"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

Jeg er faret vild... (I am lost)

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!