Hope Goes Forth!

2011-08-20T07:20:00.000-07:00

Hello all! Henceforth, I shall be blogging at the new and improved

Unfortunately, I cannot figure out how to enable comments using a Tumblr server, so for the time being, if you experience problems accessing that webpage, please leave me a comment in response to this here post, and I'll get it.

Tak!

a room with a view (mine) and flowers from my job - the first ten days

2011-08-09T13:02:00.000-07:00

The Rowling: A Rip-off of The Raven I'd Been Meaning to Write

2011-08-08T15:01:00.001-07:00

Many times a midnight dreary, while I pondered chic and cheery,

Over seven Potter volumes filled with lasting magic lore,

While I Tumbled, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my cyber door.

`’Tis some spammer,’ I muttered, `tapping at my cyber door -

Only this, and nothing more.’

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was busy, and so gently you came bugging,

And so faintly you came chugging, spamming at my cyber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you’ - here I clicked wide the window; -

Fandom there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stared there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams all fans had dared to dream before;

But the squealing was unbroken, and the fandom gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered, `Pottermore!’

This I whispered; forum keyboards smashed about with, `Pottermore!’

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a clicking somewhat louder than before.

Here I clicked the link, and finally, with a tiny bit of silly,

Opened up a YouTube video of the Rowling from our childhood days of yore.

Then this lovely clip beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the generous, bright decorum of the author we adore,

`We’ve waited for a prequel,’ I said, `this is surely not its equal:

What the flaming hell have we to look for ever more?’

Quoth the Rowling, `Pottermore.’

Much I marveled to hear her cyber plans so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with reading more of Harry Potter’s lore -

We’d hoped for encyclopedias and sequels - for Marauder-era prequels,

Yet no such thing is promised with mysterious `Pottermore.’

`Jo!’ said I, `Oh, please give more!’ Beseeching, ‘we can’t bear it longer!

By all ghosts of Hogwarts gleaming - by that God named Dumbledore -

Tell this soul with fiction nurtured if, within the distant future,

It shall have new information made about Marauders four -

Dare we hope for salient prequels, which the fangirls would adore?’

Quoth the Rowling, `Pottermore.’

`Be that word our sign of parting, friend or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting -

`Get thee back to Edinburgh’s cold shore!

Leave no quill nor wand a token of that myth thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the tease of Potter lore!

Take thy site from out my heart, and stop ripping off Lenore!’

Quoth the Rowling, `Pottermore.’

So much thinking

2011-08-06T17:05:00.001-07:00

One of the things I love about living in another country is how the vulnerability of not speaking the language or knowing the culture or being literate in the city makes you hyperaware. I feel, like I did when I was a student in Copenhagen two years ago, that my whole brain chemistry just... alters slightly, to compensate for all the strangeness and the trying to blend in.

Not everything is different. Yesterday, the head of DIS threw a great barbecue for the interns at his house in the near 'burbs, and while we did indeed bike there (okay, that would never happen in America), the mosquitos outside on a muggy August evening were just the same as back home, and my incessant worrying about West Nile was identical to my summer fears at home.

Being in Europe, however, makes me a newly minted snob about a lot of things that would occur neither to Americans at home nor natives here. For instance, I refuse to ask for directions. It is a TEST OF FIRE to see if I can find my way to obscure apartments in Vesterbro, wheras in America I constantly ask for directions. A better example is bread. I refuse to buy store-bought, factory-baked, pre-sliced bread in a grocery shop when there are bakeries every two blocks. I just flat out refuse. Unfortunately, bakeries have shorter hours than grocery stores and I work full time and also everything goes stale in about two days. I impulsively bought a whole loaf of something called Mueslibrod, which turned into a rockhard, Einstein's Powerbagel-esque situation. I still ate it when I came home tonight, because I spent like six dollars on that damn loaf.

Because everything is so expensive. I cannot stress this enough. But I also should stop whinging about it, since I'm 22 and living abroad and have a kickass job with an end date to keep the whole year from feeling soulless or tired.

How to Blend In with the Danes

2011-07-31T08:41:00.000-07:00

1. be naturally tall

2. stand up straight (I don't)

3. bike everywhere

4. don't complain about cigarette smoke coming in through your fifth-story window

5. remember that your fifth-story window is actually the fourth floor in Europe

6. stop smiling at everything new and exciting

7. maintain an air of quietly pleased indifference

8. clean everything really well and be neat and organized

9. don't wait to do your grocery shopping until sunday (everything is closed)

10. remember to get to the bakery in the morning (before all the pastry is gone)

11. know enough Danish to request food and drink, say thanks, and apologize for biking too slowly

Today was my first full day in Copenhagen. I got to my Norrebro flat around 4:00 (that's 16:00 here) yesterday, and had a nice evening and a rough, jetlagged night/morning. Today at a convenience store, buying a bottle of water, I actually made it through the entire transaction without the clerk speaking to me in English, which I'm going to take as a sign I was "passing". Whoo-hoo.

Religious References and Iconography in Harry Potter

2011-07-23T12:56:00.000-07:00

A short list:

1. The very concept of Horcruxes presuppose that the soul is a real and physical part of humanity-- that it can be maimed, that it can be whole, and that it exists separately from the body.

2. Harry is killed, then resurrected, and lives a second life after his final battle with Voldemort. He might not be Jesus incarnate, but he's living the fictional life many fundamentalist Christians believe awaits the faithful.

3. James/Harry/Dumbledore = Father/Son/Holy Ghost

This one needs work, because I'm not Christian and can't really speak to the finer points of how perfectly this works out.

4. Christmas, gosh darned it. Why do wizards celebrate it, when their lives otherwise seem to be motivated by secular humanism (or a lack of it)?

There. I basically just wrote the Cliff's Notes for your next Comparative Religious Studies essay. You're welcome.

Hope's Forever Incomplete Guide to the Emerald Windy City of Big Shoulders

2011-06-17T22:42:00.001-07:00

I lived in Chicago for a solid 18 years, and in the following four (during which I spent 15% of my time traveling the world, 60% studying in Ohio, and 25% trying to get back), I've tried to go home as much as possible. Like a sea turtle returning to the beach of its birth, Chicago is the compass of my life. It's not too grandiose to admit; in fact, it's pretty literal. It's still the one place in the world I can find my way around, hobbled as I am with a poor sense of space and direction.

ENOUGH! Here is my work-in-progress guide to my favorite place on earth.* It's going to be endless, so I've divided it into Places to Eat, Coffee to Swill, Actual Entertainment, Hang-Outs to Hang, and Generally Great Finds. It's taken me 22 years to make this list, so please give me a shout if you like it, hate it, or want to send me a royalty check and feature it somewhere prominent.

PLACES TO EAT**

Kopi Cafe, Andersonville

My friend Niki and I started coming to Kopi on Saturdays in the fifth grade, and it's still something I look forward to whenever I'm home. Named for the Indonesian word for coffee, Kopi is sometimes misconstrued as a mere bean peddler, but in fact boasts one of the best vegetarian menus in the city. Its impressive espresso offerings sometimes eclipse its food in the press and local memory, but that's no insult, just a compliment to the drinks, which range from Red Tea sweetened with condensed milk to something lemon and frozen called a Dr. Pucker my friend Laura swears by. Don't miss Kopi's back-of-the-restaurant store, which features all kinds of jewelry, travel packs, books, and soaps from all over the world; its motto ("A Traveler's Cafe") is the opposite of lip service. This is the place to go if you're planning a trip, or wish you were. And if not, the wonderfully caffeinated Dirty Chai milkshake will always cheer you up.

Pick Me Up Cafe, Wrigleyville

My older brother introduced me to this 24/7 diner, and I wish I could say I've gotten here more often. The food is out of this world, the prices unbeatable within Cook County limits, and their mocha milkshake is the stuff of dreams (or insomnia). The perfect restaurant before or after a night at iO or the ballpark.

Hamburger Mary's, Andersonville

Another relatively recent discovery in my life, this restaurant caters campily to the gay community in which it's situated, and we're all luckier for it. Featuring flowery mixed drinks and burgers so huge they come with a serrated steak knife to help you cope, Mary's is staffed by genderqueer kings and queens of all kinds, and the menu reflects the overall Castro-esque ambience. I think there's a drink called the Fred and Ginger I've yet to try; my favorite burger is the black bean BBQ, which is topped with an onion ring.

M. Henry's, Andersonville & M. Henrietta's, Rogers Park

So much has been said and written about this upscale brunch venue, but it's worth braving the weekend crowds to taste for yourself. I'm especially fond of their huevos rancheros (I think it has a classier name, but look for the omelet with cheese and veggies and plantains on the side) and stuffed berry french toast. They also make a brilliant grilled cheese sandwich with PEARS. Yum. Note that the newer Rogers Park franchise is usually less peopled than her popular brother.

Potbelly Sandwich Co., EVERYWHERE

This is really a n00b suggestion, since you've probably run into about a dozen of these if you've lived in or visited Chicago for more than a few days. Still worth a mention: great sandwiches with that devil-may-care Midwestern attitude towards caloric intake. Thank heavens.

COFFEE TO SWILL

The Grind, Lincoln Square

I first came here with a "cool older friend" who was all of 23 when I was just a junior in high school, and now, at almost her age then, I can still vouch for its utter coolness. Right across the street from one of my favorite used bookstores and the cheapest known movie theater in the city, The Grind is the best place to kill a half hour before a hot date or chill after a guitar lesson at the nearby Old Town School of Folk Music. (Which of these did I do more often in junior high?)

Lavazza, 111 S. Jackson

Two words: frozen. capuccino. I don't know anywhere else that squirts sweet espresso out of whipped cream cans, but they do. They're in the same building as my scholarship foundation's headquarters, so I was here often. Solid coffee.

Metropolis Coffee Co., right off the Granville Red Line stop

A recent discovery, courtesy of my friend Katherine. Absolutely stellar roast: MCC actually supplies coffee beans to lots of "coffee shops" and cafes throughout the city. A lot of character, a little pretense, but a great place to meet a friend to catch up if you're in Rogers Park.

ACTUAL ENTERTAINMENT

iO (Improv Olympic), Wrigleyville

Since baseball was never my jam, I didn't think there was anything in the Wrigle Field-oriented neighborhood west of Lakeview for me or my liberal arty friends. How wrong I was. If you enjoy laughter and feeling superior to the tourists who buy out overpriced Second City shows, iO is the only place to go. I almost hate to confess my favorite show, since it is in some ways still the city's best-kept secret, but TJ & Dave on Wednesday nights at 11pm are the best of the best at improvisational comedy and there is no going back to mediocrity after seeing them. That would be a downer, if tickets for this kickass show weren't so cheap. At $5, I can nearly always afford to go when I'm feeling in need of a laugh, but be sure to buy by phone or online well in advance, since they sell out EVERY WEEK.

The Neo-Futurarium, at the southeast corner of Foster & Ashland

Full disclosure: I interned here. The only reason I got the job, though, was that I'd spent the majority of Saturday nights during high school haunting this black box theater situated above a funeral home in the heart of Andersonville. Fantastic experience of late-night, dirt-cheap, in-your-face performance art, but don't let that label put you off. Their method of "60 plays in 30 minutes" is a surefire recipe for giddy weekend fun with an always-welcome philosophical aftertaste.

The Annoyance Theater

Not unlike iO on paper, The Annoyance is an improv-based theater that also enrolls students in classes on everything from sketch writing to more serious acting. I've not studied here, but I love the Tuesday night double-header Chicagoland & Fishnuts. At $8, it's usually an unbeatable night of comedy, and the fact that it's a weekday really cuts down on the traffic. Low-key but stellar.

The Strange Tree Theatre Company (numerous venues throughout the city)

My favorite. The best of the best. There's nothing like them. I interned very briefly for these fine folks as well, but they really didn't need me. They do everything: write their shows, act them out, find the space, decorate it with wonderfully inventive and appropriate set dressing and steampunky props. Always, always worth the price of a ticket, which varies according to the theater space they're renting out. Can't wait for them to get their own building one day-- it might be soon, if their recent successes are any indication.

HANG OUTS***

Women and Children First Bookstore, Andersonville

Another place I worked back in the day, W&CF is an institution in the family-oriented, yuppie-hippie community that flocks to the area surrounding Clark and Foster. Although they primarily feature feminist, GLBTQ, and children's literature, the staff is that particular kind of well-read fabulous that you only really ever get with independent booksellers. You know, the kind the big box chains try to simulate with the smell of coffee and armchairs? This is the sort of place they wish they could be. It was also, last I checked, the largest independent feminist bookstore in the United States of America, and its welcoming but comfortable size is a true testament to the fact that this is the kind of local store far too frequently dubbed a dying breed. (Allie, if you've read this far, you should try to work here! You'd be perfect.)

Galeria, Andersonville

What a find! Not the best choice for the cheapest among us, but nevertheless the perfect place for gifts of every price range. I think I got everyone in my family a Hanukkah or Christmas present from Galeria last year. The idea of the place is simple enough: artists rent space in the four-story brick building on a high-traffic sidewalk, and potential buyers can walk among clothes, paintings, and ephemera both populist and underground. There's a great selection of Chicago-themed goods, since all the artists are locals!

Ravenswood Used Books, Lincoln Square

My favorite bookstore in the city, tied only with Women and Children First, and yes, they keep a spectacular blog. Jim Mall is one-of-a-kind, and even that phrase is far too commonplace to describe the character that runs this special, quirky place. You have to visit to understand. It's like a hoarder's attic, if the hoarder was a genius book dealer with a penchant for radical politics, cats, and typewriters. But the true treasure is, of course, the books. The people who work here know what's what, and they can help you find anything amidst the piles and piles of vanillin-scented tomes that lay, deceptively organized, all over the tight and winding corridors of this tiny storefront.

Myopic Books, Wicker Park

I used to shop here before I discovered Ravenswood Used Books (which is much closer to me), and it was usually worth the trek south. If you're living in Wicker Park, good on you, because since it became the gentrified hot spot for twentysomething migrants to Chicago, I've heard rent has gotten fairly impossible for us barely-employed postgrads. That doesn't detract from the glory of this bookstore, though the neighborhood is better known for its bar life, good weather craft fairs, and alt-music scene.

GENERALLY GREAT FINDS

Bello Hair Studio, at the corner of Lincoln & Berwyn

Such lovely ladies, such reasonably priced haircuts. It's right by where I grew up, and I've been going to Emma and Alma so long that they not only remember how I wore my hair for prom, but also the years of me talking about it beforehand. Don't take my word for it: people love them on Yelp!

Ten Cat Pub, somewhere on Ashland

I only recently found out that my parents and their friends hung out here a bit as pre-parents in the eighties. Pretty weird, since my friends and I just discovered it last summer, when we were finally all 21. Super relaxed, kinda dirty, but in a good, underpriced way. I don't drink a lot, which jives with the low-down, intimate feel of the back room, where there is a real, working fireplace and board games. It's also usually quiet enough to have, say, a birthday party with your high school friends and play pool.

The Violet Hour, Wicker Park

Pretty schmancy. I've only been here once, but it's quite the experience. Made like a pseudo-prohibition-era dive, you have to knock on a secret door below a single light bulb half-hidden by wood planking to get in, and they'll ignore you if they're full. Once inside, it's a swanky affair with high-backed grey booths and upscale, crafted drinks reminiscent of the Jazz Age. Certainly worth a trip, but maybe reserve it for a special occasion.

*It's true that Chicago is where my heart lies, but for whatever reason, I find myself always leaving her. I guess that's for others to psychoanalyze...

**I'm a vegetarian, so all of these posts can only really comment on the veggie fare served at the listed restaurants, but I promise all are delicious, even to my carnivorous friends.

***This is code for "window shopping" and "we're broke but we can browse."

Things That Cross My Mind As the Sun Sets on My Last Day of Being 21 and I Procrastinate My Final Project of College

2011-05-21T16:58:00.000-07:00

- What's Haley Joel Osment up to these days?

- I wonder where I can find the new Doctor Who episode legally...

- Tumblr is calling my name.

- Am I going to go on a vacation with two old friends this summer?

- Do I have enough money?

- I'm going to miss the food in Oberlin.

- No, I'm not.

- Yes, I am! But for all the wrong reasons.

- The internet is the crack cocaine of my generation.

- No Rapture.

- Raptor Jesus?

- Rapture PRANKS!

- I should clean my room.

- I should pack.

- Maybe it's too early to pack.

- 22 is really old.

Doctor Who and the Seductiveness of Peter Pans

2011-05-20T09:20:00.000-07:00

This year, I've begun to involve myself in the cultural spectacular that is the 2005-present BBC serial, Doctor Who. I saw my first episode, The Girl in the Fireplace, in the late fall, and this semester I've been catching up on all things Eccleston, Tennant, and Smith.

Perhaps more important than the actors who play the Doctor is the men (because it does appear to be almost exclusively men, albeit genius ones) who write him. I came to the series --after many years of friends suggesting I'd like it-- finally because of two fellows named Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, staff writers for Who but also the joint creators of a little piece of glory called Sherlock, which I adored.

And Neil Gaiman, an author any fantasy fan worth her salt knows from his novels, penned his first episode this season, and it was the most satisfying hour of TV I've ever watched. The things these people are writing are incomprehensibly beautiful and astonishingly addictive. But why? What is it about a science fiction show for children that appeals so much to so many?

It's hard to explain to people who've never sat through endless hours of Whovian wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey storytelling. I've heard many an enlightened adult complain that the stories are just too convoluted, the effects just too crummy, the characters undeniably silly. Hell, I was one of them.

Here's my short list of what makes Doctor Who compelling:

1. The Peter Pan Appeal

There will always be something sublime about the Peter Pan story: a boyish misfit with a touch of supernatural charm who whisks away a girl (and they are usually women) away from her everyday normalcy to travel through the night sky. Under his guidance, she becomes her own heroine in fantastical adventures she could barely have dreamed up had she stayed home. The allure of travel with the Doctor alleviates the agony and boredom which plague "conventional" lives for these companions, in much the same way Peter rescued Wendy from "having to grow up." In fact, most of the Doctor's companions have to eventually return to a permutation of their old lives once the adventures are over. The most excruciating example, if you've seen the fourth series, is Donna Noble, whose very memories of time spent with the Doctor must literally be sacrificed to save her life. In order to return to normalcy, Donna has to forget everything she saw and experienced in the vast reaches of the universe. It's painfully reminiscent of the final scene in Peter Pan when Wendy is too old to go back to Never Never Land.

All of the Freudian baggage of J.M. Barrie's original children's story is encoded in Doctor Who's DNA. The Doctor, like Peter, can never "grow up" -- that is, by virtue of his nature (and design of the show), he can never stop traveling space and time, can never settle down, and most certainly can never reciprocate the love and occasional lust of nearly every companion who spends time in the TARDIS. Most entertainment relies, either in part or in whole, on some potent unresolved sexual tension, and with the Doctor, it's part and parcel of his makeup. He will always be charming, his companions (and the audience) will always fall in love with him, and that element will always be frustrated. It keeps people coming back for more, but beyond that, it makes him untouchable in a very God-like way...

2. The Doctor is God for the Godless

The Dalai Lama said, "Some people automatically associate morality and altruism with a religious vision of the world. But I believe it is a mistake to think that morality is an attribute only of religion. We can imagine two types of spirituality: one tied to religion, while the other arises spontaneously in the human heart as an expression of love for our neighbors and a desire to do them good."

At its core, Doctor Who is about secular humanism. The Doctor saves worlds, aliens, and-- most often-- humans, again and again from torture and annihilation and fates dubbed "worse than death." Why does he do it? There's no man in the sky telling him what to do: he IS the man in the sky, and it's HIS mercy the villains must rely upon. The Doctor decides who lives and who dies, but he usually tries to save everyone. He tries his best not to prioritize. The people who stand with him are nearly as important as the people who don't. He inexplicably loves all life forms and reacts to them with a wonder not uncommon to children but totally without any of their human cruelty. He eschews violence, but violence is sometimes necessary when violent folks have brought it upon themselves.

Most importantly, the show is a recklessly optimistic bastion of hope in a time when we human race are seemingly lacking in innate goodwill. The Doctor trusts, saves, spares, and inspires. His adventures in time and space, not only into the past but often many hundreds of years into the future, connote a belief that the world is not ending and the universe is not finite. Alongside this miraculous conception of our contemporary world, which in reality seems so often to be at the brink itself, human death becomes what it was always meant to be: a small but important part of the greater, exquisite whole.

Because people do die in Doctor Who. Adults, children, aliens-- no one is immune. This isn't some fantasy whereby the ailments of reality are discarded in favor of blissful delusion; it's the great kind of science fiction wherein our very real problems and concerns are elevated to poetry, opera, and art. The great and trivial struggles of being alive are cast into sharp relief when an entire species, planet, solar system, or the entire history of time are threatened. We see, through the Doctor's eyes, what becomes important. Love isn't the ultimate savior, although it takes a healthy dose of kindness and caring-- industriousness and creativity are just as vital when it comes to saving the universe(s). Doctor Who shows us the qualities it takes to survive and thrive in an unkind world, and some surprising trends emerge. Generosity is prized, as is remorse. (Someone more fluent in history could write a damn fine thesis on how this relates to the history of Britain-as-imperial-power and her subsequent politics.) But most often, the Doctor acts out of a place of intelligence and warmth. As Amy Pond says, "You never interfere in the affairs of other peoples or planets unless there's children crying."

3. Nothing Is Ever Irrevocable... And the Things that Are Have Good Reasons

In Doctor Who, the things that are really, really bad (the Holocaust, slavery) are either glossed over or, if alluded to, the Doctor is able to explain why he can't interfere with some vague monologue about how some things are so big and so key to time that he can't mess with them. There are things even the Doctor can't change-- not actually because he can't, but because he won't. There is some greater purpose that, while never totally explained, we accept as viewers because it's comforting to be told by a 900-year-old that our problems are small but not insignificant in the grand scheme.

Meanwhile, at least half of the Doctor Who episodes I've seen involve him landing somewhere in the past and rectifying some minor wrong or explaining a quirk of history in a cockamamie way-- delightful or twee, depending usually on the writing. (There's one episode involving Shakespeare that includes one of my favorite lines. After being flirted with by the Bard himself, the Tenth Doctor mutters, "Fifty-two academics just punched the air." Yes, we did.)

Watch Doctor Who long enough, and you start to believe your own mistakes and regrets are mere casualties of time. My boyfriend told me with complete sincerity that he occasionally believes he can go back and correct past wrongs if he's been watching Doctor Who too much, and I can't say it's irrational. The conceit appeals to that little part of all of us that secretly believes there's something fantastical out there whose sole purpose is to fix our lives for us. It's the part of us that wants to surrender control.

Doctor Who is a show for children, an age that every adult alive has lived through, for better or worse. Sometimes, watching the show sends the same shiver of delight down your spine that picking up a good book did when you were nine years old-- but the reading recommendations you get as an adult are usually for novels and nonfiction bestsellers, not fantasy serials. We speak of the Star Wars novelizations in ashamed, hushed voices, or joke about the camp quality of vampire stories written for adult audiences. There just aren't that many quality book series for adults the way there are for kids; we don't get to return to our favorite characters the way we used to, and the fictional world is less a stable home than a series of nice hotels (or conceptual art-themed motels, Mr. Eggers).

The greatest series is arguably now televised, because with Doctor Who, there's no compromise. You're accepting the desire to be entertained at face value, and getting more. The ability to return to that universe week after week is something special. I don't think the community fostered by Doctor Who is frivolous or superficial. I think it's an opportunity to connect in an age of cultural fragmentation. I don't think any artistic output is frivolous or superficial if we engage with it in the same spirit as we engage with history or the news. It's just as telling.

more good poetry not written by me

2011-05-03T14:01:00.001-07:00

Peanut Butter

BY EILEEN MYLES

I am always hungry

& wanting to have

sex. This is a fact.

If you get right

down to it the new

unprocessed peanut

butter is no damn

good & you should

buy it in a jar as

always in the

largest supermarket

you know. And

I am an enemy

of change, as

you know. All

the things I

embrace as new

are in

fact old things,

re-released: swimming,

the sensation of

being dirty in

body and mind

summer as a

time to do

nothing and make

no money. Prayer

as a last re-

sort. Pleasure

as a means,

and then a

means again

with no ends

in sight. I am

absolutely in opposition

to all kinds of

goals. I have

no desire to know

where this, anything

is getting me.

When the water

boils I get

a cup of tea.

Accidentally I

read all the

works of Proust.

It was summer

I was there

so was he. I

write because

I would like

to be used for

years after

my death. Not

only my body

will be compost

but the thoughts

I left during

my life. During

my life I was

a woman with

hazel eyes. Out

the window

is a crooked

silo. Parts

of your

body I think

of as stripes

which I have

learned to

love along. We

swim naked

in ponds &

I write be-

hind your

back. My thoughts

about you are

not exactly

forbidden, but

exalted because

they are useless,

not intended

to get you

because I have

you & you love

me. It’s more

like a playground

where I play

with my reflection

of you until

you come back

and into the

real you I

get to sink

my teeth. With

you I know how

to relax. &

so I work

behind your

back. Which

is lovely.

Nature

is out of control

you tell me &

that’s what’s so

good about

it. I’m immoderately

in love with you,

knocked out by

all your new

white hair

why shouldn’t

something

I have always

known be the

very best there

is. I love

you from my

childhood,

starting back

there when

one day was

just like the

rest, random

growth and

breezes, constant

love, a sand-

wich in the

middle of

day,

a tiny step

in the vastly

conventional

path of

the Sun. I

squint. I

wink. I

take the

ride.

a great poem

2011-04-26T20:24:00.000-07:00

‎The Best of It

However carved up
or pared down we get,
we keep on making
the best of it as though
it doesn’t matter that
our acre’s down to
a square foot. As
though our garden
could be one bean
and we’d rejoice if
it flourishes, as
though one bean
could nourish us.

- Kay Ryan

Jesus was a Commie and Other Easter Thoughts

2011-04-24T17:13:00.000-07:00

I may be a godless heathen who was converted to the practice of witchcraft due to early childhood exposure to Harry Potter, but Easter still means a lot to me and I still have a lot of annoying opinions about Jesus & Co. My father is the kind of Catholic that hates the Pope and eschews parochial school labor practices, then claims he's a Buddhist and doesn't hate anyone because Jesus didn't hate anyone.

My mother is Jewish and we celebrated both Passover and Easter in the house growing up. This year, due to Oberlin's academic calendar, I was unable to celebrate the former and unwilling to observe the latter, except in my own special way. I'm not a spiritual person and I'm not claiming that my "special way" was in any religious sense observant, but I spent a couple hours trying to watch "Jesus Christ, Superstar" on the internet and settling for clips on YouTube.

The truth is, as unobservant and unreligious as I am and work hard to be, I think there is value in the stories handed down through the generations. The Bible is not the only short story collection I think humanity can benefit from, but it is one of the most widely-read, and it seems the adult thing to do to come to terms with it.

Here's a short list of the things I gleaned from my parents, the HarperCollins Children's Bible I spent some time reading (and rereading) as a child, watching "Jesus Christ, Superstar" in its entirety every couple of years:

1. Jesus was a communist. Well, if not a communist, a radical anti-capitalist. And if not that, exactly, at least a supporter of unions, communal living, and a believer in fair pay for hard work. I am positive he would support welfare and living wage reform, and then cry into his hemp pillow that the rest of the world was so harsh these things are needed. The man was a carpenter (a manual laborer), and he lived in what was basically a prototype of a co-op with twelve other dudes and a hooker. Which leads me to

2. Jesus loved everyone, including sex workers. It's not some strange coincidence that Mary Magdalene is a prostitute.* I'm pretty sure she has her cameos in the Bible to make a certain few points, many of which Dan Brown can probably obscure for you. At the most basic and unassuming level, Jesus has love for sex workers. Whether or not that love extended to the physical and earthly desires is up for debate, much like whether or not Sam and Frodo of Lord of the Rings fame were getting it on in the Shire. But Jesus would probably have supported the rights of sex workers to health care, legal recognition, safety, and respect.

3. Jesus pushed aside the boulder to his resting-cave, popped out into the sun, and said something like, "Everyone can eat cheeseburgers." Thus is my understanding of the observance of Lent. Although

4. Jesus was probably vegan (excluding the honeyed locusts or whatever). Because he loved everyone, including goats and cows and chickens, and would have wept for humanity over global warming.

As we can see, my understanding of Jesus and the Bible pretty much precludes an understanding of the conservatives and fundamentalists who hijack this great work of human literature for their own nefarious gains. Have some Martin Luther King, Jr. for more persuasive intellectualizing on this point:

And have a happy Easter. WWJD? He'd probably laugh at the Peeps, pop a Cadbury egg, then cast his spell to make food multiply forever. And then give it to the children, of course.

* As a Christian friend of mine who I respect deeply pointed out to me on the Facebook, the Catholic Church made up that Mary M. was a prostitute. I had no idea. My understanding of her is predominantly informed by Dan Brown novels. My sincere apologies. Still makes the Church look hella bad to point it out, though, so I'm happy to.

What the Hell It Is I Think I'm Doing

2011-04-04T20:50:00.000-07:00

I'm a writer. It's not a pretense, it's not a lifestyle choice. It's certainly not a career (yet-- a girl of 21 can still hope).

I'm a writer because I write. Constantly and compulsively, in a bunch of genres; so far without tangible success-- if success is determined by economics and renown. But I've gotten encouraged, and at the end of the day that's really what we need to keep dreams alive, don't we? To keep working towards our goals? And some people seem to manage just fine without any encouragement, so there's a life mystery for you.

I've written stand up, sketch comedy, criticism, straight plays, poetry, postcards, speeches, travel journalism, personal nonfiction, blogs, emails, love letters, political essays, petitions, syllabi, in a diary for five consecutive years and a few scattered others. I can't help it. It's what I do, who I am, and how I live. It's not my place to say what's utter garbage and what's not. That's for others to judge. All I can do is keep doing it. I virtually hemorrhage prose. Hey, no one promised it would be pretty. I'm admitting it's often not.

Years and years ago, as a silly fifteen-year-old keeping a Xanga (for those not in high school in the early 2000s: an old-school blog template we frequented in the days before Facebook) for middle school friends that partially and tragically revolved around my obsession with Harry Potter, I wrote a mock-Oscar acceptance speech for when I win the award for best original screenplay. (Hubris, thou art a fickle bedfellow.)

It was great. Great to think that big. Great to have that confidence. How many dozens of times a day can we be told our dreams outstrip our means? How often is an adolescent girl discouraged from pursuing jobs in the arts? The best part is that it was never an award for acting or modeling or fashion or teaching or journalism that I wanted. It wasn't what I was constantly told-- by well-meaning folks surrounding me, the media, my friends-- to want. Pretty girls act. Smart girls teach. Girls who want to write compete for magazine internships. Honey, get yourself a nice job where no one will hassle you for being a woman in a man's world. Work in a place where you do what you do well, and so what if you never leave your comfort zone?

The truth is, where I want to be isn't the friendliest place for a lady. Comedy? Writing? The sort of shows I want to work for-- The Daily Show, Community, Saturday Night Live-- are not run by women. Letterman is constantly mistreating his female staffers. Well-known and regarded journalists loudly and repeatedly claim women aren't funny. So what does an (over?) educated young women in her earliest twenties do upon leaving school?

She turns to other interests: traveling. Working in academia. She finds a fantastic job in another country for the year after graduation. She won't be paid well, but she'll tread the line between safe and adventurous. A little stability, a little security, new life experience. She fills out a work permit application. Gets passport photos. Applies for temporary residence. Searches desperately and so far unsuccessfully for an apartment in Copenhagen to lease for 13 months.

See, I get the next year and a half to hit pause. Maybe that's why I'm uncomfortable when my mother tells me she's proud of me: I feel a little like I've cheated. I'm sure I haven't. I'm sure everything is great. It's just a feeling that's a little hard to shake when you clarify for yourself what it is you want to do, and it has little to do with your actual plans.

The only solution I can think of is to write like a maniac. Write this lengthy blog post. Think on cyber paper for a little while. Ask friends, by way of posting this very entry, to weigh in.

And when the time comes-- because, after all, thirteen months is significant but not an eternity (less than celebrities usually spend in jail and rehab combined, let's be honest-- and working in another country is a huge privilege and stroke of immense luck)-- I can try harder. Take a risk. Move to Los Angeles or New York. Stop hiding behind other (admittedly fantastic) opportunities. Take myself someplace I'm scared to go, and chase the damned rainbow for as long as it doesn't depress the hell out of me to run.

You can't go home again, but you can go back.

2011-03-09T20:18:00.000-08:00

(Picture taken by me during the COP15 demonstrations in Dec. '09)

In about four and a half months, I'll set off for thirteen months of living abroad. It's a little odd to think that my first "adult experience"-- by which I mean, post-graduate job-- won't be in New York or L.A. or Chicago or any of the other cities I grew up thinking I would immediately move to upon graduation. But you know what? The political landscape isn't the one I grew up thinking I'd inherit, either.

Working abroad will be different than studying abroad-- I can't just pick up and leave whenever I want, and I'll be working 8am-5pm Mondays through Fridays instead of going to class sporadically four days a week. But I think I'll find the time to explore more of Europe. There's so much I didn't do the first time around, so many places I didn't visit. After working at National Geographic Traveler, I have even more ideas than when I went the first time of what to do. Most importantly, I want to try some of these.

THINGS I AM LOOKING MOST FORWARD TO ABOUT RETURNING TO KOBENHAVN:

- weinerbrod

- cafes that stay open through the cold weather and supply customers with blankets and heat lamps

- sophisticated transportation

Living Quietly

2011-02-25T11:06:00.001-08:00

It's been a month exactly since my last post, and so very much has happened. I'm happily back in Oberlin, Ohio, finishing my last semester of college-- which is both surreal and joyful.

Today, I was offered a job I wanted very much in Copenhagen, Denmark-- an internship position at the very same school I attended back in Fall 2009. I'm feeling grateful and dizzy, in that order, and a small measure of sadness. My life in America has been so good lately. I hope leaving for thirteen months to settle temporarily abroad isn't turning my back on everything (everyone) I love here.

I hope to get this blog up and running again as the departure date grows nearer. And I hope the Americans I love can visit me.

A Fourth Week Reflection

2011-01-25T11:55:00.000-08:00

Blogs! Travel blogs, work blogs, internship blogs, project blogs, volunteer blogs, graduate school blogs. Just about every college student and postgrad has a reason to blog and a half-baked dream of penning the next inspiration for a Hollywood hit a la "Julie & Julia"-- but almost none of our lives have a fraction of the required glamor. And fewer still have a fraction of the required appeal.

I wish I'd written more about interning at National Geographic, but the sad truth is that four weeks is a really short amount of time. This is my 23rd day in Washington, DC, and I'm not sure what I have to show for it other than a painfully depleted bank account.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED THE HARD WAY ABOUT OUR NATION'S CAPITAL

- Everyone is political. Everyone. And sometimes it's appropriate to discuss. And sometimes, apparently, it's very much not. Pulling out your copy of The Militant on a train near the White House might not be the smartest move you make that day.

- Eating out is more expensive here than in most major US cities, because District restaurants and bars cater to high-powered lawyers and politicians. Why bother with a student menu or cheap ethnic food when you can make bank decking out a hole-in-the-wall with suit-luring decor?

- Food trucks just look and taste cheap. A cupcake is still $3, and a tiny slice of pizza that would embarrass New York and Chicago goes for a cool $5.

- The Metro claims to be one of the cleanest public transit systems in the country, and actively pursues this agenda with terrifying, 300x -sized pictures of rats on posters throughout city terminals with the distressing caption: "You gonna eat that?"

- The Metro, like the food, is over-priced. There is actually a calculator on the DC transit's website designed to calculate whether your trip in and out of the District is more cost-effective with a car or with the train. ?! Public transportation should ALWAYS be cheaper than driving. That's why it's called "public transportation" - it's meant to be for the public. You don't even see homeless people getting warmth and rest on train cars or buses because the cost is prohibitive. That's not right. If the country can't even support cheap public transit in its capital city, there's something wrong.

Highs and Lows of Unpaid Jobs: An Interning Manifesta

2011-01-12T08:36:00.000-08:00

Working at National Geographic Traveler this month technically marks my fourth time being an intern. (If I were honest, though, I'd have to say that the time I briefly interned for wonderful theater company Strange Tree -- last January Term, kind of-- shouldn't really count. Because I don't have a driver's license, I ended up not being particularly helpful to them, much as we all wished I could have been. They are incredible people who do incredible work, but that was the only time I felt, as an intern, that I wasn't really altogether as helpful as I should have been.)

The two other times I've been an intern have also been with theater companies, Steppenwolf and The Neo-Futurists in my hometown. National Geographic is obviously different from that, because the magazine world is absolutely nothing like the theater world. I'm grateful for the breath of fresh air, to be frank, and the opportunity to learn a new world.

There are some things these internships have in common, though. For one, they're unpaid-- the labor unionist in me rebels!-- but because they're all nonprofits, I've always swallowed my socialist politics on that one and mostly been grateful that my family can support me while I take on these weeks and months of working for free. Not everyone is so lucky. In fact, most people aren't. It's a privileged position to be able to work for free, and schools like Oberlin should do a better job of monetarily supporting the students who aren't able to do it on their own.

To be fair, working for free is what apprenticing has always been about. You give your time and work hard in exchange for access to people and trade knowledge. It's almost a fair system, if the contemporary world wasn't so dependent on the exchange of money. And in days of old, even thirteen-year-old blacksmith's assistants would get room and board, right?

I am not complaining. Like I said, I feel pretty lucky that I'm able to do this, to appease my curiosity and work hard for something I can feel proud about. Travel journalism is something I can feel proud about. Every day, I get to work in a building with banners outside proclaiming that National Geographic Society is "Your window to the world." I thought about this a lot this morning as I bounded up the stairs, a little later than I should have been due to the snow DC's just had: I get to work at your window to the world? Who's the "you" in that statement? Washington? America? The world? The world's window to the world? It gets confusing at that point.

But anyway, another thing that hung me up about it was that WINDOWS happen to be the thing I miss most when I'm interning. The way my particular cubicle and computer are arranged, I can't see a sliver of daylight. If I push back my chair about a foot from the keyboard, I can sometimes peek into a neighbor's office to look outside her window longingly-- but there's a big brick building (with the lettering "Sumner School" across its top) blocking most of the sunshine. At first, I'd liked that building. Today, day eight of working here, I just miss seeing the sky.

And when I worked at Steppenwolf last summer-- a job I loved, make no mistake-- it was a similar situation. I worked 9-5 in a cubicle, crunched on either side by two others who shared the same desk. Thank god we became friends. Only in August, after three months of interning, did I realize I'd missed the summer.

The adults reading this will probably nod knowingly or shake their heads with jaded recognition. "Yes," you're saying to yourselves, "That's what being an adult is about." Working in an office and sacrificing the seasons. "You do it to provide for yourself and your family."

Well, being an unpaid intern doesn't provide for me or my family, at least not directly. In fact, it detracts from my family's... provisions. "Well," some people will tell you, "The whole point is that you make connections now for a job later." Sure. But there's a nice girl working downstairs in the NatGeo Store who said she had eight internships before graduating college, a few after, and then couldn't find a job. She works here and at Starbucks. And that's the story I hear most often.

One thing us Gen Yers are always accused of, though, is entitlement. How dare I, goes the argument, presume that I deserve anything at all, let alone a job with a salary or, heaven forbid, health care benefits?

The answer is complicated. Growing up as perhaps the first global generation (my friends were making YouTube videos seen by viewers in Hong Kong when we were fifteen, and most of us, regardless of class, have gotten abroad at one time or another), the people I know are pretty aware of the crises facing developing countries and disasters happening with alarming regularity all over the world today. There is that knowledge, but with it comes resignation, an early strain of the lethal virus of empathetic exhaustion. We're told to care about so many things and given so few outlets to do anything about them (that are easy or widely presented, at least), that many people of all ages, but most critically my own, simply give up.

We retreat into pop culture and have collectively developed a similar sense of post-post-modern, ironic humor. Can you blame us? With so little uniting us on an international level, let alone a national one, we're grateful and excited that, meeting another twentysomething in an elevator, we might have "Doctor Who" or Neutral Milk Hotel in common. "Have you seen the latest Andy Samberg sketch?" we ask each other urgently, as if it's of vital importance to both our idea of self and of community. In a very sad but true way, it is.

But the question was one of entitlement. I was born in 1989. People around my age spent some pretty formative years in an America with a surplus, when the biggest national problem seemed to us whether Bill Clinton had cheated on his wife. I hasten to say we were the last generation pretty universally inculcated with the idea that our country was essentially good and essentially the most powerful one on earth. These things, while responsible for unpleasantness like imperialism, arrogance, and ignorance, also provide citizens with a heady sense of security and well-being.

So 2001 happens. Adults around the country are shocked. Kids around the country are confused. And us-- preteens, teenagers-- are young enough to reconfigure our worldview to include this event, not implicitly reject it as "something that doesn't happen." Guess what? It happened. Our conception of the universe was still malleable enough to account for it, so you have a generation that no longer plans for permanence. (Could this be why so many more people today get tattoos than a decade ago? It seems trivial but related to me.)

Just a few years later, the world economy collapses. We aren't shocked, we aren't panicked. Unlike our elders, who watch as their jobs disappear and their pensions dry up, we never expected those things, not really. We were told ten years ago that the world was ending with Y2k, and secretly hoped it would. It's a year until 2012 now, another beacon of hope for the world to end, and people my age are deliriously delighted with the prospect. The world ending means we can stop feeling guilty about our impotence and physically disappear, like we've always subconsciously feared and desired.

Which brings us back to internships. I have loved all my internships, and you have to, on a daily basis, appreciate them for what they are-- because what they are not is an investment. Common wisdom says the opposite, but any unemployed graduate can tell you the reality.

But see, that comes easily to me. Taking things one day at a time, planning for a month here, three months there. Nothing lasts-- nothing ever did, but today things are less stable than ever, and the process has sped up considerably. I can't even get an iPod for Christmas before the next one is already hitting the tech geek blogs.

It's not a problem, this state of evanescence, because not only is it the ultimate human condition, it's well-suited to the brains of teens and twentysomethings. The parts of our minds that plan for the long-term aren't even fully developed yet, according to my neuroscience professors. If you see a pierced hipster on the side of the road, looking altogether pretty calm about being jobless, that's probably part of it.

But what happens to us as we age? By the time people my age hit their thirties, social security might be history. By the time we recognize why something like socialized healthcare might be a pretty great idea, the time for activism might have passed us by.

It's important that people who are in their teens and twenties now try to wrap their heads around that reality. Do I think we will? Nah. Not on the whole. But if just a few of us do, and if just a few of us are willing to put that time and energy into leaving the world a better place than how we found it (I can hear laughing at the sprawling ambition of such a hope), that might be enough. At least, thinking at all about these things would be a start.

Not a real blog.

2011-01-10T15:50:00.000-08:00

Okay, this is a little embarassing, but I mostly keep this blog for my family, friends, and some administrators at my college who asked. As a mea culpa, allow me to recommend three much more awesome bloggers I discovered this past weekend:

Listful Thinking: This is the funniest girl writing on the internet right now. That's a totally subjective opinion, and 100% based on the fact that I mad identify with her loathing of Nic Cage and Hugh Grant. She's also amazingly honest, and that's half the hilarity: she spent New Year's Eve going out in the cold, half-dressed, to buy a romance novel. I'm too embarrassed to explain how that makes us alike, but you should definitely be reading her blog. Quick, before everyone notices how awesome her writing is and she gets a book deal, etc. This way you can be all, "I read Listful Thinking before it was cool and she's much better live and the first album was better."

Edith Zimmerman/The Hairpin: Thank you, "This American Life," for pointing me here.

Anna Friedman: Blogging while taking a roadtrip west after quitting her job-- for the second time in her twenties. American hero.

Hello, blogosphere!

2011-01-08T10:18:00.000-08:00

I am interning at National Geographic Traveler magazine for the month of January. The opportunity was offered by an Oberlin alum who's an editor there, and I found it on our Career Services website when doing a little late-night internet-surfing back in the fall. The myriad ways I procrastinate often involve looking up what to do next, which has so far served me pretty well.

I worked Monday to Friday this week, coming in between 9:30 and 11am and leaving between 4:30 and 6. It's been altogether delightful, I have to say. Totally unlike my previous work experience and internships in some ways, though those experiences have certainly informed this one. I love the constant armchair-traveling for seven hours a day. I think that's a lovely way to spend your work week, actually: looking up what to do in the Twin Cities, checking in with fellow staff on Twitter, fact-checking lists of activities in Hong Kong, proofreading an article about Brazil.

And I'm getting to know DC, as well. I'm living in a guest apartment owned by some wonderfully generous family friends in Alexandria, VA, a town just outside of the district. It's about a 20 minute bus ride to the Metro station, where I catch a 25-minute train to Farragut West, which is a stop in the northwest quadrant (DC is divided into four segments by direction) equidistant between the glorious National Geographic Society building and the White House. Apparently, President Obama and I both work in a neighborhood called "The Golden Triangle."

Favorite thing about DC so far: the plethora of food trucks! Food trucks are a trend that I don't think has hit Chicago in full force yet (at least, not to my knowledge): mobile mini-restaurants that drive around the city, stopping at various hotspots so that commuters can grab a pizza slice, gourmet cupcake, or hot chocolate on the go! Once a week, at Farragut Square just a block from where I work, something called "Farragut Fridays" happens, and five or six of these trucks station themselves temporarily around the perimeter of the park!

Yesterday, I got a slice of veggie pizza, a pumpkin spice cupcake, and hot chocolate. I have to say that I could probably find better versions of all these things in real, stationary restaurants in the area, but it was a novelty-- and pretty convenient-- to just walk out of Nat Geo and wait in the cold afternoon on line with several DC natives! How authentic, I thought, how unusual! Never mind the chill.

A Love Letter To Adolescence: HP & the Deathly Hallows, Pt. 1

2010-11-19T10:39:00.001-08:00

I spent a huge part of late childhood and all of adolescence comforted by the world of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books. I know there were adult fans back in the ’90s and early ’00s, and I know the series is introduced to uncountable children with every passing year.

But for my generation— for the kids who grew up with the specter of terrorism and the total powerlessness we felt as a President embroiled the world in a series of wars and the internet changed every facet of our lives— Harry Potter has always been a constant, a spiritual salve for the lost, the frightened, the kids who went through a decade unlike any other. And even now, though we’ve entered an uncomfortable adulthood, it often feels like just another costume.

On nights like last— when the penultimate midnight showing of a Harry Potter film erupts theaters across the country and across the world with squeals of delight from people my age, saddled with the reputation of apathy and social awkwardness and fair accusations of political ennui— something falls into place. We are, for one of a dozen times that is drawing to an irrevocable close, again a community. We clap at the same places. We trill knowing laughs at all the right parts. We let our personal opinions be known, loud and clear, and share the crazy joys of returning to a place we all feel like was partially invented by us.

I made the joke in passing to a friend this morning that I grew up in a place called the Internet of Crazy, and for me and a lot of others my age, that place was filled with Harry Potter. We discussed its obscurest points, debated its most mysterious corners, had an encyclopedic knowledge of the books that scared our parents.

But time marches on. Later and later, we come to understand that Harry Potter, though it was unique, though it remains a remarkable phenomenon, though it felt like it was a wonder that would never cease, must necessarily become a relic of our past. I tutor fourteen-year-olds who have only seen the movies, and tell me they don’t really “get it.” Some of us who were 10 and 11 when the first book came out have children of our own now.

I maintain that there was nothing comparable to the Harry Potter series, and what it was for us. That’s partially due to the inconceivable stresses and undupliacatable tensions of when these books were coming out, and partially due to the unquestionable talent, grace, skill, and gentleness that J.K. Rowling had. Creating a world so complete and so richly tapestried with metaphors of our own that we wanted to live there before we knew that we did required a tenderness and an understanding missing from most books, and even some parents. She taught acceptance, mercy, bravery, logic, and most importantly, she taught us— as the greatest teachers do— how to cope with the twin mysteries of love and death.

Rowling deserves all the praise she has ever received, and more, and better. But beyond her and her legacy, its moving chronicle of loss and longing, are us, the children for which it was written. I will always have a soft place in my heart for the people born between roughly 1986 and 1993 for this. Born in 1989, I was 10 the first time I picked up Harry Potter, and twelve when the Twin Towers fell down. Can adults of the age understand this? Can posterity?

Everyone has a history. For me, and for the other millions of us who dressed our no-longer-childlike bodies in the faded robes and silly slogan shirts that claimed our identity as “fans” (how unfair, the smallness of that word for such richness of experience!), flying our freak flags high enough to be seen from space, proud and unashamed, we were calling to that shared history, hoping to see a glimmer of it reflected back at us onscreen. Maybe we did. But more important than the movie was the experience of the movie, our story, the one we will have for the rest of our lives to look back on. We will try to make sense of how we felt and what we did, and to a large degree might be unable to satisfy our older selves with recollection. That’s why it’s necessary to celebrate now, in all ways and every way, and while we can, what this culture was and is for us.

And when it ends next summer, it will be a small death. We will grow up. Those of us who’ve kept the warm glow of the series close by for more than half our lives will shed it, like a cloak that got too small. We know this. At the theater last night, there were cries of, “Only one more movie until my childhood is over!”

We are aware of the loss. Thankfully, Rowling taught us, before we had to learn, how to live with losses. The profound quality of the losses she described is not absent from this one. That’s why nights like last are so important: so beautiful, so precious, so ephemeral. They are the few and far between moments of our lives when we are sharply aware of all that we have and all that we were. The passion and excitement is an elegy to itself. Celebrate while you can.

Forgot my journals...

2010-09-11T14:14:00.001-07:00

Well, in the hassle of moving back to Oberland from a near-perfect summer in Chicago, I accidentally left my poor journals at home. It's been a little disastrous, because I use journals as cheap therapy, art class, and scrapbook-like documentary all in one. And the first two weeks of senior year have been rife with madness to deconstruct.

One thing I will say--that I wish I had my journals for to ruminate on, though this blog will do in the meantime--is that I've become totally preoccupied with mountains and glaciers and Antarctica recently. I often think like this, getting really involved with an idea or image before knowing quite what it means. A little like dreaming, or like thinking in metaphors come up with by someone else.

The background on my computer is of some fjords and mountains in Norway, and my 2011 wall calendar is images from Antarctica. I don't know what this means. But I'd be willing to hear guesses...

Almost a week and merry Christmas!

2009-12-25T12:57:00.000-08:00

Well, a week ago this time I was keeping myself awake all night to catch the 5:45am train out of Copenhagen to the airport on Saturday morning. After a bitter and miserable 21 hours of travel, I arrived at the international terminal of O'Hare to my wonderful parents and sister holding a Welcome Home sign (aww).

Since then, I've basically been hibernating.

I cut off all my hair (almost).

Saw some mediocre improv on Christmas Eve Eve with lovely old friends.

Caught a cold and slept for three days.

And woke up Christmas morning to basically everything I wanted. (Two books of poetry, the novel People of Paper, cute dresses, chocolate, House Season 5 on DVD, and an email that I got into a Creative Writing workshop at Oberlin for the spring-- one I'd been applying to and rejected from for two years-- AND into a single room in my old dorm. WIN.) The year is ending on a high note. I feel pretty lucky, as always.

Haven't missed Copenhagen too much, at least not consciously, but the last few nights have found myself dreaming about it. It's like my brain's way of getting used to the familiarity of home, to dream about the old. The glamorous, sparkling four months I spent away.

50th post!

2009-12-18T12:42:00.000-08:00

This will probably be my last blog entry, since I'm leaving for the airport in approximately 8 hours and, hopefully, after 18 hours of travel, will be back in my homeland safe and sound. If I can avoid delays, storms, strikes, and swine flus, this will have been a completely successful journey.

I can't believe I'm leaving Denmark, though! As I remarked to my mother via the wonders of Skype, I was looking forward to going home so much the past couple of weeks that I kind of forgot it also meant I was leaving this beautiful city behind. I can be short-sighted like that.

Which is absolutely not to say that I wasted my time here or took my last days for granted! Quite the opposite. I enjoyed my last Danish today (the pastry) with the requisite gusto and went to all the DIS-sponsored goodbye events. (A blog award was given, which I did not win. It probably wasn't even close. You can read the winner's blog here: http://www.katebikeanddenmark.blogspot.com/ if you're interested in how "Christmassy" Copenhagen is right now.)

Saying goodbye to the group of friends I'd made was hard, especially because I have difficulty letting go and always assume everyone will stay in contact until that assumption is proven horribly wrong, usually with accompanying bouts of sadness and regret. What can I say? It's how I roll. Knowing this doesn't really enable me to prevent it, but I think it helps to say your goodbyes well, a talent I have yet to master but at which I get better every time. This is probably a life skill in development.

Tonight is all about throwing away the detritus of my life and trying to cram every material evidence of the last four months into two suitcases, a messenger bag, and a camera case. I'm bringing loads of Danish food and a few souvenirs home, too. I could spend all night and all eighteen hours of travel tomorrow imagining the happy reunions waiting for me at the end of the day Saturday. For now, though, I ought to finish packing and cleaning.

Tak for reading!

http://music.todaysbigthing.com/2009/11/03

2009-12-17T12:56:00.000-08:00

It was a good week, all around. A little too much work, a few too many finals, but altogether a nice week. A good last week.

On Tuesday night, I went to the free Gogol Bordello concert out in the middle of the town hall square (Radhuspladsen). There are already a bunch of videos from the evening on the internet. Here's a good one, if you're interested:

Yes, Copenhagen has been "Hopenhagen" for going on ten or eleven days now, due to COP15 optimism.

I had finals on Monday and Wednesday, and on Wednesday night was double-booked: a movie night with friends in Osterbro (East Bridge Borough) and a viewing of the BBC's "Bleak House" with my Literary London class out in the suburb of Gentofte.

At some point in the evening, it started snowing, hard, and by the time I arrived in the unfamiliar Hellerup, the buses had stopped running and the beautiful, big houses were covered. My teacher suggested I take a cab, which of course I tried to avoid doing, but ultimately had no choice other than to hail one. The driver spoke Danish and English but was pretty clearly not a native. He asked me where I was from first. "The States, actually," I said, which for some reason is the way I've been responding to that question recently, as though it ought to surprise everyone. He replied, when I asked, that he was from Afghanistan. I quickly and awkwardly apologized for the EIGHT YEAR WAR our country has needlessly, illegally waged there. He shrugged. "Everywhere. You know. It is messed up everywhere. I lost my family in the Soviet regime there. Then the Taliban. The whole world. Now the world is different. Still all problems."

Today, I've been packing and finishing up little bits of work yet to do. I met a friend who's here for the KlimaForum (alternative conference) from Uppsala, Sweden, but who normally goes to Oberlin with me back in The Old Country. Went to choir rehearsal, where we practiced "Don't Stop Believin'"-- which we're singing at the DIS closing ceremony tomorrow. What is there left to say? I can't think of much at the moment. Everything is going by in a very fast blur.

Let's have the Weepies say what I can't.

Left behind everything I knew
All the colors but bone-white and sky-blue
Hit the continent running
Engines were humming just to break through

Antarctica, my only living relative
Antarctica, I can't wait anymore
I can't wait anymore

And then there's morning
Each one feels like the first one
Ah, morning, so clean, so pure
Nothing so clear, now that I'm here

When I get back to the city
Everything's cluttered and pretty
I won't regret my return
I'll just remember the wind and the snow
And the howling so loud
That it alone drowns out the inside of me

Antarctica, my only living relative
Antarctica, I can't wait anymore
I can't wait anymore
I can't wait anymore

2009-12-15T05:19:00.000-08:00

I went to the COP15 global demonstration on Saturday. It was a little intense. I was very close to being arrested, due only to my proximity to a group of rowdy (but, in my firsthand experience, completely nonviolent) anarchists. I heard later that perhaps one of them had tossed a rock through a window, but in all honesty, it was an extremely peaceful walk from Christianborg to the Bella Center until seven or eight police vans drove up with dogs and riot gear and sectioned off a huge number of protesters right behind my friend Caitlin and I. As a fairly seasoned protester, I was a little disturbed by the number of callous people (none of whom were Danish) who showed a remarkable disrespect to the streets of Copenhagen and Danish law, which in my experience heretofore had been an extremely non-invasive presence. In all honesty, I think the Danish police were terrified and caught a bit off guard by the vastness of the protest.

I'll let the photos speak for themselves.

2009-12-11T05:08:00.000-08:00

I'm making five playlists for next weekend: "Leaving Copenhagen in the Morning," Take Off," "In Flight," "Landing," "Going Home."

Here are some songs from each:

(Something to Sing About - the Buffy musical)

(Transatlantique - Beirut)

(Move On - Sunday in the Park With George)

(Cathedrals - Jump Little Children)

(Leaves That Are Green - Simon & Garfunkel)

(Chasing Pavements - Adele)

(The Book of Love - Peter Gabriel)

(Auld Lang Syne - The "When Harry Met Sally" version gets me)

(Chicago - Sufjan Stevens)

(Canadian Railroad Trilogy - Gordon Lightfoot)

(Both Sides Now - Judy Collins)

2009-12-10T15:50:00.000-08:00

I had to watch "The Hours" today for a film class. One of the most resonant parts was when the Meryl Streep-Mrs. Dalloway character recalled her past and realized, aloud, that the feeling of possibility, of being on the verge or at the beginning of something, was happiness. She had thought, at 18, that she was at the start of happiness, and the rest of life would follow through. Instead, that was the happiest she'd ever been.

let's do this in a list

2009-12-06T09:53:00.000-08:00

Currently listening to: "Postcards from Italy" - Beirut

Currrently planning: My first week back home

[first night - reunions, Hanukkah, hopefully "A Muppets Christmas Carol"

Dec. 23 - iO with high school friends and sister

Dec. 26 - "Sherlock Holmes" with Jude Law and RDJ comes out

...and so it goes]

and Winter Term 2010 - I'm interning with the Strange Trees (theater company), donating art and journals to my friend Christina's junior art exhibition, and hopefully taking my driver's test for the first time...

Currently avoiding: my actual, legitimate DIS work

[three serious papers, two field trips, many films to catch up on, tests like crazy]

Currently recuperating from: the DIS Julefrokost (Christmas lunch) and a fabulously frenetic weekend with my friend Christina, who visited Thursday-Sunday

Currently waiting for: my pictures from the Sherlock Holmes Museum in London to be developed

Things to do tomorrow: send out last round of postcards and packages

Days left in Denmark: 12

Day 100!

2009-11-30T14:12:00.001-08:00

I had an exciting few days in London this past weekend. Went to the Sherlock Holmes museum on Saturday, which was a highlight of my life so far. Sunday was spent at all the East End markets-- Spitalfields and Brick Lane and all that. They were marvelous. I found soap and souvenirs for much cheaper than I can find in Copenhagen, and the selection was massive and completely unique. Unlike anything I've ever been to, except maybe the Wicker Park Craftacular held in Chicago every September.

London is a magical city. Literally. I can't wait for the pictures friends took of me at King's Cross Station to crop up online (they have a Platform 9 3/4 in honor of Harry Potter). It was tremendous to see people my age (and a little older and a little younger) queuing up to take photos of themselves at the gate.

I may have said this about other cities, but honestly, London does trump them all in terms of how lovely it would be to live there. Paris was achingly beautiful and Prague was bohemia personified; Berlin was punky and strange and Florence was chock-full of art and vistas-- but there is something so comfortable about being in a gigantic metropolis where you actually speak the language! My god! It was such a relief.

I'm grateful for every place I've been able to visit this semester, and going back to Oberlin will probably feel smaller than ever come February, but I'm pretty ready to go home. By no means does this entail wishing my last days abroad away, but it's the holiday season now, and it was a little hard to miss my family's Thanksgiving for the first time ever and my little sister's 17th birthday.

Today, November 30, is -- if I counted correctly -- my 100th day here! Well, not here (I think I've traveled outside of Copenhagen for almost a month total), but away from the US and everything familiar. In just 19 days I'll be home in Chicago. That is a bizarre realization, and kind of surreal. I'm not sure I can tackle it except in abstraction for the moment.

Give Thanks!

2009-11-25T14:13:00.000-08:00

Not gonna lie: I love getting emails from "President Barack Obama." Just got one today that wished me a happy Thanksgiving and expressed gratitude at his listserv. That's something I can appreciate! And before all you lovely radical leftists (with whom I generally agree!) attack me for supporting the American president, cut me a little slack: I'm abroad and a wee bit homesick for my birth country. I even miss its insane politics and worse politicians. And I owe Barack Obama a lot on a personal scale: his presidency has given the US a whole lot of international goodwill, and it would be callous to not recognize that as a temporary expat.

In the spirit of the holiday, here are 20 1/2 things I'm grateful for (one for every year of life and in no real order).

20. This semester abroad.
19. Posse.
18. Having a kickass model for my photojournalism assignment, Benazir-- a former fashion model who is leaving her current teaching job to paint full-time in India.

17. Getting to see an elementary school acquaintance, Caroline, perform in the Royal Danish Ballet's "Napoli" tonight-- on a comp'd ticket!

16. Pie.

15. Avoiding swine flu thus far (KNOCK ON WOOD)-- but can't I just express gratitude without jinxing myself?!

14. My friends, for sending me letters and postcards while here (Monica, Niki, and Nora especially!)

13 1/2. The people who read this blog.

13. The people who comment on this blog so that I know there exist readers out there.

12. My roommate, Mira, for humoring me.

11. Anyone who has ever in their life given me a compliment.

10. Actually, anyone who regularly gives compliments to anyone at all. Pay that forward, people.

9. Music!

8. That old cities still stand so that we can see history and feel viscerally that it shouldn't be repeated (and this shouldn't just be in Europe; wars make a mess of things everywhere)

7. HUM OR.

6. Per so na l h ero es

5. Independent bookstores

4. Books in general

3. My planned trip to London this weekend (Thursday afternoon-Sunday night)

2. Books ABOUT London!

1. The ridiculously loving and supportive family I come from-- sure, it precludes one from being a crazed genius, as apparently only abuse and neglect inspire literary masterpieces, but I'm pretty sure I get a better life overall, thanks to them.

2009-11-23T15:36:00.001-08:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JULIE BIEHL!

2009-11-22T05:36:00.000-08:00

It's my half birthday today, which got me thinking a lot about legality and coming-of-age in different countries. Last night, I went to a joint birthday party (pub crawl, really) of two American friends of mine from DIS, who had both turned 21 here in Denmark.

What does that mean in Denmark? Well, the Danes drink from a very early age. I went to a dinner with a Danish family once in September where they let a two year old sip wine. There are different rumors about the actual legal drinking age, and when I asked my roommate about it, she responded that she really didn't know, since it was generally so ignored. It's in the early teens, she guessed, since that's when she and her friends had started going to clubs.

How bizarre! When I go back to the States in December, it'll be a whole 5 months before I can legally buy a bottle of wine. It's not an interminably long time-- in fact, I kind of relish it in a weird way, since it's the last time the government will care at all about what I do and consider me a kid in any way. It's been a little disturbing to me to watch and hear about close friends turning 21, even though all of them seem to embrace it with characteristic enthusiasm and joie de vivre. I'm less well-adjusted when it comes to the aging process.

In other news, "sveske" is Danish for prune! Therefore, "sveske jus" is PRUNE JUICE. No matter how much the picture on the carton looks like delicious, refreshing grape juice.

On The Strand

2009-11-17T06:19:00.000-08:00

strand

-verb (without object)

1. to drive or leave aground or ashore

2. to be left in a difficult situation

-noun

3. the land bordering the sea, a lake, or a river; shore; beach.

4. the strands of a plot.

5. a tress of hair

6. a string of pearls, beads, etc.

-verb (with object)

7. to form by twisting strands together.

8. to break one or more strands of

This is the word of the day. I'm reading a book called Literary London to prepare for my fabulous DIS class and trip of the same name. Those who know me know already that I paged to the index immediately to look up every bit of Sherlock Holmes history to be found on the streets of London.

"The Strand" is a geographic location inside the city, but moreover it was the name of the literary magazine that published Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories in regular installments.

Anyway, this got me thinking about the word "strand" and how it is very possibly my favorite word in all of the English dictionary. What other words can mean such a variety of (at first glance) completely unrelated things? We could be talking about a beach, baseball, a shipwreck, a missed bus, a necklace, a magazine, a street. I love this crazy language.

We could be talking about wandering foreign countries alone and four inches of chopped-off hair. The way the strands sit unevenly around my ears now and how there is no place you can go where you won't be. Stranded with oneself.

If this sounds morbid, I promise it's not. The hardest thing I've learned is that going somewhere else isn't in and of itself the exciting thing. It doesn't change you if you don't want to be changed and it doesn't put broken things back together. Someone who's been everywhere isn't a better or happier person than someone who lives in the same zip code where they were born.

You can be dazed by the strangeness for a little while, but traveling and living far away from home doesn't get you any farther away from yourself. That's okay. It's just a rather grown-up realization.

Copenhagen is situated on an island, Zealand, surrounded by water on all sides. On this strand I have stranded myself, cut the strands of my hair, and stranded the strands to form a strand of pearls. Or, at the least, found a few glass beads.

Some pictures without a blog entry (see previous post):

2009-11-15T12:05:00.000-08:00

This is the song that I had running though my head for most of the ten days I was traveling. I think pictures go better with music of a sort.

I really enjoy giving absolutely zero context for these, since there will be about a month between December and January where I'll be explaining all my photos and stories from abroad on a mind-numbingly-often basis (though I'm lucky to have loving people around who want to hear about it)... So here are some pictures with minimal context. The ones that are paintings are from Paris. The ones that are of me are of me. The ones that are blurry (sorry, Mom) are the best I have. If you have a specific question, leave a comment or email me! Otherwise, feel free to make things up about these photos as you like. The imagination is so much better than the reality, I'm sure.

Collecting People, Part 1

2009-11-15T10:02:00.000-08:00

I have so much to write about, (and fiction has been calling to me in earnest and repeatedly since the trip), that I genuinely have no idea where to begin. My first thought was to list some of the people I'd met, their relative craziness or sanity, or-- in some cases-- clear-eyed lunacy, their stories, where we'd met, what I'd said. The truth is that I am always collecting people, but if I go too long without thinking of them or remembering what they said, they can get lost. So I figure they're a good place to start in recalling the past couple of weeks.

Starting backwards: on the bus from Berlin ZOB (omnibus station) to Central in Copenhagen, I met a guy named John Nations. Man is a professional street juggler. No lie. But actually, he's a perpetual traveler with what some would deem arrested development and others would call an enduring bohemian spirit. I don't know where I fall on judgment, but at this point, it isn't really about criticizing my fellow backpackers so much as understanding them.

So I met this guy. We rode a bus for 7 1/2 hours together up through northern Germany, crossed a corner of the Baltic Sea to Zealand (by ferry), and landed in Denmark, where I helped him catch his bus to a friend's in Amagerbro. Quite a character, as you can tell by his videos. On the ferry, he noticed some Danish 14-year-olds who had been at one of his street shows in Berlin, and made their night by doing an impromptu chair-balancing act in the middle of the boat's cafeteria. It made them clap like kids, and their teachers, the ship's staff, and I were likewise delighted and revived with his self-confident whimsy. Personally, I was just thrilled to find an American in the middle of Europe, after a good two days without familiar conversation. Not that there weren't Americans crawling all over Paris, Florence, and Berlin, but cringing away from them in embarrassment isn't the same as finding a gypsy street juggler from South Carolina next to you on a Greyhound.

Still going in reverse chronological order, on Thursday night I stayed by myself at a strange little hostel (10 Euro! Tell your friends!) called Lettem Sleep 7 in Prenzlauer Berg in Berlin. I had rented a bed in a 7-person co-ed room, but there were only four of us there that night. There was Jaime from Gibralter, who had been an English major in Wales and who was more than willing to discuss the uselessness of the degree with me for hours while recommending Spanish poets.

In the other bunk were Tina and Simone from Russia and Sicily, respectively. And yes, I know that Sicily is a region/island and that Russia is a country, but I'm just telling you what I know. I don't know what city Tina was from, and I don't know where exactly in the south of Italy Simone had lived before they had packed up for Berlin and rented beds in the hostel for months, looking for work and apartments. These girls were fascinating.

On this strange little half-continent, it's insanely difficult for an American to guesstimate the ages of her European contemporaries. Tina and Simone looked my age, but Simone was a professional video editor with her own home back in Italy who had come to Berlin not speaking a word of German. Tina was a new student at Frie Universitet in the city who had just passed her German proficiency exam. Tina could have been 18 or she could have been 30, for all I know about the Russian education system. Both of them were thinner and better dressed than most American teens I know, and to top it off, although they had colds (everyone was sick everywhere), fabulous hair and skin. I don't know what it is about this area of the world, or what it is about ours that have made me passable for a 35-year-old since I was fifteen, but it's got to be something in the air.

Goals

2009-11-14T15:43:00.000-08:00

A great many stories have happened to me over the past ten days, and it would be a loss to forget them by failing to write them down. Fortunately, I did keep a journal (incomplete as it must be) of my time traveling, so some stories-- like getting stuck at the French airport and backpacking alone through Berlin-- are not going anywhere for the moment. But I definitely owe the friends and family who bother to check in on this blog some good (bad, sad, hilarious, traumatic) tales from the travel break, and they ARE coming, but there is a whole lot of life to get together first. I start school again Monday and have to get my head on straight for that, and catch up on every other responsibility I've let go of for the past blissfully unencumbered two weeks.

I made some headway today (did laundry), but I also slept in until 3:30 in the afternoon. And have yet to drag myself out of the flat to grocery shop. So one step forward, two back.

2009-11-05T15:31:00.000-08:00

Bon nuit from Paris!

This city is incredible. All I've done for two days is walk and look around and eat carbs. It's much more amazing than it sounds. The fact that I never studied French has finally caught up with me, though. Interesting that the only languages I ever studied were Spanish and Chinese, and yet I find myself visiting France, Italy, and Germany during this break. No background in any of it.

But honestly, Paris is so amazing that after a single day here, I decided to take French next year at Oberlin. There's only so long I get to be liberal arts undergrad, studying virtually whatever I want to, and so French it shall be senior year. I'll fit it in somehow.

I'm also really excited (wish I could think of more words, but these are the appropriate ones) for Florence and Berlin. Crazy excited. My life in Copenhagen has its quiet, Bohemian appeal, much more suited to the usual rhythms of my ways, but in this week and a half away I'm cramming in much more living than is normal for me. Tomorrow, an old friend of mine from elementary school is taking me and some friends to Monmartre and an absinthe bar. It's kind of mystifying: whose life did I suddenly drop into? Mine has never been so glamorous.

Multi-Media post + update

2009-11-02T06:21:00.001-08:00

I finally uploaded many more favorite pictures from my trip to the Czech Republic in early October, just in time. I'm off tomorrow for a 10-day trip to Paris, Florence, and Berlin, so will have many more pictures coming after. Anyway, the Czech photos can now be found here (link).

I've also been obsessed with the song "Good Man" by Josh Ritter (an Oberlin alum, hey hey) lately. I have no idea why, since I'm not what the song is describing or anything. It's a great listen, though.

Later Edit:

I am just getting used to it here, really, used to what it is I like to do and how to spend my days and how to set up my apartment. And just as I start to feel really great about living abroad (well, I felt great at first, and then it just felt like Regular Life again) and like I'm finally doing this the right way, it's off for a whirlwind ten days of travel. I'm extremely excited, not to mention lucky, that I'm able to spend 6 days in Paris and 3 more in Tuscany with friends. I'm so excited! But this travel break also heralds the beginning of the end of the semester.

When I get back on November 13 (via bus from Berlin), it'll be a short two weeks before my final trip of the year. I'm going to London with a DIS class for the long weekend we get off for Thanksgiving (no, of course they don't celebrate it here, but the majority of DIS students are American, after all, and so they are pretty sensitive to these things) at the end of November. I'll be in London over my sister's birthday-- which probably means I owe her a British souvenir.

After that trip, I have three short weeks in Copenhagen before coming home to the US. Crazy. 17 whole weeks will have been spent. (About five of which will have been spent traveling, to be fair, outside of Copenhagen itself.) I can't believe it, but tomorrow, when I leave for France, it'll conclude four and a half weeks spent consecutively in Denmark, and when I come back, I won't have that long here again. It went by very fast.

I've been here 10 weeks and a day this evening. I can't believe it. My summer break in Chicago only lasted 13 weeks. When I get home, I'll have some seven weeks before the ultimate return to Oberlin. And when I get back to Ohio, it will have been nearly nine months since I left. Now THAT is crazy!

Clustr Maps

2009-10-27T07:47:00.000-07:00

I badly wanted to know who was reading my blog, and being completely technologically inept, I could not figure out how one would go about figuring such a thing. I found an HTML code that logged, instead, the number of visits on a global map. This is a tool made for people whose blogs receive A LOT of traffic, and I figured mine probably had two or four regular readers, most of whom would share some of my chromosomes. At any rate, this is not a code made for blogs like mine, but I did it anyway.

Well! Since October 19, apparently, I have received the following number of visits, broken down by country:

United States (US) 47Denmark (DK) 31Czech Republic (CZ) 22India (IN) 2Finland (FI) 2Iceland (IS) 1Canada (CA) 1Australia (AU) 1Sweden (SE)

1This completely baffles me. You can't really tell where, geographically, these visitors are from, except for some red dots on a very vague map, but it looks like I might have one or two readers in Prague and Los Angeles, and a healthy few in Chicago and Denmark. That makes sense. I do have friends in Prague and a cousin in LA, and family in Chicago and hell, a current LIFE in Denmark. Even the lone Swedish visitor could make sense, given that my mom and I visited Malmo (just over the Oresund Bridge) this past weekend in Sweden.

But Finland? Australia? CANADA? I'm pretty sure I don't know anyone there. And they don't know me, judging by their lack of repeat visits. ALAS. This blog is not huge. I am not destined to become the next Diablo Cody (though I will never give up hope). But it is a lot bigger than I thought. It even comes up when I Google myself.

Get Hygge

2009-10-25T12:48:00.000-07:00

Hygge is the word for a Danish phenomenon that really makes itself known around this time of year, when the cobblestones are sweaty with perpetual fog and the air manages to be both wet and chilly at all hours. It's often translated to "cozy," but there is no English equivalent. It's covering every available surface in both homes and restaurants in candles and draping blankets over every visible chair, and accepting that the sun has already begun to set at 3:30 in the afternoon (and will only set 5 minutes earlier every day until December) by staying inside, curling up, eating a lot, and, as my mother noticed, drinking heavily.

It really felt like it started while I was in Prague. I think October is when hyggeligt time really kicks into gear, and starting Oct. 30, it becomes Christmas Season in Denmark. I've heard this takes hygge to the next level.

After dropping Mom off at the Metro station to the airport this afternoon, I didn't go back to my apartment. I thought of everything we'd been able to do together over the past week (lots of delightful cafes) and the way she had really noticed how hyggeligt things were and even mastered both the verb and noun usage of the word. I went to Tiger, the local discount store full of what my dad would deem "useless crap" and that my mother and I find charming, and bought a couple of purple candles and glass dishes to put them on. They're burning quite slowly on my desk now, beside a steaming cup of Gypsy Cold Care tea imported by my dear mother to Copenhagen last week, and narrowly avoiding burning my homework into a crisp.

It makes me a bit nervous, that there mustn't be as many smoke alarms in this city as in American ones (given the prevalence of burning tapers in tiny, enclosed spaces). I'm absent-minded. It's worrying to think I might forget to blow these out sometime. But it's Danish, and it's so cozy.

Bastardizing the Bastardization

2009-10-18T11:04:00.000-07:00

MEXICAN FOOD. As an American, you grow up with it, you crave it, maybe it's even the sole benefactor of your B12 intake for the better part of two decades.

I was admittedly suspicious when my roommate first pointed out The Taco Shop, a "Mexican food" establishment a few blocks from out flat. She was just so excited, and over the last two months, I've seen her get takeaway from there as a kind of special treat for herself. You see, it's her favorite-- and she eats it with a knife and fork. That was pretty much the first inkling I had that something was horribly, horribly wrong. That and the fact a burrito costs about $10 more here than it does Stateside, classifying it as "exotic ethnic food" instead of... well, whatever Mexican takeout is to Americans. Cheap late-night snack after an improv show?

My suspicion was justified. If a Dane hasn't been to the United States (or, I suppose, to Mexico), you can bet your bottom dollar that they have no idea what Mexican food is supposed to taste like.

I had a Sunday night all planned out: the Copenhagen Gay and Lesbian Film Festival is going on, and I was gong to catch an Israeli movie at 9:30 and kill a few hours doing homework in a cafe. Well, the movie was sold out by the time I walked in at 6:45, and every cafe within a ten-block radius is closed on Sunday nights. The few bars that were open are not the kind of places you want to go alone, either.

I consoled myself by deciding I'd get takeaway food for a late dinner-- for the first time since coming to Denmark (eight weeks ago today!). I found myself outside of none other than The Taco Shop, and the IDEA of Mexican food was too hard to resist. "It's probably not as bad as you assume," I said to myself, reminding her just how damn judgmental she can be, even in the absence of evidence. Look, sometimes a girl's got cravings: I was utterly seduced by the promise of "smothered nachos, authentic California style."

My second clue that something was amiss was when, after ordering the "vegetar burrito," the cashier asked me if, for 14 extra kroner, I wanted it with cheese and chips. What the heck else is in a vegetarian burrito if there isn't already cheese? I splurged, still full of disappointment about the sold-out movie, and scurried home to discover what it is Denmark qualifies as Mexican food, California style.

You know, it really wasn't so bad. It was actually almost good, just overpriced and slightly off. The beans were kidney instead of black. The cheese was mozzarella-y instead of cheddar-y. And the burrito itself was simply a tortilla wrapped around beans and rice. The sauce and cheese and lettuce and tomato were on the side. And no sour cream. It was actually a valiant attempt, and it satisfied.

It got me thinking about the way Mexican food in America is often not what Mexican people would recognize as their food (Chipotle comes to mind-- and I do occasionally love Chipotle). I had a friend freshman year at Oberlin who insisted that tacos, burritos, and nachos of any caliber were "Tex-Mex," not authentic, and who am I to dispute that? Just a fourth-generation American, about as Mexican as McDonald's. All I can say is that Chicago, New York, and LA have spoiled me into believing in one delicious, greasy, imperfect incarnation of "Mexican food," and the permutation Denmark offers is reason #1 why I couldn't live here permanently.

Reading the Right Book at the Right Time

2009-10-16T04:42:00.000-07:00

I've been reading The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter since May. Yes, that's right. I have been reading this book in starts and stops for almost five months. It's been a savoring technique, I suppose. I don't even remember what initially drove me to seek it out, but right after my twentieth birthday, I dragged a friend with me to Ravenswood Used Books, (my favorite of its kind in Chicago), to find it. We did, with some help, and I've been slowly making my way through it ever since. It's too perfect-- one of those situations where you've found the right book at the right time.

One of the reasons I wanted to read it initially was that Carson McCullers got it published when she was just 23 years old. After turning twenty, I realized the clock was kind of ticking on the whole "young genius" potential. If I write something great at 70, which is a perfectly admirable thing to do, I'll be proud, but it's not quite the same as McCullers' early masterpiece.

Because I bought it used, I have no qualms about dog-earing and scribbling in the margins, which has always been my favorite way to read a book. Many bibliophile friends (some of whom read this blog and will probably run away screaming from this entry) consider it desecration, but I don't feel like I've really read or really own a book until I can see myself, quite literally, in its pages. This beat-up, stained, and tattooed copy of Lonely Hunter is a time capsule now, and I'll hang on to it for a long time. Of course I'll want to remember which parts felt resonant now. That says a lot more about the experience of reading than keeping it pristine forever.

"She lay on her stomach on the cold floor and thought. Later on-- when she was twenty-- she would be a great world-famous composer."

"It would be in New York City or else in a foreign country."

"...in a foreign house where in the winter it would snow. Maybe in a little Switzerland town with the high glaciers and the mountains all around [...] Or in the foreign country of Norway by the gray winter ocean."

These are quotes from the book about Mick Kelly, a fourteen-year-old girl around whom much of the book revolves. She spends a lot of her life daydreaming and inadvertently being cruel, which may well be the way all 14-year-old girls pass the time. Throughout the whole book, she dreams about being twenty as if it's the finish line or the pinnacle of everything that came before. Which to her, of course, it is.

Here I am, twenty and in a foreign country by a gray winter ocean. And I can't shake the feeling that this book is somehow mine. Finishing it will be a bereavement.

2009-10-15T04:49:00.000-07:00

On Bravery And Other Choices

2009-10-14T10:14:00.000-07:00

"It's very brave to live abroad, I think."

-Mira's aunt, this evening

Every time the subject comes up, I laugh it off. My cousin Jaime also said something about it, that living in a foreign country constituted bravery. I remain unconvinced.

I am not, nor have I ever been, what anyone would consider brave. My friend Niki was shocked when I posted photos of me crossing a rope bridge. I am neurotic about hand washing. I urge friends abroad to lookout for ebola and gunfire... even when they're going to Spain. I will not ride a bicycle without a helmet. I won't even climb the rock wall at Oberlin without one.

In Harry Potter terms, I am much more Ravenclaw than Gryffindor, and even that's flattering myself more than I should. (For those rusty on their J.K. Rowling, Ravenclaw's motto is "Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure"-- a sentiment the overall thesis of the books disputes by roundly proving love is the great conqueror, after all. Gryffindors value bravery and loyalty above all else. My personal verdict's still out on this one: you have to live longer than I have to decide which virtue to prize most.)

So living abroad for four months is not what I'd call brave. Apparently, others would, and that's encouraging, but I can't ascribe to it just yet. The biggest problem of my week was using the post office for the first time to send a birthday package to Los Angeles. The only trial I faced today was slicing my finger while chopping an onion. The grandest hazard of my time in Denmark so far was Monday, riding on the back of a bike (sans helmet-- for the first and only time in my life).

Studying abroad in Copenhagen is many things, but one thing it isn't is brave. Those other kids you hear about studying in Cuba and Namibia are brave. Going to Northern Europe for four months would, if I wasn't very much in school, constitute a luxury vacation.

2009-10-13T08:37:00.000-07:00

Last night, Mira (Danish roommate) invited me out to a Danish play with some of her Danish friends. Right. So we got there, and it was sold out, which was just as well, as I would have been able to understand roughly 3% of it, anyway.

But it ended up being a REALLY fun night! Mira has been so great, all along of course, but since I got back from Prague, she's invited me out twice with her friends. They've been the most immersive experiences so far, since when I'm in school, I'm with Americans, and my interactions with Danes on a regular basis is pretty much limited to, "May I have a cup of coffee and a pastry?" plus a silent nod or two.

Sunday night, Mira had an extra ticket to a concert at the architectural phenomenon of Amager's Koncert Huset (pronounced like "con-CERT hoozlth"). We saw a French band called Nouvelle Vague, who were pretty good, and it was a great way to spend a Sunday night.

So last night, instead of seeing this play, which was mystifyingly entitled "Texa$," Mira and I and a few of her theater school friends went to a cafe in Vesterbro and played pool and talked and watched as one of the students did fantastic magic tricks (I mean suave-- I couldn't figure them out at all: the best kind). The two questions I got the most were, "Why did you choose Copenhagen for study?" and "What do you miss the most?"

With regards to the second question, when they asked, her friends made sure to exclude "the obvious, friends, family, etc.-- what else?" What else, indeed?

It gets very cold and very dark very early in Copenhagen these days-- as I write this, the sun is halfway set and it's a chilly 40 degrees out already. I miss temperate autumn weather, but to be fair, Ohio and Chicago aren't exactly known for any kind of temperate weather themselves.

And aside from family and friends, what else is there to miss? Do I miss the insane consumerism of America, the disregard for workers rights, the lack of socialized healthcare, our massive homelessness epidemic? To be sure, these things don't exist here.

Copenhagen-- and Prague, for that matter-- offer low-key, intimate nightlife through cafe cultures and jazz bars. Do I miss Oberlin's Cat in the Cream, the one-room former gymnasium where Conservatory students cut their teeth and they serve weak, lukewarm coffee? Do I miss the four block radius my life consists of there? Knowing everyone I pass on the street?

Not yet I don't. I could see how more time here might make me yearn for Oberlin, but so far, so good. I miss the friendliness of the place and its altogether unabashedly off-kilter vibe, but I love being able to walk as far as I can in any direction and find myself somewhere, probably with a cafe in sight.

Is it lonely? Loneliness is only ever as deep as one lets it be. I could walk out of my apartment right now and go see a movie at the Film Center with a hundred other strangers, call a DIS student for a study party, or I could stay here in my warm, hyggeligt ("cozy") room and write postcards and upload photos and read great poetry and make myself dinner. That's a huge night for me. I can't be this self-sufficient at home or at Oberlin, because it's not a necessity. By December, I will be very ready to be taken care of, but for now, it's so good to know for sure I can do it myself.

There's a saying on the internet: "tl;dr." "Too long; didn't read." This post qualifies as one of the kind. Have some fantastic Danish music as recompense:

2009-10-11T14:22:00.000-07:00

This entry is not as informative as the last, but a friend found a YouTube clip of Aqua playing at the Olympics announcement concert (way back on October 2nd) here in Copenhagen. The friend (Ashley) and I are definitely seen dancing about 1:35-1:45 during this clip. So...Now I can prove I was really there-- jumping around shamelessly.

2009-10-10T11:13:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, a group of 35 DIS students (including me) departed by bus for Prague. We arrived Sunday morning, spent a whirlwind four days there, and then traveled to several small towns en route to a city in southern Bohemia (of the Sudetenland region), Cesky Krumlov.

I took some 1100 photos, and my camera is having a problem uploading them at the moment, but they're just little captures of what was really a hectic and exciting week. It was great to get to know some kids I've been going to school with for almost two months now better. I had some hilarious conversations, like when my friend Andrea and I decided to take a cue from the Germans and "peacefully occupy" a slice of chocolate cake. It went a little something like this:

Me: Oh, man, that cake needs to be protected.

Andrea: Yeah...we...we need to annex that cake.

Me: Oh, yeah, uh, it's not an occupation.

Andrea: It's a peaceful...takeover.

Me: Let's...separate the layers. I'll exile this white chocolate to my side of the plate.

IT WAS GREAT. We laughed a whole lot and imposed the unhappy history we'd learned on random events of the trip to make everything a little bit-- well, funnier, to be sure, but actually it really was applied learning! We were brilliantly exploring the living history of Europe through food jokes. Yeah, that sounds...like a lie. But honestly, great fun. I think I'll want to do it every time I learn new and disturbing things about a nation's sordid past (that is, apply it to cake eating).

I also ditched dinner Friday night to go look for dirt to scoop up and save for my dad, as per his request. Sadly, I forgot to kiss the ground, as he instructed, so I feel vaguely like I might have insulted my great-great grandparents. Interestingly, "Josef" as a name showed up a lot (that's the name of a few generations of sons in my dad's family), and I'm sure that if I'd had the time to do so, it would have been possible to trace some family history in Opava (though the group never made it to northeastern Bohemia).

That's probably enough reflection and relaying to justify some more pictures.

Here's hoping Rio is less corrupt than Chicago.

2009-10-02T13:34:00.000-07:00

If you'd like to just read about the outdoor concert/party that the IOC bid prompted outside of City Hall here in Copenhagen (and how I went), skip to the bottom!**

I admit it openly now: I was not supportive of Chicago's 2016 Olympic bid. Why? Some folks at the Chicago Reader articulated it pretty well, and to further blow your mind, consider this plea from the hip hop artist Nas. The long and short of it is, my hometown is as troubled as it is fantastic, and I don't trust Mayor Daley with the fate of low-income housing (he would have used the Olympics to raze areas of the South Side, evicting and exploiting those that live there) OR my parent's taxes (Daley infamously promised the IOC that the people of Chicago could pick up the tab when the project invariably went over-budget).

Globally, people are questioning Obama's heretofore unchallenged star-power, wondering at the embarrassment he and the first lady may be feeling today. I think they were caught between a rock and a hard place on this one, and am fairly certain were informed of Chicago's low chances (it came in fourth out of four today)-- meaning that Barack had to come to Copenhagen for a token appearance today, or else some in America would have blamed the loss on his absence.

If you've made it this far, you were probably more invested in this issue than I was, because a couple of days ago I just wanted to pretend it wasn't happening and try to keep my Chicago background quiet when the campaign invariably (and FREQUENTLY) came up at DIS. But as of yesterday and today, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. Lots of the Americans studying with me supported the bid unquestioningly, which I can't entirely fault them for. The nuances of Chicago politics seem insignificant to these other Americans, who are away from home and were so relieved to see any major American city on the ballot that they showed up in droves, flashing their "Chicago 2016" tee-shirts and yelling "USA!"

It was uncomfortable, and I wasn't the only one who thought so. I heard another Chicago resident yelling loudly at a group of kids outside of school this morning about how Daley just wanted to "[kick] all the brown people out" (this student is African American and from the South Side). I immediately went up to him to commiserate, but he was so furious that he barely noticed my presence. A group of (white) American students were standing in front of him, some nervously laughing and some struck dumb with the vehemence of his opposition. But that opposition was informed, which is more than I can say of the support.

**The fun part of the story is that I was next to a group of Brazilians when it was announced that Rio won. That was awesome. I was definitely on camera behind them and in a few news photos, so be on the lookout for a pale, arhythmic redhead trying to keep the beat beside boisterous Latin men. Mostly, though, I was behind a large green and black flag, so we may never be able to prove I was in fact there today. There was a concert-- the biggest act of which was Aqua, the Norwegian/Danish group that had an international hit with "Barbie Girl" in 1997. SO MUCH FUN to sing along with live! And the lead singer was so charismatic I forgot to feel indignant.

Still, though, I couldn't help slipping occasionally into the lyrics of the Weird Al version my hilarious grade school friends were obsessed with at the time.

2009-09-30T20:15:00.000-07:00

I am only going to say this once, but if you'd prefer an actually factual account of what it is I do with my time, or some version of it, or at least a really similar outline...head over to my friend Alex's blog. He's writing about what we ACTUALLY do here, and his entry "I Beat You Here, Obama!" is a much better story about the field study for our Copenhagen History class than I will ever write.

This is mostly because I consider (if you hadn't noticed) writing meanderingly about swans dying and the feeling of being an outsider better suited to my skill sets than documenting what happens on a daily basis. Already, the almost six weeks of living here have become a generalized feeling, a sort of residual blur of Copenhagen and Denmark much more than a series of perfectly remembered events and outings. The feeling changes many times a day, depending on how many times a Dane has bumped into me without saying "unskyld," how much coffee I've spilled on my shirt, and how many stairs I've fallen down, with my happiness usually proportional to the amount of time I've spent writing or reading in cafes about town.

Tonight, DIS "partially subsidized" (we'll see what exactly that means when I turn in my receipt tomorrow) a trip to the movies for my roommate and I. We saw "Inglourious Basterds, which was an unusual experience on a few levels. First of all, I had no idea what to expect, and had a surprisingly emotional reaction to the last half hour or so of the film. Second of all, the scenes are performed in German, French, English, and occasionally Italian, and not always all at the same time. Because this was a Danish theater, obviously, the subtitles were all in...Danish. Meaning that I only understood, on my own, about a quarter of the dialogue.

Fortunately, Mira was kind, and occasionally whispered translations to me-- she speaks all of the languages, and Swedish and Spanish besides. I actually had a fun, if difficult, time trying to grasp at the situations where the spoken language was French or German. I found myself reading the Danish subtitles pretty frequently, and to my surprise, I understood a good 50% of the scenes through that-- and my rusty Spanish came in handy when I tried listening to the French. I should mention that READING Dansk is a good dozen times easier than speaking it. I understand a hefty amount of written Danish by now, but have yet to master the pronunciation, by Danish standards, of a single phrase. I think Mira was a little taken aback-- and hopefully impressed-- with the amount I was able to glean for myself through the subtitles. No offense to her native tongue, but Danish doesn't seem to be as nuanced or as direct as English, and that does make it easier to read. I remember at one point, all Brad Pitt said onscreen was "No, you can't" or something, and the Danish translation was a good seven or eight words long to convey the same idea.

As for my thoughts on the movie, those are harder to articulate. I've never seen something that so exuberantly revises history or so shamelessly eroticizes violence (except for other Tarantino films, naturally). I was moved more than any other Tarantino film by the emotion of the idea, and I think a lot of the execution surpassed my own expectations. The last third of the movie fell apart, in my opinion, but not to the detriment of the flabbergasting first two. Overall, definitely worth seeing, and I don't think you can leave the theater without forming some strong opinion on it one way or the other.

P.S. Since a few people reading want to hear my thoughts on the current/new season of "House," but even more people probably don't, I'll keep it short: still one of the best shows on television/not at all up to its own standard. I more or less entirely agree with this short review by an enlightened TV critic.

Recommending and Otherwise

2009-09-30T18:18:00.000-07:00

This is mostly because I consider (if you hadn't noticed) writing meanderingly about swans dying and the feeling of being an outsider better suited to my skill sets than documenting what happens on a daily basis. Already, the almost six weeks of living here have become a generalized feeling, a sort of residual blur of Copenhagen and Denmark much more than a series of perfectly remembered events and outings. The feeling changes many times a day, depending on how many Danes have bumped into me without saying "unskyld," how much coffee I've spilled on my shirt, and how many stairs I've fallen down, with my happiness usually proportional to the amount of time I've spent writing or reading in cafes about town.

An actual entry with more questionable poetry

2009-09-29T08:26:00.000-07:00

It looks like the Obamas may be coming to visit me here in Copenhagen this week and in December! I'm touched. Michelle probably wants an update on Whitney Young. She didn't have to come all this way for my stories about our alma mater, but I will do my absolute best to entertain her while she's slumming it in Denmark.

Observed Rosh Hashanah last week and Yom Kippur yesterday, which I don't think I did last year at Oberlin. It's interesting that my first year in college (2007), I celebrated the Jewish High Holidays at school, and being once again in an unfamiliar place, I celebrated them again this week. There is something comfortable about ritual. I thought of my mom and Julie and JRC in Evanston, and fasted for (almost) the entire day. I'm sorry to any readers of this blog for anything I did to you last year and everything I'll do to you this year.

Including springing poetry on you unexpectedly. It is a fact of life that no one likes reading poetry unless they write it themselves. But it gets posted here because this one, at least, is another piece about Copenhagen. My second Sunday here, August 29, I watched a swan die in the lake by my apartment. It was really difficult to describe, though I wanted to, and this is the only way I think I could have.

Song

this swan had run herself

into a steel wire web

where streetlights hang above the running path

that drapes around our lake

two girls and their mother

called “animal police” they said

in broken English when I asked

I didn’t know the beaks of swans

turned blue for any reason but

this one’s neck had broken

maybe because they are so graceful

she was still alive in silence

opening her mouth for air each time

her head rolled and plopped staccato in the water

her vertebras no longer formed

that immortal swan shape you would recognize

other birds around her honked

one dragged the blue beak back and forth

it looked to us on the sand violent

we tried to shoo them off

her dropping head was every kind of pain

not lessened by the other swans, the late animal police,

least by our witness

Not written by me.

2009-09-27T16:32:00.001-07:00

Painting a Room

Katia Kapovich

Here on a March day in ‘89
I blanch the ceiling and walls with bluish lime.
Drop cloths and old newspapers hide
the hardwood floors. All my furniture has been sold,
or given away to bohemian friends.
There is nothing to eat but bread and wine.

An immigration visa in my pocket, I paint
the small apartment where I’ve lived for ten years.
Taking a break around 4 p.m.,
I sit on the last chair in the empty kitchen,
smoke a cigarette and wipe my tears
with the sleeve of my old pullover.
I am free from regrets but not from pain.

Ten years of fears, unrequited loves, odd jobs,
of night phone calls. Now they’ve disconnected the line.
I drop the ashes in the sink, pour turpentine
into a jar, stirring with a spatula. My heart throbs
in my right palm when I pick up the brush again.

For ten years the window’s turquoise square
has held my eyes in its simple frame.
Now, face to face with the darkening sky,
what more can I say to the glass but thanks
for being transparent, seamless, wide
and stretching perspective across the size
of the visible.

Then I wash the brushes and turn off the light.
This is my last night before moving abroad.
I lie down on the floor, a rolled-up coat
under my head. This is the last night.
Freedom smells of a freshly painted room,
of wooden floors swept with a willow broom,
and of stale raisin bread.

From Gogol in Rome, 2004
Salt Publishing

Rules for Living Abroad (#1 & #2 of an ongoing list)

2009-09-25T14:27:00.000-07:00

(photo above copyright Christopher Raun, found via Google)

1. Walk through every park you can.

Example: I found a fantastic monument to a woman named Natalie Zahle in Orstedparken, the Central Park-like reserve by my flat. The statue looks like a grave marker (it isn't, but might be a replica of one) that shows this woman, whoever she was, as a girl, a young lady, and an older woman. I liked it so much I'm working on an oil pastel imitation for my wall:

2. Bring evocative music for every mood you'll get into.

Examples:

Musicals go well with psyching yourself up and getting excited about life.

Sample lyrics: "On a clear day/How it will astound you...You'll feel glad of every mountain, sea, and shore."

A girl's acoustic vocals, such as "Country Mile" by Camera Obscura, pair well with homesickness. (audio only)

Sample lyrics: "I won't be seeing you for a long while/I hope it's not as long as these country miles..."

Getting Personal

2009-09-23T13:07:00.001-07:00

This blog is read by more people than I keep track of, and linked to the school where I study (who, by the way, have yet to feature my writing here). Those are two good reasons who I shouldn't post my own poetry. But this one is called "Copenhagen," and was written here, so that excuses it. Also, everything in this journal is written by me, and this is no exception.

Copenhagen

Describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just committed murder. Do not mention the murder.

-From “The Art of Fiction” by John Gardner (1983)

Two white curtains in a rented room

sit heavy on their dusty sill. Her body already aches

for this place, braces for the separation. The visa in her coat

is counting days.

At the window, she thinks of

two men who never saw this city, and tries to measure

how long she will watch the cars, smell the smoke,

rinse reminders off her palm.

America is only a place

where great aunts sewed dresses and great Depressions

hung fathers. She threw that story away

and came to the old world to breathe its harbor air.

Describe a city as seen

by a young woman who has lost.

Do not mention the loss.

Other People's Pictures

2009-09-22T14:09:00.001-07:00

My friend Caitlin took a few good pictures of me on our Western Denmark trip (almost two weeks ago already!). That's her in the photos below-- the one that isn't redheaded and goofy. In the bowling alley, I'm almost hidden in the long exposure to the far right.

And the last one is me-- yes, me!-- crossing a ROPE BRIDGE high in some trees at a semi-local castle. We did it for the view.

2009-09-19T15:08:00.000-07:00

Don't know what's up with my font today...

2009-09-19T05:09:00.000-07:00

Horoscopes are a polarizing phenomenon. Most people have a strong opinion on them one way or the other. Personally, I fall somewhere in the middle. I think unchallenged belief in anything is problematic, but I also think that decrying everyone who occasionally reads astrology as foolish or gullible is a little extreme, and probably says more about the decrier than the decried.

I was sent this today for Gemini: "The Moon's visit to your 5th House of Fun and Games allows you to temporarily avoid more serious issues. Although you have significant decisions to make, now is not the time to be weighed down by your past or your future. You have a unique opportunity to step outside your normal world and take in an entirely different spectrum of possibilities. Luckily, what you learn now will help you when you return to your regularly scheduled responsibilities."

Now, I have no idea where my fifth house is or where to find the fun and games, but I like the advice that "now is not the time to be weighed down by your past or future." And it's true enough that I "have a unique opportunity to step outside my normal world and take in an entirely different spectrum of possibilities." On a semester abroad, the possibilities really are endless, and that is a unique and privileged place to be. I am very lucky, and I also can't forget that in 3 months (today!), I will "return to regularly scheduled responsibilities."

Last night was my first visit to Tivoli, and I took some 300 pictures to make sense of how beautiful it was. What a place! It's aggravating, intellectually-- you pay $9 for a cup of hot chocolate and $8 per amusement park ride after exorbitant entry fees-- but on the aesthetic level, it's brilliant.

AND I got to see a concert, the Danish (but English speaking) group "Infernal." It was Madonna meets eurotrash techno-pop, and no, I don't really know what any of those terms mean. But it was something to see! I even got a plastic "Tivoli" cup of Sommersby Apple Cider to warm me up. The Danes hate it, apparently, and it does taste like a sour apple Jolly Rancher melted in cheap beer, but it's not very strong and suits my uncultured palate nicely.

More photos are available on Facebook (it takes forever to upload them to Blogger) here.

Bread! Butter!

2009-09-18T07:01:00.000-07:00

These are main food groups!

I may have mentioned it, but in Denmark, "danish" pastries are called "weinerbrod," meaning Vienna bread. I read that in Vienna, they're called "Kopenhagens." Anyone else seeing the flaw in giving food place names?

I was about to go grocery shopping when I realized all I had on me was a 50 kr. bill (about 10 dollars-- Sept. 17 was the lowest exchange rate of the fiscal year so far). So I popped into the bakery across the street (so convenient!) and bought "dagen's brod," which may mean "bread of the day." It's very hearty, full of grains and nuts, and so fresh it's hardly recognizable to an American as a food product. I grabbed it (16 kr. is a good deal in Copenhagen) and brought it up to my flat, where I smothered it in smor (Danish butter), also ludicrously fresh. The butter reminds me of when, as little schoolchildren in Chicago, we'd get to go to the "Farm in the Zoo" at Lincoln Park Zoo and eat the freshly churned butter made by an elderly woman in a pioneer costume. It's so good you can't even remember how different it is until you have it again.

I should still go grocery shopping (I know my mother reads this blog). But it's best not to go food shopping hungry, right? I'll just go get ONE more piece of smor og brod.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BRUCE BOYER!

2009-09-15T05:59:00.001-07:00

Week four, day 23. Homesickness starting to settle in this week like quiet background noise. It gets louder when there's less going on, and during classes and activity I can't hear it at all.

The rented closet I call my own has become spectacularly untidy in the past three and a half weeks, and no wonder. I'm not a neat or organized person even when my bedroom is four times this size, so trying to cram everything I need for school and living into this room is like trying to stuff Marilyn Monroe into the dress Audrey Hepburn wore in "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Scratch that; it's like trying to stuff Anna Nicole Smith into an Olsen twin ensemble.

Not that I'm complaining. The quietly bohemian life Mirah has let me into is wonderful. Last night, we went to Blockbuster and curled up in her room watching "Pretty Woman." It was a first for me, and I loved it! In spite of everything I thought I'd hate, not least of which was watching a classic American love story while living in a foreign country, I had a blast. Mirah had to watch it for school-- she's a graduate student at a Meisner theater institute here-- and prep a bunch of notes on structure and plot for class today.

My classes are just as great. Favorite so far is definitely "European Film History," during which half the class falls asleep. It's not their fault; the teacher is sort of quiet and so far we've been studying the silent film era, and if that's not your thing, I'm sure it's boring. But I love it! We watched "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari" yesterday and clips from "Nosferatu" today. Silent film is its own art form. It's incredible. I can't believe it took me until now to discover it. Twenty years, wasted! I could have been studying Greta Garbo's early work and Melies' film experiments of the turn of the last century for ages. What have I been studying neuroscience or psychology for? Everything about human experience is captured on those old film strips.

But this isn't a film blog. It's not even really a culture blog. It's a travel diary for the public (also known as interested friends and family; I love you all). So I will post again when I have more of those stories to share. As for now, life is a lot of settling in and cozying up as the weather gets chilly and damp, school kicks into high gear, and making dinner and doing laundry get easier (and therefore hideously boring).

Western Denmark

2009-09-14T04:28:00.000-07:00

From early Thursday morning until Saturday evening, DIS took each "core course" class on a different itinerary through Western Denmark (mostly Jutland, the region that's always the first to get occupied by Germany because it's a peninsula connected to mainland Europe). That means I was with 34 other kids and two chaperones/guides/teachers traveling throughout a country smaller than the state of Florida for two and a half days straight.

[Needless to say, I needed a lot of alone time and sleep after that; it's exhausting to me to be with Americans and exhausting to be with people my own age. They're nice enough people, but a girl needs her peace and quiet-- especially a girl like me, who is internally a lot closer to a 65-year-old tee-totaling librarian than a fun-loving twentysomething.]

This is a small Photoshop experiment combining a few of my favorite pictures from the weekend. We visited a castle, the tip of Jutland (Skagen), an art museum, a prison, a folk high school (nothing like our high schools), the place where the North (Atlantic) Sea and Baltic Seas meet, a bowling alley, a hostel, a motel, a brewery, and Odense, the town where Hans Christian Andersen was born. I think my favorite part may have been the ferry ride from Zealand to Jylland, pictured above. I was reenacting a scene from "Yentl."

Things To Miss and Giving Directions

2009-09-08T06:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, being an expatriate is thrilling and exotic. Today, en route to my flat from DIS, I passed by an Indian couple speaking in perfect, lightly accented English, arguing about which way to go. I stopped and asked if I could help, and pointed them towards the pedestrian street Stroget (pronounced Stroh-gill). It felt really good to help people who are probably not my fellow Americans but with whom I share a linguistic identity. I'm making a point to help as many confused English-speaking tourists as I can. They don't have to know that I've only lived here 16 days, as long as my directions are right.

But today also marks the first day of public school back home, a day I was a part of for thirteen Augusts and Septembers. To recognize the start of the year, President Obama is giving a speech to American students today. It's the first time in my life I'm not one of them. Even though it's been three years since I attended Chicago Public Schools, I'll always be a product of them.* Maybe that means that every fall, I'll miss those years, but the feeling was definitely underscored today by being altogether on a different continent. It's also the first time in my life I'm homesick for a president!

*Whitney Young High School and LaSalle Language Academy shaped my life in ways that would be hard to summarize in a short blog post, especially one that's focused on my college travels.

Warning: Angry Danish Twentysomething Sings

2009-09-07T10:31:00.000-07:00

My Danish Language and Culture professor, Nina, believes in teaching us about Danish Language and Culture through pop songs. I love her for this. Well, less today when she made us listen to a really crummy rap duo known as Nik og Jay, but more last week when she introduced us to the hilarious and genuine Sys Bjerre's hit song, "Malene."

I've included a YouTube cut of the song with VERY roughly translated English lyrics from a bilingual Danish fan. The gist is that the singer's boyfriend cheats on her with a girl named Malene, and she (very justly) dumps his possessions all over various parts of Copenhagen (the words that aren't translated are streets and neighborhoods here) and burns down his flat. But saves his cat. (I love their sense of humor here.)

The hook is a mix of Danish and English, with Sys Bjerre asking the nameless boyfriend if they can agree that it's the last time he...messes with her. There is some strong (English!) language, so if that offends you, you can skip this post. Or just listen to the first minute or so of the song in Danish.

Some pictures and a song

2009-09-06T01:48:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of my mother and two musical-loving friends who read this blog (Holland and Niki), I think I'm going to do my best to include whatever song I'm singing to myself during my varied adventures in these posts.

Edit: I meant to write more and post pictures, but my internet is pretty sporadic and I couldn't. Here, at least, are the pictures. I'm going out now for a walking tour of "Hans Christian Andersen's and Soren Kierkegaard's Copenhagen."

Some excellent graffiti by DIS and the bakery across the street from me.

Laundry!

2009-09-02T05:40:00.001-07:00

Laundry here is, by the way, completely impossible. It's like an obstacle course, full of physical challenges I'm not good at and with the power to break even the strongest will. For one thing, we have to hook the machine up to the only kitchen outlet and to the only sink in the flat for the entire two hour ordeal. And when I say "hook the machine up to the only sink," it is as inconvenient and as industrious as it sounds.

There's a part that detaches from the regular tap, and another part that you attach to the faucet so that the doohickies on the washing machine connect properly. These are far too complicated for me to ever do quite right and well beyond my ability to describe, but the main bit involves a spring, latch, and ball screw. You then turn on the faucet and, if all goes well, the pressure DOESN'T fling the pipes off and spray you and the kitchen with water. But of course, it's a learning process, and that must happen several (dozen) times for you to learn your lesson.

There's also the matter of dragging the machine out from under the minifridge in the first place. It looked easy when Mira did it on my first or second evening here as a demonstration, but like all Danes, Mira is several times more fit than me, and the process of unlocking the wheels at the bottom of the machine and dragging it the three feet to the sink was an arduous fifteen minute task itself.

But even if you manage to move the machine, hook it up to the outlet, and attach it semi-correctly to the faucet, there's still the fact that its powder detergent, liquid additive (still don't know how to translate the bottle-- maybe fabric softener?), and every itty bitty button are in Danish. And don't be fooled by the numbered dial, because that's not minutes. The Danish measure laundry time in SPINS. Cycle spins. Of your clothes. Consequently, the numbers on that dial stand for degrees. Celcius. The temperature that the machine will turn your tap water in order to properly wash your clothes.

I just did my first load of whites, and so far so good. I'm more apprehensive about the darks. We shall see.

DIS gives us Wednesdays free, which are usually to be taken up with field studies, but which for me today is entirely devoid of activities. I've contented myself with wrestling the washing machine for three hours and singing "I Have Confidence" from "The Sound of Music" loudly to myself when cheerleading is needed.

Feeding Oneself: Harder Than You Think

2009-08-31T10:34:00.000-07:00

True confession: tonight was the first evening I made myself a real meal. Granted, I boiled pasta last week and poured store-bought Italian sauce over it, cold, and over the weekend I attempted guacamole with limited Scandinavian vittles. But tonight, I calculated how much I'd been spending on food, how many more lattes I could afford if I stopped, and did round two of food shopping.

Things turned out much better than expected. Let it be said that I lived without a meal plan or my mother's awesome cooking for a few weeks back in January '09, but Ohio is cheap when it comes to take out, and I'm not sure I turned on the stove more than once. (I seem to remember a lot of toast, from-powder scones, and rickets.)

Three ingredients never to underestimate: olive oil, garlic, and salt. So that my pasta wasn't entirely devoid of nutrients (but hey, high on flavor!), I added some fresh yellow peppers to the garlic-and-oil saute.

It was SO good. I made way too much, especially because I wasn't that hungry to begin with (had splurged on my first sandwich in Denmark earlier today, and had had two buttery, sugary baked goods on my walk to and from class), but maybe I can eat the rest later tonight or for lunch tomorrow. SUCCESS.

I even took pictures. The glass bottle in the back is Gronne Gaarden Granataeble juice, also known as Green Garden Pomegranate concentrate. You add four parts water to one part juice, and it's epically delicious. (So far, this is my favorite way to drink the tap water, which I find kind of gross. It's full of "minerals." So they say.)

I didn't know how much I didn't know...

2009-08-30T12:49:00.000-07:00

...until I left my country. There is SO MUCH I don't know! Denmark is the western world, right? And it's a first world country (with an advanced welfare state, so maybe a first-and-a-half world) with a high standard of living. And yet it is extremely different in almost every way and completely unfamiliar. From doing my laundry to lighting the oven (yep), I have to learn how to take care of myself all over again-- and having just left home again, I'm not particularly practiced at taking care of myself to begin with.

I tried to make guacamole with EXTREMELY tiny avocados, tiny tomatoes, and salt. Since I couldn't find cilantro or garlic powder, or corn chips, I substituted (rather brilliantly, I thought) all three with Lays Sour Cream and Onion Crisps (anything in English is in British English). Not the same at all, but I tried. That was dinner Saturday and Sunday night.

Also on Sunday, I went to my first-ever professional soccer game. But everyone in our enclave of American students who knew soccer back home thought European soccer was totally different. I wouldn't really know, because with the exception of a few games I sat through as a kid (miserably, and with a book), I don't think I've ever watched a full soccer match. And I don't think this time even counts, as 20 minutes before it ended I'd lost all patience, pulled out my "Learn Danish in Three Months" paperback, and given up on pretending to care about sports once again.

The team here is called FCK, which has something to do with "football," Copenhagen, and Denmark. It's the city team. They were playing a suburb called Brondby (I think, but I definitely butchered the spelling). At one point, there was an ad on the stadium screen for "FCKBalls.DK." No lie.

Picspam!

2009-08-29T09:12:00.000-07:00

Some sights on the walk between my apartment and school. These were mostly taken on the street Norrebrogade, and a little bit in the Orstedpaerken (park) that I occasionally cut through because it shortens the trip.

What Gets Lost In Translation

2009-08-28T06:59:00.000-07:00

For starters, "please" and "excuse me." The Danish don't have words for them. I think it's pretty revealing, but Danes use a word, "undskyld," AFTER they've pushed or shoved you or what have you. That's the norm. I've been using unskyld a lot more than the average Dane, but I'm also a lot more clumsy than the average Dane. I also have no idea if anyone's heard it yet, since I'm a bit freaked to use Danish so it comes out both soft and, quite probably, completely wrong.

It's pronounced something like "ooun-skuhld." Yeah, try that one on for size.

I keep wanting to say "please" and "thank you," and that makes you stand out as a foreigner. They do have a word for "thank you" -- tak. The Danes sort of just toss it off, as a really short syllable, "tahk" or "tek." My prolonged "ahh" sound is a dead giveaway, as is my tendency to try for "thank you very much," which most Danes wouldn't bother with. I said "tusind tak" (thousand thanks) to a Danish barista today at a cafe near my flat and she looked at me suspiciously and said, "Already very clever." This was likely an example of the local pastime, dry mocking.

Let's Talk Space

2009-08-26T11:03:00.001-07:00

The Danish are renowned for their inventive architecture, modern aesthetic, and staggeringly imaginative integration of form and function. It seems like their standards are at once centuries ahead of ours but also draw heavily-- at least here in Copenhagen-- on their medieval past.

I'm pretty exhausted (still jetlagged), but here are a few pictures of the neighborhood around my flat (Norrebro) for you to mull over if you're curious about this aspect of being American in Scandinavia.

The first grocery store trip. And the second.

2009-08-25T12:20:00.000-07:00

My first night here, my roommate Mira made me a delicious dinner of salat (salad) and laks (salmon-- and since I'm Jewish, I've gotta mention the "lox" similarity). But after a breakfastless morning and a meagre lunch of cookies on Day Two, I was ravenous. I asked Mira where the nearest, cheapest food store was, and it's a place called Faksa a block north of our flat.

I thought I was passing. I tried not to show my complete confusion as I entered the store and browsed familiar and not-so-familiar foods with labels like "leverpostej," "danskvand," and the most frightening-looking "agurk." I didn't have time to wait for my first Danish class. I was hungry, and I needed something resembling a meal.

I stumbled to the line with a basket full of muesli, sour peach yoghurt (I think), tomatoes ("tomater" is recognizable), grapes, avocados, brie (the same in all languages?), two baguettes, pasta, shredded mozzarella, and vegetarian tomato sauce. It occurred to me that 1), my basket was fuller than all the Danes' around me, and 2), none of the food I bought, with the possible exception of muesli, was a local staple. I had a little French cheese and some Italian supplies, and avocados are definitely not Nordic. (In fact, my roommate seems to eat them hard and unripe, and maybe I should get used to them that way, as they don't seem to soften here like they do in the States.)

The guy at the cash register didn't look at me as he calculated the tab, and I'd watched the people ahead of me to gauge what to do. I thought I was blending in. "132 kroner," he told me in Danish. I handed him 400. The game was up. The girls behind me looked confused and annoyed as the man handed me my 200 DK bill back and repeated himself. He thrust the receipt into my hands as I finished bagging my own groceries (yes, you do that for yourself here), and I tried to run out, flushed with embarrassment. But of course, I'd tried to stuff my American-sized grocery run into two thin, Danish plastic bags, and they tore almost immediately on the walk home. Lesson heartily learned.

DIS doesn't exactly leave us high and dry. Today and tomorrow, we get two sessions of "Survival Danish," the first of which was this morning. We had the lesson on going food shopping, complete with field trip to a shop called Netto. (Netto is a little more recognizably a food store than Faksa, it must be said.) I know now that I don't want to buy liver pate or sparkling mineral water, but that terrifying "agurk" is really just a cucumber. Albeit a more natural cucumber than my American palate is used to, given the apparent Danish distaste of all genetically-engineered food. The fruits are smaller, the vegetables thinner, but everything, it turns out, tastes pretty much the same, or better.

Someone conveniently mentioned today that the European habit is to go food shopping once a day, instead of once or twice a week, and to just buy the food that you'll eat for the next one or two days. This resolves a lot of my fear that Mira doesn't eat, given our spare kitchen, and explains the weird looks natives gave me on line yesterday as I tried to stuff a week's worth of groceries into a handheld basket. But the payment mistake wasn't culture shock. Even or especially in Denmark, my math skills are pretty questionable.

2009-08-18T16:28:00.001-07:00

I almost don't want to share my source, but I've discovered an amazing blog post, courtesy my friend Niki, that gives one very knowledgeable local's insider perspective on the cafes, clubs, shops, theaters, and parks of Copenhagen. IT IS AMAZING. In spite of my desperate and problematic lack of funds (funds that I earned myself, at least), I will try to visit each cafe listed at least once, and the two movie theaters as well.

Why did I choose a stylish city?

2009-08-17T20:48:00.000-07:00

I've been packing today. Cleaning up my room (months overdue!) and stuffing my late grandfather's giant suitcase with way too many clothes. I guess it's pretty transparent-- and probably not unusual-- but obviously, the best way to "pack light" is to only take the clothes you think look good on you. At least, it's working for me. Down to five dresses, two pairs of pants, eight shirts, and 14 pairs of socks. Because I love socks more than I love real clothes. In general, this is a good metaphor for my life.

Things that other people like (looking cute, spending time on looking cute), I weirdly don't have the patience for. Somewhere along the way, I decided that so much of how I look is out of my control, I might as well surrender the rest of it.

The good thing is that this leaves my suitcase nice and roomy enough for the things I do like: bizarre, florid socks that match literally nothing I own and which I am destined to wear under long pants and snow boots during my semester in Copenhagen.

I do think this supports my theory that the best things in life take some looking for. And fit well into a suitcase.