I went through a phase when I was little where I loathed having brown hair. I think I've regressed back to that phase. Most everyone in Denmark looks like the cover of a romance novel. Because of their ethereal yet stylish beauty, they don't "cross" the street--they strut down it like a catwalk. Or they glide. I don't glide--I fumble.
Yesterday, for instance, I decided to try my best at being Danish. I grabbed some coffee to go and climbed on the bus thinking I looked oh-so-posh, except you're not allowed to bring open containers on public transportation. Which I deduced from Mr. Danish Bus Driver's wild hand gestures. Embarressed, I sat down quickly only realizing 5 minutes latter that I'd sat in the handicapped seat. I deduced this from the sign next to me and the cold stares of every elderly folk that climbed aboard. I decided then that I'd start biking to the train station. So, I biked to the train station today once again ready to be Danish. About ten Danes passed me on their bikes within ten minutes. That's a Dane a minute if you couldn't do the math, and it's like wearing a name tag saying "Hi. Just toss the American aside like an old McDonalds wrapper." But apart from my battle with public transportation, bike-a-go-go land is pretty amazing.
I mean I'm in a land where the word for marshmallow is skumfiduser. Seriously. I think I got the luck of the draw when it comes to host families. Marianne and Ole are both very laid back and speak perfect English. Their two kids, Valedmar and Dagmar (I kid you not), do not so it's a challenge when I try to communicate with them. Thus, I normally stick to hand gestures. My room is literally in their cellar where I'm visited by Danish spiders frequently. But on the bright side, it's next to their wine and liquor cellar of which they've given me free reign... so apparently I can party with the spiders. I think this is an excellent transition to talk about "going out" (the shenanigans you've all been waiting for).
Lesson one: If a male bar-going Dane invites you to come view their postage stamp collection at their apartment, just say no. The second they find out you're American, they automatically assume that you're going to get drunk and..er... actually "view their postage stamp collection." Well let me say to you sketchy Danes--not all American girls are made the same! But we do enjoy the occasional bar hoping, hot dogs at 2 am, getting jiggy on the dance floor, trying to bike home in a straight line, etc. etc. Our first night out, Blair and I were dragged across two thirds of Copenhagen. As the night went on, I discovered that I could a-magically speak PERFECT Danish, b-could dance like Shakira, c-was "tight" with the bar tender, and d-could totally bike like Lance Armstrong home. In the morning, Ole concluded that I really needed his help "practicing" for the nightlife in Copenhagen. I think he's correct.
As they say over here in skumfiduser-land, Vis ses!
