will be so strange to come across those pieces again, I think. Like ex-lovers to whom you were once given every permission.
And then the house was sold. And then it was emptied. And then it was cleaned. We left two beer caps under the eaves on the porch, a bottle of champaign in the fridge. Done. All the loose ends tied up so well, it seemed as though they were cauterized...
There's no point in dwelling on them because now I am here. We are here together, in Denmark, and that was the whole point. I didn't really think too much about life beyond that. But one of my favorite mottos says when you are in doubt, take the next small step.
So, I got a bike. Disregarding Maricris's advice, I got a cushy, brown city bike--the bike I always wanted. Which is so heavy, so cumbersome in this city's staggering wind, we call her La Vaca.
I thought about working... in a cafe, maybe. Or the newspaper. The language is an issue; the paperwork is an issue. I don't want to believe that disinformation and discouragement could be Immigration's MO, but, as in their personal lives, the Danes do seem to have all the people they need, thank you.
But, because it looks like, optimistically, many of my future posts will be about life in Copenhagen -- and I don't want anyone to think I'm not excited about that -- here's a quick list of what I like about this place:
• After thousands of years of Scandinavian weather, it's understandable that people here place great importance on warmth and comfort. If you've read anything about Denmark, you've heard of the term "hygge," which is not so much a word to be defined as an experience. It's what you want your guests to feel when they visit your home, and I think the bars and cafes -- and the few Danes I've visited -- do a nice job of achieving it.
• While I really haven't met many Danes -- they're so reticent, it seems -- I have met a lot of folks from elsewhere. Brits, Germans, Australians,Turks, Spaniards, Canadians, South Americans... and quite often Norwegians and Swedes, of course. It seems everyone here is from somewhere else, which is at once delightful and encouraging, even if it means my paperwork may take that much longer.
• It's a beautiful city. Copenhagen makes good use of its water- and lakefronts, and (for the most part) rather seamlessly incorporates the new with the old. It's easy to navigate by foot, bike or bus, with very little car traffic. Coming from the US, I underestimated how great a relief that would be.
• Lastly, it's in Europe. I've wanted to go to Europe all my life and now I live here. So it's not exactly Spain or Tuscany... but I am relatively close to many of Northern Europe's finer cities. I'm looking forward to Berlin, Amsterdam, Brussels, London and, of course, Paris.
So there's the year, more or less. One thing leads to another out of habit; I find myself amazed how I manage to do so much without really trying at all... baby steps through the hallway... baby steps down the stairs... baby steps out to the bike...
Let's see... we were just thinking about selling the house... painting... getting ready. It wasn't real until the furniture started to go, piecemeal--the porch stuff to Cathy, the sofa to Karen, the bistro table to Amber and Eve. It will be so strange to come across those pieces again, I think. Like ex-lovers to whom you were once given every permission.
And then the house was sold. And then it was emptied. And then it was cleaned. We left two beer caps under the eaves on the porch, a bottle of champaign in the fridge. Done. All the loose ends tied up so well, it seemed as though they were cauterized...
There's no point in dwelling on them because now I am here. We are here together, in Denmark, and that was the whole point. I didn't really think too much about life beyond that. But one of my favorite mottos says when you are in doubt, take the next small step.
So, I got a bike. Disregarding Maricris's advice, I got a cushy, brown city bike--the bike I always wanted. Which is so heavy, so cumbersome in this city's staggering wind, we call her La Vaca.
I thought about working... in a cafe, maybe. Or the newspaper. The language is an issue; the paperwork is an issue. I don't want to believe that disinformation and discouragement could be Immigration's MO, but, as in their personal lives, the Danes do seem to have all the people they need, thank you.
But, because it looks like, optimistically, many of my future posts will be about life in Copenhagen -- and I don't want anyone to think I'm not excited about that -- here's a quick list of what I like about this place:
• After thousands of years of Scandinavian weather, it's understandable that people here place great importance on warmth and comfort. If you've read anything about Denmark, you've heard of the term "hygge," which is not so much a word to be defined as an experience. It's what you want your guests to feel when they visit your home, and I think the bars and cafes -- and the few Danes I've visited -- do a nice job of achieving it.
• While I really haven't met many Danes -- they're so reticent, it seems -- I have met a lot of folks from elsewhere. Brits, Germans, Australians,Turks, Spaniards, Canadians, South Americans... and quite often Norwegians and Swedes, of course. It seems everyone here is from somewhere else, which is at once delightful and encouraging, even if it means my paperwork may take that much longer.
• It's a beautiful city. Copenhagen makes good use of its water- and lakefronts, and (for the most part) rather seamlessly incorporates the new with the old. It's easy to navigate by foot, bike or bus, with very little car traffic. Coming from the US, I underestimated how great a relief that would be.
• Lastly, it's in Europe. I've wanted to go to Europe all my life and now I live here. So it's not exactly Spain or Tuscany... but I am relatively close to many of Northern Europe's finer cities. I'm looking forward to Berlin, Amsterdam, Brussels, London and, of course, Paris.
So there's the year, more or less. One thing leads to another out of habit; I find myself amazed how I manage to do so much without really trying at all... baby steps through the hallway... baby steps down the stairs... baby steps out to the bike...
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