living in other countries is a blessing and a curse. i don't regret a moment of it and i wouldn't give it up for anything, but it's painful nevertheless. my roots are sinking in, every time i move i leave a piece of myself and no matter where i am i never feel wholly at home.
i've gotten attatched to these streets, my ankles are used to wobbling on ancient uneven stone and i can walk the rhythm of the beeping crosswalk signs, the metallic ring of hurried cyclers, the roar of bus engines and the familiar monotone of the danish tongue.
i'll miss the bright buttery light of warm bakeries.
the curt nod of the bus driver as i flash my pass.
the good natured limping green grocer who only spoke danish.
the patient silent lines in fakta at five o'clock, putting the divider in place for the next person.
legs and arms bared and spread in all the parks to welcome sunshine long awaited.
basking in dazed reverie by the lake in christiania.
equally i'm anticipating the return to the homeland.
at the core of me i've terribly missed my family. more than i ever thought i would. i miss cheap coffee and raul's empanada town and effortless conversation and the comforting vastness of new york and although it guilts me i miss driving. i know i'll miss not driving when i return.
but i wouldn't have it any other way. the sentiments are balanced, and equally sincere. and copenhagen, i'll be back someday.
tirsdag den 13. maj 2008
fredag den 21. marts 2008
the spiny evergreens are powdered with fat snowflakes
the snow of two days ago was kosher salt pelting woolen shoulders, pebbles bouncing on soft soil or exploding against sandstone.
these mountains used to be at the bottom of the ocean. as the water gave way to a new era, the floor of the sea dried and cracked and melted away into monstrous alien pillars poking out of the valleys of Bohemian Paradise.
our czech guide, mischa, has short yellow hair twisted into a spiky knot at the back, straight panels in front hanging over her ears. her pale eyes always look like they've been crying, maybe from laughter. her wide smiling mouth rests on a pointy chin. her voice is sensual, warm and intimately she rolls her tongue over her words. her face is innocent, the way her eyebrows are always lifted. the slight sag in the rear of her pants and the outward flare of her brown sweater are charming.
today's snow is a constant. none of the faltering of the previous days. it falls heavily, many flakes forming teams and dropping together in fat clumps. the resistance of the world beneath the white blanket is waning. more is hidden until every flaw is masked by a smooth and simple blinding white. it's relentless but gentle. its softness can be compacted to a dangerous slickness. smooth and silky enough to slide across with terrifying ease. especially a heavy gray tourist bus coated in grime and full of american students.
the bus slid easily across the narrow way. it would have kept sliding but for the tree it caught in the midsection. the window became a crackling web of plexiglass and the girl below it screamed, then immediately apologized for screaming. everyone reached for their cameras.
we became a horde not contained within the walls of the bus, a sprawling, slipping mass of colors and bottles and backpacks, squeals and laughs and complaints. down the mountain we went. the snow was no longer magical. it clung to the soft fibers of my wool coat, created a cap of a blonde girl's rounded bangs.
now in the train station waiting room, seven feet by fifteen, the red rubber floor streaked with mud and melted snow, we sit and stand, open and close the door. it's 10 AM. we open the bottles we were saving for the bus ride home. we take out snacks and put them away and take them out again. everyone asks each other the same questions. we're about to catch the first of the two trains passing through the town today.
and now that we're done walking through it, of course, the blizzard has ceased and the sun is shining mockingly.
these mountains used to be at the bottom of the ocean. as the water gave way to a new era, the floor of the sea dried and cracked and melted away into monstrous alien pillars poking out of the valleys of Bohemian Paradise.
our czech guide, mischa, has short yellow hair twisted into a spiky knot at the back, straight panels in front hanging over her ears. her pale eyes always look like they've been crying, maybe from laughter. her wide smiling mouth rests on a pointy chin. her voice is sensual, warm and intimately she rolls her tongue over her words. her face is innocent, the way her eyebrows are always lifted. the slight sag in the rear of her pants and the outward flare of her brown sweater are charming.
today's snow is a constant. none of the faltering of the previous days. it falls heavily, many flakes forming teams and dropping together in fat clumps. the resistance of the world beneath the white blanket is waning. more is hidden until every flaw is masked by a smooth and simple blinding white. it's relentless but gentle. its softness can be compacted to a dangerous slickness. smooth and silky enough to slide across with terrifying ease. especially a heavy gray tourist bus coated in grime and full of american students.
the bus slid easily across the narrow way. it would have kept sliding but for the tree it caught in the midsection. the window became a crackling web of plexiglass and the girl below it screamed, then immediately apologized for screaming. everyone reached for their cameras.
we became a horde not contained within the walls of the bus, a sprawling, slipping mass of colors and bottles and backpacks, squeals and laughs and complaints. down the mountain we went. the snow was no longer magical. it clung to the soft fibers of my wool coat, created a cap of a blonde girl's rounded bangs.
now in the train station waiting room, seven feet by fifteen, the red rubber floor streaked with mud and melted snow, we sit and stand, open and close the door. it's 10 AM. we open the bottles we were saving for the bus ride home. we take out snacks and put them away and take them out again. everyone asks each other the same questions. we're about to catch the first of the two trains passing through the town today.
and now that we're done walking through it, of course, the blizzard has ceased and the sun is shining mockingly.
Cesky Raj
tuesday's snow was an adolescent snow pimpled by the unfrozen soil, grass poking through like unfamiliar stubble
this countryside is narrow roads winding through open fields and past villages of neatly clustered colored houses centered around a tall yellow bell tower with a stern black clockface
the bus fairly barrels down the straight stretches of black pavement
a girl behind me said, 'we've had so many beautiful moments, but they're just so fleeting. it's really kind of sad. I guess pictures capture something, but it's not enough.'
i felt a sweet-sick lurch of excitement in my gut as I know i hold the answer to this problem - being able to write, to capture those moments in a way nothing else can suffice.
this countryside is narrow roads winding through open fields and past villages of neatly clustered colored houses centered around a tall yellow bell tower with a stern black clockface
the bus fairly barrels down the straight stretches of black pavement
a girl behind me said, 'we've had so many beautiful moments, but they're just so fleeting. it's really kind of sad. I guess pictures capture something, but it's not enough.'
i felt a sweet-sick lurch of excitement in my gut as I know i hold the answer to this problem - being able to write, to capture those moments in a way nothing else can suffice.
First Glimpse of Tjekkiet
-a headless bird on the path
-a broken plastic cup
-a blue kerchief fluttering in the bare branches of a birch tree
-sausages bobbing in yellowish water over a sterno flame
-large glass pitchers of whole milk
-servers in unbuttoned black vests, kneeling to sweep crumbs into tin dustpans
-banging stall doors and shallow toilets
-a blonde woman in a red sweater, leaning on the railing of her top floor balcony, smoking and squinting down at the young Americans laughing and dragging their bursting bags
-a broken plastic cup
-a blue kerchief fluttering in the bare branches of a birch tree
-sausages bobbing in yellowish water over a sterno flame
-large glass pitchers of whole milk
-servers in unbuttoned black vests, kneeling to sweep crumbs into tin dustpans
-banging stall doors and shallow toilets
-a blonde woman in a red sweater, leaning on the railing of her top floor balcony, smoking and squinting down at the young Americans laughing and dragging their bursting bags
The Ferry
It's very clean and modern, with blue rubber mats for the deck, blonde wooden tables and bright plastic chairs. This is, I suppose, my first time at sea. Unless you count the Staten Island Ferry. It's strange to be on board this monstrous nautical mass of steel and plastic and glass, somehow accommodating buses and trains and cars and young Danes in matching hoodies, drinking beer and fiske liquor before noon, elderly couples gazing placidly out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the 'Panorama Cafe,' at least a hundred American students, coolers full of ice cream, a cafeteria and white deck chairs bolted to the floor. And yet it floats, rolling and rumbling across the surface of the sea, creating white froth, leaving dying mermaids in its wake.
It's brimming with joviality, pensiveness, hope, loneliness, hunger, stomach trembling with anticipation, mouths chewing small and meaningless words, eyes squinting in the wind and widening to drink in all the waters of the Baltic Sea.
It's brimming with joviality, pensiveness, hope, loneliness, hunger, stomach trembling with anticipation, mouths chewing small and meaningless words, eyes squinting in the wind and widening to drink in all the waters of the Baltic Sea.
The Belleville Market
This place was an arrest on all senses. There were piles of polka dotted canvas shoes, lacy bras, toy guns. Heaps of scarves and polyester dresses in florals and stripes. Fish rested on chipped ice, their faces shocked with round eyes and gaping mouths. They smelled fresh from the sea, their scales and fins beautifully intact. From every direction it was, 'Bonjour, mademoiselle!' and whistles and kisses and pleads to take a look, take a taste of my fruit, mademoiselle. Neat pyramids of spice, red and yellow powders, brown seeds and black pods scooped up by silver trowels. Velvet scrunchies, plastic jewelry, discount batteries, shiny candy. Beautiful, brilliant rubbish. The tang scent of olives, a rabbit carcass stretched lean across a wooden board, jumping at each blow of the heavy cleaver. A kilometer of shouts in the shade, euros dropped into rough palms, cameras and confusion, hands slapping their goods to demonstrate the quality, fruit sweetening in the sun. An hour slipped past and I emerged bearing cheaply won treasures, sweet almond paste and a flowery scarf smelling of ink and Indian cotton. Oh yes, the rest of the world exists. But I could lose myself beneath the swathes of canvas, between the narrow counters, looking, smelling, tasting, touching, listening, breathing.
Lunch in Paris
In the hours before the Musee d'Orsay, Jen and I took some tips from Ditte and headed to the Bastille station with an appetite for escargot. We stepped into the first cafe we saw, a little place with dark wooden doors and a green awning. We settled on sharing a dozen escargot, a cheese plate and a carafe of red table wine. They brought out a basket of flaky bread and the wine sloshing in a rustic brown ceramic pitcher. We toasted 'Salut!' and carefully cut into our meal.
I clamped the silver tongs around the first steaming shell dripping with butter tinted herb green, poked the two-pronged fork in and retrieved the dark muscle from within. It had the texture of a portabello, the chewiness of squid, and the succulent garlic butter that would have made a rubber tire taste good.
Next - the cheese plate: brie, of course, roquefort and camembert. The roquefort was my favorite. It had heavy blue veins, solid and salty, it spread in creamy perfection, pleasantly grainy over soft white bread. Every bite was a savory explosion. We chewed slowly, sucked every bit of sauce from the shells, sopped it up from the silver plate with bits of bread.
We were drunk on the food, intoxicated by Paris, tipsy on the wine. We sat back and smiled at each other in euphoric silence. We bid 'Au revoir' to the fat, friendly matron, lifted the heavy red curtain and stepped back into the world.
I clamped the silver tongs around the first steaming shell dripping with butter tinted herb green, poked the two-pronged fork in and retrieved the dark muscle from within. It had the texture of a portabello, the chewiness of squid, and the succulent garlic butter that would have made a rubber tire taste good.
Next - the cheese plate: brie, of course, roquefort and camembert. The roquefort was my favorite. It had heavy blue veins, solid and salty, it spread in creamy perfection, pleasantly grainy over soft white bread. Every bite was a savory explosion. We chewed slowly, sucked every bit of sauce from the shells, sopped it up from the silver plate with bits of bread.
We were drunk on the food, intoxicated by Paris, tipsy on the wine. We sat back and smiled at each other in euphoric silence. We bid 'Au revoir' to the fat, friendly matron, lifted the heavy red curtain and stepped back into the world.
Le Grandeur
Parisiennes, like New Yorkers, are accustomed to foreign visitors, expensive cigarettes, public transport, dumbly cooing pigeons and jaywalking.
And there are avenues steeped in luxury. Le Rue Royal and Place de la Madeleine are home to Coco and Christian, Dolce, Gucci and the original L'Oreal. The grocery store displays designer food, too shiny and flawless to touch, let alone desecrate by eating.
There are long eclairs garnished with gold nuggets, blinis topped with roses of creamed crab and dabs of black caviar; lacquered dark chocolate tarts with pink marzipan filigree, salads stacked in 12 colors, framed and set on glass shelves like edible art for sale. The salmon comes from Sweden and the water comes from Norway. Baby-pink prawns swim in dill cream with orange zest and rustic loaves blush beneath a vain layer of white flour powder. Royal crabs lie tamed, cold on chipped ice under spotless glass. The girls behind the counter look like models and they sweep their manicured hands over their goods displayed like jewelry, precious mouthfuls pressed into perfect shapes.
And there are avenues steeped in luxury. Le Rue Royal and Place de la Madeleine are home to Coco and Christian, Dolce, Gucci and the original L'Oreal. The grocery store displays designer food, too shiny and flawless to touch, let alone desecrate by eating.
There are long eclairs garnished with gold nuggets, blinis topped with roses of creamed crab and dabs of black caviar; lacquered dark chocolate tarts with pink marzipan filigree, salads stacked in 12 colors, framed and set on glass shelves like edible art for sale. The salmon comes from Sweden and the water comes from Norway. Baby-pink prawns swim in dill cream with orange zest and rustic loaves blush beneath a vain layer of white flour powder. Royal crabs lie tamed, cold on chipped ice under spotless glass. The girls behind the counter look like models and they sweep their manicured hands over their goods displayed like jewelry, precious mouthfuls pressed into perfect shapes.
The Eiffel Tower
The Eiffel Tower is terrifying. It is far too many pieces of ugly gray iron, matched and melded to fit the jigsaw vision of the brilliant Bartholdi.
Tower, tower, towering massive hideously spectacular daytime tower, teeming with leaning awestruck admirers.
Oh sparkling, golden nighttime tower with personal bodyguards in smart fatigues. Oh luminous nighttime tower with an aerial whirlpool of wind-channeling bowels. Enough metallic magnetism to attract camera clutching hands from Japan and Britain, Russia, Argentina and Sweden. Oh tower, you sparkle on an impeccably punctual basis and the tourists gasp, "How magical!" on the hour.
Tower, I am the size of one of your bones. You have millions of immovable bones that expand and contract with the seasons.
Tower, you fit quite neatly onto postcards and into cameras, you have many clones in five different colors, ten different sizes, 67 of you swing in unison on a big metal ring, you are the subject of devotion in posters and keychains, teacakes and coffee cups. You tower in pockets and damply cupped palms, on many tongues and in everyone's idea of 'the world out there...'
But only one tower can tower unspeakably, terrifyingly high, all bone and no muscle, heart left out to let the wind in, no fat and no skin so you won't sway and snap in the Parisian breeze.
Tower, tower, towering massive hideously spectacular daytime tower, teeming with leaning awestruck admirers.
Oh sparkling, golden nighttime tower with personal bodyguards in smart fatigues. Oh luminous nighttime tower with an aerial whirlpool of wind-channeling bowels. Enough metallic magnetism to attract camera clutching hands from Japan and Britain, Russia, Argentina and Sweden. Oh tower, you sparkle on an impeccably punctual basis and the tourists gasp, "How magical!" on the hour.
Tower, I am the size of one of your bones. You have millions of immovable bones that expand and contract with the seasons.
Tower, you fit quite neatly onto postcards and into cameras, you have many clones in five different colors, ten different sizes, 67 of you swing in unison on a big metal ring, you are the subject of devotion in posters and keychains, teacakes and coffee cups. You tower in pockets and damply cupped palms, on many tongues and in everyone's idea of 'the world out there...'
But only one tower can tower unspeakably, terrifyingly high, all bone and no muscle, heart left out to let the wind in, no fat and no skin so you won't sway and snap in the Parisian breeze.
mandag den 25. februar 2008
min dansk familie i roskilde
i went to see my 'visiting family' in roskilde on saturday. inge, the mom, met me at the train station along with her kids johanna, 8, and mats,10, and johanna's friend lisa-marie. their black lab puppy fyrre came with them as well. johanna and mats are wiry little towheaded kids with slanting blue eyes and shy smiles, lisa marie a robust, ruddy cheeked redhead who was strong enough to keep the one year old puppy in check.
we went back to their house, an open, breathable and well lit space that makes my apartment look like a matchbox. there i met amalie, inge's 16 year old daughter who is mentally handicapped. she was playing with a helper who is paid by the danish government, a 19 yr old girl named fredericka. inge had made some fresh bollen and mats made waffles. we all had a cozy tea time and a nice chat, said, 'tak for mad' and made our way back out to the blustery outdoors. inge, the kids and i went down to the roskilde harbor, fed some old bread to the ducks, looked at the old viking ships, then went to the park. i kicked around the soccer ball with mats, jumproped with the girls and chatted with inge.
after returning to the house, we played ping pong and then made our own pizzas from scratch for dinner. johanna showed me her 'først rød bøg for dansk-engelsk, engelsk-dansk.' she taught me a slew of charming new danish words and i taught her a few words in english. inge was quite impressed with my danish vocabulary.
after dinner and 'easter beer' we watched some tv. i did my best to follow along with the danish subtitles and was able to tell what was going on most of the time. inge's husband bruno came home and soon after took me back to the train station. i can't wait to slappe af med min dansk familie again.
we went back to their house, an open, breathable and well lit space that makes my apartment look like a matchbox. there i met amalie, inge's 16 year old daughter who is mentally handicapped. she was playing with a helper who is paid by the danish government, a 19 yr old girl named fredericka. inge had made some fresh bollen and mats made waffles. we all had a cozy tea time and a nice chat, said, 'tak for mad' and made our way back out to the blustery outdoors. inge, the kids and i went down to the roskilde harbor, fed some old bread to the ducks, looked at the old viking ships, then went to the park. i kicked around the soccer ball with mats, jumproped with the girls and chatted with inge.
after returning to the house, we played ping pong and then made our own pizzas from scratch for dinner. johanna showed me her 'først rød bøg for dansk-engelsk, engelsk-dansk.' she taught me a slew of charming new danish words and i taught her a few words in english. inge was quite impressed with my danish vocabulary.
after dinner and 'easter beer' we watched some tv. i did my best to follow along with the danish subtitles and was able to tell what was going on most of the time. inge's husband bruno came home and soon after took me back to the train station. i can't wait to slappe af med min dansk familie again.
mandag den 18. februar 2008
Skagen - standing at the edge where the world stops
The landscape reflects the Scandinavian aesthetic - flat, white, simple. The fine sand sparkles in subdued ripples marred by smooth hollows of older footsteps and sharper outlines left by today's visitors. The sky is simply too vast for me to bother attempting to capture it in a meager lens, so I don't mourn the fact that my camera died. The atmosphere is a hovering dome, bleached out around the edges. The ships at the edge of the horizon must be immense, but they appear as nothing more than cheap plastic toys bobbing at the other end of the bathtub.
The northernmost point of this country truly ends in a triangular tip at the end of a narrow stretch of sand extending to divide the two oceans. These opposing seas are constantly kissing and slapping like lovers, the dominant Atlantic rushing in from the west with its roaring crests, the gentler Baltic, a shade greener, patting out frothy subtleties on the eastern shore.
Gammel Dansk is passed around to toast this miracle of continuity. I swallow my shot of bitters and, knocked back by the shock of the ancient herbs and the force of the melding east and westward winds, let my travel-sore heels sink into the softening shards of white sand on this Arctic beach.
The northernmost point of this country truly ends in a triangular tip at the end of a narrow stretch of sand extending to divide the two oceans. These opposing seas are constantly kissing and slapping like lovers, the dominant Atlantic rushing in from the west with its roaring crests, the gentler Baltic, a shade greener, patting out frothy subtleties on the eastern shore.
Gammel Dansk is passed around to toast this miracle of continuity. I swallow my shot of bitters and, knocked back by the shock of the ancient herbs and the force of the melding east and westward winds, let my travel-sore heels sink into the softening shards of white sand on this Arctic beach.
Aalborg - Valentine's Day 2008
----The sea carries in a sharp chill, a surprising match with the warmth of the subtle corals left by the sun on the narrow horizon. The water smells of something deeper, somehow more primal than the oceans i know. Maybe it's just the cold. This bay is hemmed in by bare trees and large river rocks. The tall, stiff blonde grass leads you to believe it might hide warm sand instead of the dark shifting mirror mosaic of these Northern waters. Its beauty is almost mundane - prosaic and silent. The unchanging pattern of the bay is echoed in the identical red and yellow beach shacks lining the shore. Far from the ideals of societally-imposed romance--my fingers are stiff so I'll stop now----
tirsdag den 12. februar 2008
weekend pictures
skål, queen margrethe
riesen
art & color
waiting for the train
brunch
dinner party at nora's
the nightbus
me and mia and alex
fiske!
-
kaffe på studenterhuset/weinerpølse med alting
søndag den 10. februar 2008
jeg hav en tømmermænd!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
goshdarn! partying the danish way sure takes a toll on this girl's body. i just did two nights in a row of predrinking at home, going out around 12 and staying out until 4 or 5. friday alex, mia and i accidentally crashed a private party then went to vega. we talked to loads of boys. there weren't very many girls there. ufortunately. and last night mia, francesca and i went out to the vesterbro bars. we discovered this incredible little place called art &color. the walls were all textured and mosaic and mirrored and there were pictures of queen margarethe all over. then we went to reisin. we had to wait to get in for awhile then it was really REALLY crowded and mia met someone but francesca and i were bored/tired/dreading our sunday to-do lists so we left. and now...i've reached the bottom of my pit of despair that is homework and am working my way back out into the real world. i have a gazillion pictures from the past few days. they will be posted very soon.
note: never drink two nights then try to write a paper that's due tomorrow. ugghhh.
note: never drink two nights then try to write a paper that's due tomorrow. ugghhh.
torsdag den 7. februar 2008
sight seeing, hurrah!
SO. i have been going around the city with francesca to certain sites of interest; it's one of her class assignments. we went to the round tower and i am SO glad we agreed to check out the interior of the church...it is exquisitely decorated - tons and TONS of gold trim, an incredibly grandiose pulpit situated well above the pews and not one but TWO enormous pipe organs and, front and center, a glorious portrayal of Christ and his angels, featuring giant "rays of light" coming out behind them. i knelt before it in awe, just trying to absorb the delicious gawdiness of it all. certainly it has been refurbished, polished etc but i could tell by the marble hinges carved directly into the immovably heavy marble gate into the altar that this church has been around for awhile. however, upon close inspection, it was evident that one of the pipe organs was probably circa the past couple decades. it appeared to be made of marble but was in fact wood...painted to look like marble. haha.
next on my agenda...the museum erotica. chastity belts and royal danish dildo, here i come!
next on my agenda...the museum erotica. chastity belts and royal danish dildo, here i come!
mandag den 4. februar 2008
danish meatballs and rainy afternoons
last tuesday i was sitting in the student lounge, hungry as hell, and this kid was talking about the meatballs his host mom had given him for lunch. they smelled so good i decided i wanted to make meatballs for dinner that night so i texted mia and asked her what her plans were. she said she was going to her parent's house for dinner but i was welcome to come. a bit disappointed about not making meatballs but excited to meet her baby brother and stepmom, i readily agreed. when i got home and mia and i were talking about going for dinner, she explained that she had called her dad and asked him how to make a particular dish. after he had explained the recipe, he suggested that she just come over for dinner and he would show her how to make it. i asked mia what this special dish was, and to my delight she replied, MEATBALLS!!! so we took the train a few neighborhoods away and spent the evening with mia's father, who turned out to be a wonderful cook, her stepmom, who spoke very good english and was really friendly and sweet, and adorable chubby little victor, whose wispy red curls have never been cut. the curried pork meatballs and basmati rice with mango chutney deviated quite a bit from my american conception of meatballs with tomato sauce and pasta, but were nevertheless the perfectly hot tasty meal for a windchilled danish night.
on wednesday afternoon, i went to the statens museum for kunst with nora and alex. despite my inconvenient tendency to use the met as my standard for comparison for all art museums, i was rather impressed. they had a lot of modern work, some really nice matisses and obviously, lots of danish art that i'd never heard of. we didn't stay for very long, but i'm definitely going back next week. afterwards nora and i went to christiania. it reminded me maybe a little too much of asheville. the weather was really nasty so we just looked around a had one beer. everything was very colorful and artsy, people were selling little bags, listening to their radios, hanging out with their dogs, rolling spliffs and enjoying themselves in spite of the rain. sort of seedy in a charming way. this one gross old man sitting by me and nora kept spitting into a plastic bag over and over. saving it for later? we really didn't know. so i didn't see it all, but i will go back on a sunny day and perhaps it will be more on the charming side of seedy.
on wednesday afternoon, i went to the statens museum for kunst with nora and alex. despite my inconvenient tendency to use the met as my standard for comparison for all art museums, i was rather impressed. they had a lot of modern work, some really nice matisses and obviously, lots of danish art that i'd never heard of. we didn't stay for very long, but i'm definitely going back next week. afterwards nora and i went to christiania. it reminded me maybe a little too much of asheville. the weather was really nasty so we just looked around a had one beer. everything was very colorful and artsy, people were selling little bags, listening to their radios, hanging out with their dogs, rolling spliffs and enjoying themselves in spite of the rain. sort of seedy in a charming way. this one gross old man sitting by me and nora kept spitting into a plastic bag over and over. saving it for later? we really didn't know. so i didn't see it all, but i will go back on a sunny day and perhaps it will be more on the charming side of seedy.
onsdag den 30. januar 2008
Hans Christian Anderson walk
My class just took a little walking tour around the old part of the city...it is so cute. ochre buildings, squished little houses in "backyards" and buildings without corners, to provide faster passage for the horse drawn fire squad carts. we saw the old prison yard and the silver shop which used to be the pawn shop, underwater statues of the mythical merman and his human wife and their seven children, and a statue of a robust country fishmonger lady next to whom a real life lady in old fashioned clothin was selling fish. lisa lotte, our teacher, bought some cod eggs. then we had coffee in a cafe where hc anderson and kirkegaard used to hang out, along with other artists of the time.
now, off to have some shawarma and go to the art museum!!!
now, off to have some shawarma and go to the art museum!!!
mandag den 28. januar 2008
Copenhagen "Elements" Haiku
the wind
bearhug from behind
lifts me forward on my toes
stills and i fall, blown
the rain
pins into my skin
keeps me as a memory
burrows in my pores
the sun
awakes in eyelids
solar solace under gray
moody as a child
bearhug from behind
lifts me forward on my toes
stills and i fall, blown
the rain
pins into my skin
keeps me as a memory
burrows in my pores
the sun
awakes in eyelids
solar solace under gray
moody as a child
lørdag den 26. januar 2008
fooooooooood in copenhagen
my tummy is happy in copenhagen. after all, being a cook, food is my life and it is practically impossible for me to not find the best food no matter where i go. on sunday night, my lovely roommate mia cooked an interesting stirfry seasoned with basil and herbs de provence, not a spice blend i would have chosen but i can appreciate danish interpretations of international classics. it was real cute when a couple nights later she offered me some ketchup for my spaghetti.
it took about four trips to various grocery stores to find most of my staples. it took some searching, but i did find some balsamic vinegar for my salads. i made dinner for mia the other night and she loved my homemade balsamic dressing; she'd never heard of using a vinaigrette on a salad.
i've been hearing rumors of greengrocers who carry exotic spices and cheaper produce. it's my new mission to seek one out and make some bangin' indian food.
i was quite impressed with the quality of the fransk hotdog at 711. given, i was starving at the time and hunger is the best spice, but the sausage had a nice bite to it and more depth in flavor than the typical american hotdog. i LOVE the remoulade! it seems that most danes arent aware that remoulade is actually a french sauce.
i'm still working my way through the list of danish favorites. i've tried karry sild - a bit slimy but overall delicious; buhlbrød (spelling?), the heavy, dark wholegrain bread which is really delicious, filling and healthy and i've been having smøresbrød for lunch every day.
so far, adapting to the danish way of dining has been a tasty and relatively seamless transition. can't effing wait to try it all!
it took about four trips to various grocery stores to find most of my staples. it took some searching, but i did find some balsamic vinegar for my salads. i made dinner for mia the other night and she loved my homemade balsamic dressing; she'd never heard of using a vinaigrette on a salad.
i've been hearing rumors of greengrocers who carry exotic spices and cheaper produce. it's my new mission to seek one out and make some bangin' indian food.
i was quite impressed with the quality of the fransk hotdog at 711. given, i was starving at the time and hunger is the best spice, but the sausage had a nice bite to it and more depth in flavor than the typical american hotdog. i LOVE the remoulade! it seems that most danes arent aware that remoulade is actually a french sauce.
i'm still working my way through the list of danish favorites. i've tried karry sild - a bit slimy but overall delicious; buhlbrød (spelling?), the heavy, dark wholegrain bread which is really delicious, filling and healthy and i've been having smøresbrød for lunch every day.
so far, adapting to the danish way of dining has been a tasty and relatively seamless transition. can't effing wait to try it all!
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