'Tis the Season to be Hygge

To all friends and family,

Since the Little Mermaid statue is back from China, I decided it was necessary to visit her before I left Copenhagen. As I gazed at her, I wondered what all the fascination was about considering she’s pretty anticlimactic in real life. But amid my visions of stereotypical Asian tourists opting to take their “peace sign” pictures with her, the fascination hit me. Maybe it’s not the actual statue that travelers admire, but the fact that it’s their insight into another human society. It’s the fact that Danish hands made this piece of work. Maybe it’s a reminder that despite our little bubbles that we tend to trap ourselves into, it’s gratifying to know that human kind does stretch across all corners of the earth. And so maybe that’s the fascination with travel—that people can feel just a little more connected with the whole human race rather than their own distinct societies. It’s a broad and vague concept, but I could narrow it down to a specific example in my mind. A camera. People would rather marry the Grinch then hand out their credit cards, purses, ipods, and any other items deemed “valuable” to a stranger. But without a blink we’ll hand our camera to a stranger so that they can help document our travels. And the biggest surprise? They hand it right back without a blink. I don’t marvel at this because “it restores my faith in humanity.” It’s more that some intangible link exists between every being that says “yes I’m from country x and you’re from country y, but we’re here for the same reason.” And I think that kind of bond that no one can verbalize somewhat touches that funny Danish concept called “hygge.” In Danish class we’re often asked “what do you think hygge means?” Is it hiding behind a bush? Does it sneak up on you at night like the Tooth Fairy, sprinkling some sort of magical happy dust? No I think not. And I don’t think there is some sort of concrete definition for this abstract concept. But to me, hygge is having a friend, who, at the drop of a hat, will come over just to reaffirm that 1. Yes you are beautiful, intriguing, and worthy of any man’s attention, 2. will help you pull those (saucy) big girl panties out of your drawer and put them on, and 3. Say, “now let’s go get a beer.” It’s knowing that my parents would somehow manage to send a swarm of rescue squads to my position after one distressed phone call. It’s being accepted into a foreign family as one of their own without question. It’s for all those friends that send care packages, letters, and facebook messages just to let you know that you’re still thought of while a billion miles away. It’s the time when someone has simply said “relax Findley, just relax” during one of my “Oh my God what if I don’t get this internship, what about my future, blah blah blah” moments. And you know what? For the love of God you could even hygge yourself! It could be any of those moments where despite that overwhelming feeling that everything is pilling up, you somehow manage to say to yourself “Self, I will face the day with the heart of a lion!” (and you subsequently play “Eye of the Tiger” on your Ipod). And so maybe hygge is simply remembering that despite your own little circle of deadlines, meetings, exams, and worries, there’s a whole slew of people who actually love you. And the greatest thing? Despite your whole little circle of deadlines, meetings, exams, and worries, you actually love them back. I think the Danes have a word for this because they’ve become masters at taking the time out of their day to simply sit and think about the fact that “Yes indeed there are children starving in Africa, but I am quite content with my life.” But hygge is not strictly Danish. It goes back to that intangible and unspeakable bond that seems to hover over all societies, sprinkling it’s little happy dust here in there. Afterall, somewhere in China is a friend who is telling her friend to put on her big girl panties and deal with it.

And so finally, here is my attempt at hygge for you. I’d like to say thank you—because for the first time, “Oh I don’t want any Christmas presents this year” does NOT mean “Actually I’m really hoping I get a pair of black boots.” Amid the -1 degree Celsius temperatures I actually get that warm and cozy feeling just thinking that at the heart of humanity, is the need to bestow love. So now, I’d like to send a little hygge and love your way. Imagine me boxing up some of my warmth, wrapping it with shiny gold paper (because hygge can be fashionable, afterall), and neatly tying it with a 6-inch ribbon bow. This I send to all whom I love with hopes that you will know, as I have known, that somewhere…maybe overseas stuck in a foreign wintry blizzard...you are loved. Tis the season to be hygge.

Even if you do actually want a pair of black boots.

F

Travellin' Jones

"Travellin' Jones, I've seen the miles..."

-Ryan Bingham

A (detailed) account of our European shenanigans as American exports

Roles:

Anne Golembeski-the mom

Blair Gillespie-our financier

Katie Warner-navigator

Jocelyn Kuchta-insightful affirmations (ex. Anne-"Guys let's eat lunch before we see the Palace" Jocelyn-"Guys let's eat lunch before we see the Palace")

Margaret Metz-Anne's valium

Me-pace setter (most important by far obvi)

PS-Apparently I like bullet points in this blog. Remember you were forewarned.

PPS-I also repeatedly use the word "whilst."

Findley's-Bucket-List-That-Every-Young-American-Should-Keep-In-Their-North-Face-Pockets

1. Watch the sunrise through Czech Republic countryside, preferably on a train
2. Observe ye' old men in speedos play chess in Hungarian baths
3. Commence with a dance party at the House of Music at 10:00pm in Vienna
4. Buy Missoni designer socks in the middle of a recession in Siena

Part I

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Whilst the other half opted for a plane (wimps), Blair and I began our journey on a night train to Prague. Here's the short version:

• A Danish woman sans pants (wika whaaaat?!), basically dropped some f-bombs at poor young german girl because she could "feel that she didn't respect her child." Granted, this child was literally the spawn of satan, loud, and obnoxious. In this case satan wears black leggings with GINORMOUS holes in them showing her complimentary black thong...front and back.
• Whilst Blair snoozed like sleeping beauty, I took the liberty of snapping a few compromising shots. Will these photos appear at her wedding toast? Yes.
• Instead of sleeping in the Berlin train station during a layover from 11-6am as previously planned, we opted to find a hostel instead.

Prague: PraHA!

• The gang arrived (invaded) Prague in the morning, and convened at the Lennon Wall. It's essentially this wall that's covered in John Lennon graffiti, people's signatures, messages, etc. Naturally we signed the wall because our signatures will be...like...valuable one day.
• Saw Prague Castle where the Kings of Bohemia and Holy Roman Emperors used to reside. Remarked how it resembled my summer home. HAH
• Visited the famous Tyn Church
• Drank "hot wine"--Prague's speciality
• Drank "Starbucks"-America's speciality
• Halloween at a 5 story night club--my "flypaper" did not fail me in the Czech Republic either. A man in an Orc mask latched on to my waist again on the dance floor. Why?! On the bright side--I'm pretty sure I met and lost the love of my life. A young scandinavian man held my frigid hands whilst we waited outside in the entrance line. I like to think that we gazed lovingly into each others eyes, but Anne says I had a lopsided grin and was drooling a bit. Details, details...
• Ate the best brunch of my life at club/music store/bar that doubled as a restaurant. "Don't judge a book by its cover" affirmed.

Vienna: Wiener-Schnitzer-a-gogo-Land. "These are a few of my favorite things..."

• My Sound of Music impersonations were severely under appreciated. Even when I broke out into the BEST rendition of "how do you solve a problem like Maria..." not one smile. Gosh that Margaret Metz is one hard cookie to crack
• Realized Vienna is very much an ornate historical center in the middle of a growing industrial society.
• Went to the Habsburg Treasury where in fact, they had a sacred unicorn horn in the midst of their imperial crowns.
• Got sick the next morning and was convinced I had the flu. But I rallied. Because I'm that good.
• Tried to get into St. Stephens Basilica service, but got turned away because we were one too many (Americans).
• Wanted desperately to try a wiener-schnitzel (veal that's fried in bread crumbs) but didn't want to throw off my immune system when it was on the verge of recovery. So I opted to drink instead.
• Visited Schoenberg Palace where the Habsburgs resided. We took the audio guided tour which provided excellent commentary especially when it came to one painting: In the midst of war lord portraits, there's a painting of a young boy dancing merrily, clothed in a silk gown in a garden whilst posing goofily with his flute. The commentary said: "This is the young Habsburg Prince, also known as Little Prince Francie. He was declared incompetent to rule." HA
• Began the pattern of amusing our dinner waiters. I like to think I prompted this trend after elegantly elbowing our waiter, Herr Christian, at Central Cafe in the stomach. Throughout the night, he convinced Blair to order a donut amid rows of elaborate cakes for dessert (even though she hates donuts), made fun of Jocelyn for ordering two salads, and was called tomato face by his peers because he blushed every time we flirted with him. Well of course we got a picture with him, why do you even need to ask that? Memorable quote: "Ladies, I cannot multi-task. I am only a man!!"

Budapest: The Land of Surprises

• Overall, Budapest is a mix of cultures and reformations which is really reflected in its architecture. I suppose I was expecting more of a culture shock, but there's so many multi-ethnic undercurrents from the Slovs-Jews-Germans-etc.
• We were greeted by a guitar-strumming, barefooted Australian man in surf shorts at our hostel. His name was Mark. Katie can tell you more about that.
• Margaret informed us that we should avoid eye contact with Hungarian men...which of course goes against my natural nosy instincts.
• Went into another Basilica named St. Stephens (can't Europe find other saints to honor? Like..Saint...Frank?)
• Walked along the Danube River and saw the lights from the Chain Bridge, which absolutely took my breath away. Literally, I couldn't breathe because of sinuses mixed with cold air.
• Ate at a delicious restaurant called Humus Bar where once again we charmed the pants off our waiter (no, not literally this time). He gave us unlimited free tea drinks and free desserts at the end.
• Hiked up to Lady Liberty (no, not New York) and got lost in the Pest neighborhoods.
• I tried my best at haggling in the Hungarian market, only to piss off the "artist" and his $30 painted egg ornament that didn't even depict a Hungarian scene. Well excuuuuuse me.
• Visited the Matthias Church, the Fisherman's Bastian, and Europe's largest synagogue. I got a question about Moses right from our tour guide, which obviously reflects my 1/8th Jewish roots.
• Frolicked in the Hungarian baths amid pre-pubescient couples, 60+ couples (there's not much difference let me tell you), men that should be in speedos, and men that absolutely, under any and all circumstances shouldn't be in speedos.
• Mark the Aussie took Katie and I out for drinks where I tried my best to talk about fatigue and skepticism in the European Union after a whole bottle of wine.

Part II. Pasta-a-gogo-land

Venice: A city of fanny packs

• Took the night train to Venice where Blair and I slept on fold out beds mounted on the wall ABOVE the normal seats.
• Did my best rendition of "That's Amore" complete with dance moves and hand motions.
• When THAT didn't work, I did my best Brad Pitt impressions from Inglorious Bastards. "Arrivederci!"
• Amazed by all the tourists during the off season--hence the fanny packs. Because we all know that's a staple item for tourists. In fact Blair...
• Was hit in the face with a pigeon at St. Mark's Square in front of the clock tower.
• Walked across the famous Rialto bridge and into the carnival mask shops.
• Once again haggled a price for a Gondola ride. One of my stipulations was that he should sing to us...which he didn't. Our boatsman also had an answer for EVERY question we asked, even before we finished formulating our questions. Thus, Findley (feeling up the challenge) decided to blow him out of the Venice canal. "Do you think Turkey should be admitted into the EU?" Long pause....
• Apparently we're good paparazzi subjects because tourists on the bridge took pictures of us in the gondola and then shouted "find me on facebook!" We passed a boat of Asian tourists who ALL whipped out their cameras and began snapping photos of us.
• Discovered the sacred Italian concept call "aperitivo." Essentially, you pay for a wine spritzer and then get unlimited Italian food from a buffet. Genius!

Florence: Under the Tuscan...rain.

• My visions of Diane Lane frolicking in a Tuscan vineyard were immediately perforated by the weather. I gloomily stared at the J Crew sundresses I’d packed, and then swallowed my pride and pulled out the rain jacket.
• Visited the Duomo…in the rain
• Hit up a bookstore and some cappachinos…to get out of the rain
• Mingled about in the Uffizi gallery and tried our best to appear as real Italian fine art scholars. “Blair, if you had to date one of these Raphael characters, which one would you pick…”
• But as a side note, I did have a realization. It occurred to me that people enjoy traveling so much because for once, time doesn’t move in a linear fashion. When you’re standing before Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus,” you suddenly feel such a close proximity to the painter, even though it was created centuries ago. In this way, time becomes circular. (Wow Findley that was so profound and deep.)
• Ran into American Vanderbilt friends outside of Grom—which is essentially a gelato place that takes all the sweet heavenly secrets and adds just a touch of human sinfulness to create the best dark chocolate gelato known to mankind. NBD.
• Got into the Boboli gardens because Katie used her faux Danish accent, that saucy minx. Best views of Florence.
• Met Blair’s friends from Duke who introduced me to the best blueberry steak ever to be created by Homo sapiens.
• Oogled Michelangelo’s David at Galleria Academia. Before, we were a little confused as to why it was so famous apart from the sculptor’s name (blasphemy Findley!). BUT after gazing at this monumental work of extraordinary detail (even the veins in his arms are clear cut) that was created out of “abandoned block of marble”…we understood.
• Hit up the leather market…in the rain. Can you see the pattern developing?

Let me pause here. I’ve compiled a list of my favorite creepy Italian pick-up lines that demonstrate the sheer magnitude of my “flypaper for freaks” attraction:

1. Where has your smile gone?
2. I hope I see you again...no really….please come back
3. Find me on facebook!!
4. Oh.My.God

Siena: Where wine is cheaper than water

Here are my wishes:

• If I am to truly join the single-for-life-club (God forbid), then Siena is where I shall retire to be comforted with the thousand cats that roam the town, drink wine at every meal complimented by delicious butter ravoli stuffed with ricotta cheese and spinach, watch Italian men zooming on their mopeds, and window shop arm in arm with my gray-haired girlfriends.
• OH and maintain my fashionable image by buying unlimited Missoni scarves and socks.

Rome: The land of no limbs

-I’m sure many of you are confused as to why I

dubbed Rome-the land of no limbs. Well you see my friends, you can thank Blair for that. We were prepared for all the tourists in Rome, but we were NOT prepared for the beggars with missing limbs that line the streets. Please don’t think of this as a cold hearted insult, it’s just a mere observation. In fact, some of the beggars were fortunate enough to own a cell phone…now how does that work?

-Immediately regretted my decision to forgo packing shorts

-Visited the Spanish Steps

-Felt like Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love when surrounded by couples at the Trevi Foutain.

-Toted Fodors Guide to Italy around at the Vatican Museums where two things happened. A) The security guard tried to trade his water for my coke zero. Idiot. B) How much money does the Roman Catholic Church actually have?!

-Got our Sistine Chapel on

-Amused Blair with historical information about St. Peter’s Basilica from Fodors as we waited in line. Discovered that nothing is painted in the basilica—it’s all mosaic. Which is so not a big deal at all. I meanreally. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about…HAH

-Climbed the narrow (claustrophobic) stair case to the top ofthe cupola

-Spotted the Swiss Vatican guards dressed in the “traditionaluniform designed my Michelangelo” aka the clown costume. Google it.

-Tried to go out only to discover that Italy doesn’t do thewhole “bar” thing. They siesta instead. Madness I tell you, madness.

-Fell in love with ancient Rome and the excavated ruins

-Got into the Colosseum for free courtesy of magical french woman

-Enjoyed a highly overpriced, but real Italian dinner with Blair

-Strolled about the flower market

-Decided it was probably time to stop eating gelato...and pasta...and drinking wine

-Flew back to the arctic tundra

I'm now too tired to think of any profound and/or amusing ending.

Because I'm such a world class traveler now.

And Glee is on.

Love y'all

Vi Ses!

·

·

·

·

·

·

·

·

If

"Oh the places you'll go"

I'm departing from my standard layout to bring you a special travel edition (gosh Findley you're soo obliging).

Inspired by Dr. Suess

Written by Findley Merritt

In a Danish coffee shop

Not a "coffee shop"

Which you will read about later

Read by adoring fans

61% of whom use Safari internet explorer

Or so my blog statistics tell me

Ok I'll get on with it

Without further introduction...

"You're off to great places! You're off and away!"

Den Hague:

btw, the Hague is in the Netherlands. It's ok...I didn't know either.

DIS should really look into hiring a competent bus driver. One that can correctly use a GPS. Maybe then, we’d get to our appointments on time and not miss something important like, say…the Danish Embassy? Just a thought.

Our story in the Hague begins with a 10 hours bus ride. That's all I have to say about that.

Except that I'm now obsessed with Quentin Tarantino films. Like Inglorious Bastards. Ok no further comments.

"Out there things can happen and frequently do to people as footsy and brainsy as you"

The Peace Palace in the Hague houses the International Court of Justice (the EU's principle court of justice), the Permanent Court of Arbitration, and the Hague Academy of International Law. But here's what I learned:

1. While the rest of Europe donated golden trimmed marble statues of winged angels, Denmark donated a blue fountain with polar bears and sea otters. Good to know you got the memo DK.

"You'll get mixed up, of course, as you already know"

It takes a special person to end at a convent with directions to a monastery. Thank you bus driver for rivaling Christopher Columbus' navigation skills.

Back in ye 'ole days, the monks were given authority by the city to brew and guard beer over 10% because they were (naturally) deemed the most moral. It's a tradition that's still in existence to this day.

Point is: There are few who can say that on a Sunday night monks contributed to their intoxication at a beer tasting in a monastery. Checked that one off the bucket list.

"There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won."

Our last (only) night in The Hague, Melissa and I discovered a Dutch bar that played only country music. We took full advantage of this first by requesting everything from Zac Brown Band to the Allman Brothers Band with a little Tom Petty to spice things up. It’s good to know Dutch people have an appreciation for the finer things in life.

Waffle-a-gogo-land:

(Belgium)

“Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find, for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.”

Buksti always remarks that the American system of Federalism is based on social distrust and conflict, while the Danish Parliamentary system is based on consensus, dialogue, and compromise. And for the most part, discussions ensue, legislation gets passed, and European politicians are noble.

Right.

Dream on Buksti. In the second Harry Potter, there’s a character named Gilderoy Lockhart who embodies the epitome of political sleeze. I kept finding similarites between him and the Danish Representative to the European Parliament during his lecture. There’s only so many anecdotes regarding your personal legislative success banning harmful chemicals in children’s toys that you can relate to European integration. Too many, and you breach the line between what's politically acceptable and what will undercut your popularity. Well done Lockhart.

“You’ll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go.”

I think I've seriously underestimated my "fly paper" allure. There's a scene in Animal House where Belushi throws the toga party in the crowded basement of their fraternity house. Well that happened to us...fly paper for freaks style.

The one club we decide to go to our last night in Belgium became one large European fraternity party. In the midst of whizzing lights, bubbly drinks, and booming music, we suddenly found ourselves SURROUNDED by people hooded in cloaks (think Harry Potter) with patchwork hats on all raving like loons. I think it's the one time I've ever been hit on by a French man in a cape wearing a "save the whales" pin.

Fly paper I tell you, FLY PAPER!

Amsterdam:

“With banner flip-flapping, once more you’ll ride high! Ready for anything under the sky."

(Excuse me, I just couldn't resist the cannabis reference)

Here is the nub and gist of our Amsterdam experience:

After lugging our suitcases up and down the same street for about 10 minutes, we realized that paint chipped decaying door was the door to our hostel. When we opened the door to the pin-narrow yet mountainous staircase a mural of marijuana decor greeted us. We shared the room with two 28-year-old Canadian men who we never once saw or met except for when they stumbled in at 4 a.m. There was no shower and only one bathroom, so naturally we arrived/went out/and slept in the same clothes since Friday. On our night out, Jocelyn and I split a bottle of wine and talked about boys from 6 to 10 pm (we discovered that I may or may not be the world's most affectionate life form). Tipsy from the wine, we thought it'd be a grand idea to sit in a "coffee shop" (bars where cannabis is bought and smoked). We walked in, awkwardly stood in the center of a smoke-filled room for 5 minutes, got a strange look from the bar tender, swiftly turned on our heels and bounced out. Fail. The dutch men we met later that night basically told us that everything on our tourist list was s***. They provided us with a new list written partly in Dutch on a beer stained coaster. Classy. The "free breakfast" that the hostel advertised was a piece of toast and peanut butter.

I am obsessed with Amsterdam.

"Your mountain is waiting. So…get on your way!"

I've exacerbated all my creativity and can't think of a witty conclusion.

Love you all.

Vi ses!

F

"I can't, I have a date with the French."

The Danish PHRASE of the day is: slapper af (to relax). Which is rather counterintuitive if you think about it...erm, well I guess the "intuitive" part implies the thinking. So, if a Dane asks what you do during the weekend, you'd respond with "Jeg slapper af." You will feel like you're saying "I slapped eh?" but good news you're not.

Ole's non politically correct saying of the week:

"No, I don't have anything against gay people. I think everyone should have one."

"Findley can you come help set the table...lazy bastard."

"Yep he's a good friend of mine. What a schmuck."

Highlights from this week:

1-Wore my most Danish outfit on Sunday--only to bike down the wrong side of the road.

2-Went to Tivoli--the "theme park" that inspired Disney World. It's been a long time (i.e. 6 hours) since I felt like 7-year-old Findley again. Of course this was abruptly interrupted by Jocelyn's howling cackle in my ear during the Odin Express roller coaster. I think the employees thought we were drunk. We weren't.

3-I babysat Dagmar on Tuesday. She shrieked during the first half until she feel asleep on my lap in front of the TV. I sat with my left arm dead for 2 hours while the weight of her head cut off the circulation. But I think I chose the lesser of two evils.

4-On a similar note, Francy and I enjoyed a good bonding moment last night. She got to curl up on my lap. I got to feel her untrimmed claws as she made my lap "suitable" for her needs.

My thoughts yesterday:

"Man it's cold."

"Does the wind really have to blow so hard."

"Brr it's cold."

"#*%$! it's cold!"

And now to my shenanigan of the week

Key actors:

Findley Merritt

Frenchman

Coffeehouse barista

Findley and the Frenchman, Prologue

Two households, both alike in dignity...(erm, well maybe one with a little more so than the other...)

In fair Copenhagen, where we lay our scene

From drunken antics break to new soberness

Where southern charm makes pompous language unclean

From forth the fatal loins--Uh, no no. Nothing about our loins Billy Shakespeare.

Well I think you get the picture

Act I, Scene I

(Findley enters stage left approaching Cafe looking uber Euro-chic. French Man remains mesmerized as she flicks her bangs out of her face. He leans in to plant a wet one square on the mouth.)

Findley thinking: I'm sorry, I missed the part where we transitioned from shaking hands to shaking tongues.

(Many have seen her hamster face, and many have seen her deer-in-the-headlights look. But few have seen the combination of both. French Man and three Danish onlookers witness "the face" as her reaction to his facial invasion. They enter together awkwardly.)

F: Um, so what was it you wanted to be again?

FM: Vell, I work wis zeez financial marketz. How you say…investment bankeur? And you? Lawyer you say?

F: Journalist.

FM: Ah. Not a lot of money in zat position non? But international finance…(chuckles)

Findley's thoughts: Who does he think he is?! My father?!

(She suppresses the urge to reach right across the table (avoiding the candle obvi) and make a noose out of his Hermes silk twill scarf.)

*Awkward Pause

F: So how many people are in your school?

FM: Sorry what?

F: Like students?

FM: I’m in my school.

F: Yeah…erm…I mean like total students…people…things.

FM: You mean like zis current second?

F: God nevermind.

*Awkward Pause

F: So…are French fries really French?

And that is about the nub and gist of it all. I actually resorted to asking him about French fries, French toast, AND if Belgium waffles were actually from Belgium.

*Interestingly (not) enough, French fries are not, French toast he’s not sure, and Belgium waffles are actually from Belgium.

He also thought my experience on Bastille Day where I was almost trampled by French immigrants on the Champs de Mars was hysterical. It wasn’t.

The rest of the conversation was a lot of zis and a lot of zat on his part…a lot of smiling and nodding on my part. Thank God for my innate ability at making small talk—even if there’s a language barrier throwing off my groove. Overall, I learned very two important things: 1-He's not fond of nature. 2-He hates Harry Potter. The former I could have forgiven as a simple character flaw. But the latter just makes him my sworn enemy. Thus when Ole asked if I'd be inviting FM over for dinner, the answer was no, no, and no.

And now I must leave you darlings to study for my two midterms. And pack for Brussels and Amsterdam. Oh woe is me.

I love you all honestly.

Vi Ses!

F

RIP: Dickie Merritt's Spandex Biking Shorts

The Danish word of the day is: ikke (negation). They don't use contractions here, so this is the word for "not..." except it comes at the END of the sentence. Example: Det ved jeg ikke. Which would be like saying "I know....not." Which I think is vair rude to keep people waiting for the last word when they might have vair vair important things to do. Especially if they're important people. Like me...ikke.

Highlights from today:

1.) I helped a group of tourists find their way around Copenhagen. I haven´t been this proud of myself since my Ode to Butter poem won a Reflections Award in 3rd grade.

2.) I caught Francy in the (shocking) forbidden act of canoodling with the neighbor´s white Permisian. Since then, she won´t stop nuzzling my legs. I didn´t know cats understood blackmail.

3.) I found a raisin in my pocket. I've never bought raisins in my life, but I'll eat them. Thank you magical raisin fairy.

4.)Susan informed me that I'm a direct descendant from Harold "Bluetooth," Denmark's first King. I've been making Ole royally announce meal time, and he must always stay lower than my height. Which is rather difficult for a 6'2 Dane.

Conversation with woman at the Post Office:

F: How much to mail these to the states?

W: Are you alright? You look awfully pale.

F: erm, no I'm fine--I have very fair skin.

W: No, that can't be natural...

*Such is my life*

And now to the subject of Dickie's biking shorts. As a couple of you know (i.e. everyone), Dickie has purchased some spandex biking shorts so that he will look and feel the part of a true cyclist. (Which we all know khaki shorts and Ralph Lauren sweater vests are vital essentials to complete the cyclist outfit). Dickie has become so impressed with his biking abilities (the entire Swamp Trial wow!), that he's been getting a little competitive with his one and only radiant daughter.

Well Dickie, when you have biked 75 kilometers (47 miles), 57% of those uphill with opposite winds up to 40 km/h all in 7 hours on the island of Bornholm...then THEN you can trash talk. For now, let's either put those spandex shorts to rest, or I (Princess Findley) will dub them the Spandex Shorts of Shame.

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

But really. My weekend was all about biking around an island off the coast of Denmark called Bornholm. It's absolutely paradise in the summer, but it was rather chilly this weekend. And yes I actually did bike 47 miles in ONE DAY. It was called "the killer tour" (oooo I wonder why), and we basically biked the entire half of the island. Along the way I a(nearly collided with a car, b(seriously considered hailing a cab at one point, c(decided against the cab when bikes-with-charm-boy road next to me, d(ate smoked salmon at a famous smoke house, e(had serious envy when I passed tourists carrying pack fly rods, f(envisioned a hit-and-run approach: I'd hit the tourists and then run away with their fly rod), g(bought homemade soap which is currently causing an allergic reaction on my thigh, h(watched the soccer game over wine and pancakes in a cafe, i(slept on the floor of the ferry)...I'm wondering if I can go through the entire alphabet. Nah, I'm a very important person with very important things to do.

Normally, this space is reserved for my Shenanigan of the Week. But unfortunately there will be no shenanigans this week seeing as I'm confined to the bed with a surrounding flood of tissues, 10 cups of tea, and a tower of throat drop wrappers. Cry me a river folks, cry me a river.

But I seriously do love you all.

I promise double shenanigans for next blog...it'll be the most shenanigous thing since...erm...my last blog.

Vi ses!

Weather is here. Wish you were beautiful.

The Danish word of the day is: slut (n) which means "the end." Thus, the end of a race is called a slutspurt. I kid you not. Why bike-a-gogo land still uses this word beats me...but then again this is also the country that deems Harem pants as fashionable (why put Heidi Klum in oompa loompa pants?)

Today I spotted 5 fanny packs and 5 muffin tops outside of the Hard Rock Cafe. Glad to know we're keeping the stereotype alive America.

I felt like Christopher Columbus last week because I discovered a whole new world (cue Alladin song). There is a magical place called "the black diamond" along Copenhagen's canal. And no, it has nothing to do with Pirate's of the Caribbean. It's the Royal Library of Copenhagen but called the black diamond because of its shape, color, and black window encasing. But oh so much more. It's the type of place that makes you beg for a 15 page research paper just so you can hunker down in their "reading room." Hey, love makes you do crazy things.

[Insert relevant transition here]

We took off to sausage-a-gogo land (Germany) this weekend for our "study tour." Here are three vair vair important things I learned:

1-Danes entering a war is analogous to making a "party foul"

2-Tattoes aren't that unattractive. A 60-year-old man who thinks he's the Danish version of Sean Connery is.

3-Shakira's "Waka Waka Africa" song is a stroke of pure genius.

On the first point--the Danes have never had much luck with victorious wars (i.e. never). Their country is geographically small for a reason. For instance, we visited Dybbol which was a key battle site for the Second War of Schleswig (think Gettysburg). However the Danes made three mistakes: a) the Germans had 70,000 troops. the Danes had 10,000. b) the Danes ordered lumber FROM GERMANY to build their forts, so all the Germans had to do was review their orders and know how many forts the Danes had built. c) the Danes wouldn't fire their canons because they were afraid the Germans would fire back. And this is why they lost two duchies and call the war "ill-prepared."

On the second point...well I wont comment on the first part. But the second part has to do with our core course professor Jacob Buksti. I mean he does look like Sean Connery. He is the world's most interesting man. He is the Danish version of Chuck Norris. But all of this is confounded by the fact that young bar go-ers don't want a 60 year old man cramping their style.

The third point needs no explanation. It's just pure fact.

And now to the moment you've all been waiting for--my shenanigan of the week: (this is where the blog title comes in)

A friend once described me as a fly paper for freaks (see also other blog posts). Denmark is filled with absolutely beautiful men who I'm sure are perfect gentlemen. But somehow I attract the overly ambitious creepers. I'd like to attribute this to my warm, supportive, and merry personality...but I think they call it vulnerability these days. Thanks Susan for giving me that bewildered doe-eyed look instead of something more intimidating. Thus this particular shenanigan takes place at Kulor--God's gift to Copenhagen. It's 11:30 and the club is jumpin jumpin (cue Beyonce' song). At this point, people have gotten up to dance on couches, tables, and big wooden blocks on the dance floor. I spot a one-man unoccupied box shaped precisely for my dancing abilities. It was my box...MINE. I gracefully leap onto my box to break out my sweet moves learned from Denise Austin's Dance workout tapes. I am in my prime. When all the sudden my prime is broken as a I feel two hands latch around my waist. I peer out into the foggy crowd dazed by disco balls and flashing lights and spot my friends dancing with beautiful Danish men. But who is this behind me on my block? A sweaty Dane who has invaded my space, smells like absinthe & knock-off old spice cologne, and can't find rhythm to save his life. Not only that, but Clasps-with-Danish-Pride has become like a leech. As I try to leap down from the box, his grasp only gets tighter. Not only has he invaded my land, but now he wants to share it with me? Um no. Despite my desperate attempts at evading the leech, he will not let go of my waist. I think to myself, "Self--remember those old defense moves Larry taught you? Now is the time to use them." Thus I vigorously stomped on his toe with my heel and Clasps-with-Danish-Pride let go! Success! I felt as if the crowd welcomed me with open arms. Pizza was only necessary after that episode.

More to come later.

Vi ses!

F

Stop blog creeping Reese Hale. We'll get through this together.

"Do they hygge in Christiania?"

The Danish word of the day is: kylling (chicken). Not to be confused with killing (kitten). So, if you want to order a chicken sandwich, you'd say "Jeg ville gerne en kylling sandwich." DO NOT order a "killing sandwich"--I don't think the great Danes would take very kindly to that. Unless of course that's what you're into...I don't judge.

I think Francy the cat has finally taken a liking to me. 1-She doesn’t skitter out of the room whenever I enter anymore. 2-She let me touch her ear. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try scratching her head.

I also think I’ve finally gotten a schedule down. I wake up to the thud of Dagmar’s cup being thrown on the kitchen floor around 6:45. I shower, eat, and bike to the train station where I commute into Copenhagen (it’s about 15 minutes). Class starts at 8:30 every morning with lovely breaks in between. In those breaks I join the masses huddled around the one coffee machine as we complain about the 5 kroner coffee but then get it inevitably each time. Blair and I try to find a pretty spot for lunch such as the King’s Garden, a center fountain, or old church steps. I know, sometimes it’s hard to be me. After classes I hit the gym to watch all the Lars and Hans strut about to euro techno music in their muscle t-shirts (I kid you not). I also get the privilege of being sandwiched next to naked Heidi Klums in the locker room as they dry their hair. It does wonders for your self-confidence…not. Then it’s home for dinner/homework and maybe back again to go out.

Which I suppose leads me to my shenanigan of the week. The Danes have this concept called “hygge,” which can best be described as coziness. It defines their culture from the home all the way to the bars. For instance, a “hygge” evening might be chatting with close friends in a cozy place over a bottle of wine. So, we decided to “hygge” Saturday evening at the Dubliner. We all cozied up in a corner with our glasses of wine to enjoy some live Irish music. Little did we know that there was a bachelorette party and a birthday party simultaneously taking place in the middle. As the band switched from the Beatles to legitimate Irish music (and as the two respective parties got drunker), things got rowdy as people began stomping and clapping to the music. Suddenly the entire bar was filled with the spirit of leprechaun-a-go-go-land (and other spirits…tehe). They proceeded to take their enthusiasm to the top of the table. Because we are guests in this country, it was only polite for us to join the entire crowd Irish jigging on the table. To return the favor, a Danish man flashed us in his kilt. Thank God he wore underwear. After our frolick with Wears-Underwear-with-Kilt-Man, the four of us conveniently joined a male Danish group of 4 on the dance floor. Three of them were oh-so-charming, but the fourth was a little ambitious and creepy. For a while we communally danced until I took a break to the loos, whereupon I returned and found they’d all coupled up except for one…Creepy-Dane-Man. There was no time to run because he hurled me on the dance floor and took me as his hostage. Let me pause here. Anyone who thinks that whispering Danish in your ear while sweating profusely is seductive must be mad. You might as well be speaking German (which sounds like you’re hacking up flem). My repeated attempts at shimmying off the dance floor failed, but my panicked face caught Anne’s attention. Without saying a word we all grabbed our gear and evacuated the Dubliner before he barricaded me against a wall. In the end, I biked home safely once again. I’m not counting that as a “hygge” evening. I think we’ll have to try again.

I lack a cohesive transition to this story, but I think y'all in hamburger-land need a bite of Danish counter-culture. On Wednesday we went to visit the “free town” of Christiania. Apparently during the “flower child” days (i.e. 70’s), a group of hippies took over an old military base in Denmark and declared it their free commune. And that is the short of it. Quite literally. It's a self-proclaimed autonomous neighborhood regulated by their own unique laws. That's a fancy way of saying it's a controversial place to live because they can do whatever. This "whatever" means anything from designing bikes, architecture, living the bohemian lifestyle, or legally selling marijuana on Pusher Street. Did that get your attention? Christiania is famous for its visible soft drug market, which is legal by their standards. So imagine the pack of us sporting our North Faces looking bewildered in the middle of this very active and completely visible marijuana market. Did I mention our "guide" was wearing red valor overalls with green socks and crocs? Clearly he's lived in Christiania all his life. I was thrown off by the children's playground directly across from the bar within a 100 yards from the Hashish market. Not to mention the children's "rec center" that's turned into a dance hall at night. Oh the juxtapositions...
(And for the record--no, we did contribute to Christiania's...erm...thriving economic activities)

Well darlings, as Porky the Pig would say, "that's all folks!" (for now)
Vis ses!

F