Close Encounters of the Turd Kind

This has nothing to do with Denmark. The evening of my going away gathering, Benny, a friend from high school studying to become a doctor, invited me and two others to the studio of the prominent artist pictured below.

Benny made sure to get proof

I just wanted to see the studio and some paintings, meet the artist, and wind down with a glass of wine and good conversation. But Benny had other plans.

We arrived at the studio’s entrance on Bond Street. Benny greeted us at the door, but I could tell something was slightly off. He lowered his voice dramatically—even though the soundscape of Manhattan street noise surrounded us—and made hand gestures indicating we should prepare ourselves for what was to come. “Okay, here’s the deal…” He launched into a briefing of the situation, and then said, “Nobody at this party knows who the f*ck he is, so you guys should take advantage of this. I’ve invited you guys on the condition that you are huge fans of his and that you love his work. I’m going to introduce you to the artist, okay?”

We nodded whilst exchanging surreptitious glances that the inebriated Benny would fail to register even under stage lights. “Robin, you owe me big time,” Benny said. I rolled my eyes. I felt a sinking feeling of embarrassment in front of Dave and Dan. This was their first impression of a guy from my hometown, Cerritos (which, by the way, got a glowing commentary by The Economist—a bit too rosy an outlook, if you ask me).

Benny widened the crack in the door and allowed us to walk through. The dark antechamber had shelves to the ceiling, neatly stacked with books and papers. The massive studio, brightly lit, had white walls decorated with various works, including large paintings of Bill Clinton, Kate Moss, and posters of his retrospectives.

Benny strode confidently to the center of the room where the artist sat. He introduced us, and we all shook hands. The three of us walked around the studio to look at the works and then moved off to the side to chat. Benny hovered over the artist, wrapped in intense conversation. I wondered what on earth Benny could be saying to him, and shuddered at the possibilities racing through my head.

After about fifteen minutes, Benny joined us. His voice was loud, like that SNL character Jacob Silj, who has a voice modulation problem. He blathered on again about how lucky we were to be there, and what a great artist he was. I decided to change the topic and asked him about some of our fellow friends from high school. I wanted to know what he thought of one friend’s new boyfriend. The conversation went something like this:

• “Oh, that guy. Robin, look, he’s a douchebag. I’ve known that guy for five years. He was a douchebag then, and he’s a douchebag now.”
• “Really?” I asked incredulously. “That’s not what I heard.”
• “Yes, and when he cheated on her last time I told her not to go back,” he carried on, his breath laden with whiskey.
  
• “What? I never heard anything about this!” I said.
• “Yes, I told her, ‘Ann, you gotta let this one go,’” he continued.
• “Uh, Ann? I said LEIGH Ann, not Ann!”
  
• “Ohhhh, right. Channing. Yeah, great guy.”

After that lucid conversation, we moved on to another mutual friend. I mentioned the last time we all hung out and how Benny had tried to set this other friend up with a girl. “Right,” he said. “But I don’t know what’s up with Indians. They don’t want to date darker people. He doesn’t like darkies!” His voice was growing louder, and he repeated this statement several times with greater conviction. Other people in the room pretended not to hear, but I noticed slight turns of the head from several directions. I’m sure the artist heard as well. At this point I just didn’t want to be associated with him at all, so I tried to make the conversation wind down.

“Look, guys—what were your names again?” he asked of Dan and Dave for the second time. “Do you want some fine whiskey?” he asked. We nodded, but only to make him go away. “You gotta take advantage of this situation. Nobody in this room knows who he is. They don’t give a damn about it, so now’s your chance to talk to him.” He walked away and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Ten minutes later he was back, carrying four sizable glasses of whiskey. We sat down at a table. But the party was already starting to disperse, so we stood up to go. But Benny wanted another word with the artist. “I’m gonna buy you a bottle of scot-…hop,” he managed. “What?” asked the artist. “Scot…hop.” “Scotch?” “Yes.”

And with that glorious finale, we rushed to the door, the last to depart. On the street corner outside, Benny wanted me to repay him in dubious ways in Holland. It involved things I will not repeat here, but let your imagination run wild. We separated; the three of us went to a diner to recount our evening not with the famous artist, but with the curious, Scot-hop-infused Benny.

Bilka, Buses, and the Banegårdspladsen

Who would’ve thought one could derive so much pleasure from the completion of mundane tasks? I’ve been in Denmark for almost a week now. I am comfortable with finding my way around town, buying and cooking food, and expanding my social network. Mobility, nourishment, and connectivity are central to life anywhere, so I am beginning to feel at ease.

Friday I walked around near the student village to explore the neighborhood. Finding Bilka (pronounced “BEEL-ka,” as a seven-year-old girl corrected me), the Danish answer to Wal-Mart, took over two hours. Morten told me the walk should take fifteen minutes. He instructed me to walk through a swamp, then through a tunnel, and onto a footpath. I took the scenic route by accident, and snapped some photos. It was a gorgeous day.

On the way to the swamp

A glorious sight: football pitches!

Student housing (the sloping roof is better for snow and energy efficiency)

Tunnel road

Wu Tang Clan unleashed (with pretty kitty stencil detail)

In the pasta aisle at Bilka, I scoured the shelves for pesto sauce. I glanced to my right and noticed a tall, lanky figure with closely cropped, pale blond hair. I recognized him immediately. It was Morten! He is everywhere. We shopped together and walked home using the shortcut.

Saturday was the Skjoldhøjkollegiet’s kick-off bash. I had no interest in attending until receiving an e-mail from Jessica, a fellow Californian, saying she was alone at the party. She had knocked on the door, but nobody answered (I was listening to music in my room). I felt bad, so I put on a sweater and walked in the darkness following the sound of dubious rock music in the distance.

A cover band called “Parklife” played in the main square, and there were beer bottles covering every inch of table surface possible. I found Jessica by a red van and a pair of sumo wrestlers shouting at each other in Danish. Morten and Frank found us immediately, and we joined a large group of international students. I met people from Spain, Lebanon, the Netherlands, Kenya, Germany, India, and China. I couldn’t pronounce most of the names, much less remember them.

Parklife, indeed

Sumo wrestling in Denmark (yes, it has come to this)

“Are you Chinese?” asked a guy from Spain. Oh boy, it was starting already. “No, I’m American. I’m from New York,” I replied. “You’re not American!” “Oh, yes I am,” I insisted, giving him the back story of when my family came to the States. “But you’re 100% Japanese?” interrupted the Lebanese woman. “Yes.” They paused. Then the Spanish guy started chanting, “Bush! We love Bush!” People looked over (even the sumo wrestlers).

A chill swept through me, and Morten suggested we move inside to the disco and bar. They were playing very bad techno music, but the other students were really getting into it. Morten and I sat down, and we made fun of the DJ. “I’m very reserved!” he shouted in my ear as I put my earplugs into place. “WHAT?” I shouted back. “I’M VERY RESERVED!” he repeated twice. This, coming from the guy who suggested he could beat me in sumo wrestling, despite not having exercised in a long time?

At the disco

To give you an idea, he is like an 80-year-old man in the body of a twenty-something. He started listing off classical composers he enjoys. He’s very intelligent, with a dry sense of humor, and reminds me a bit of Niles from “Frasier” (except not gay). He also has an air of general disdain about him, which I find pleasing. As he insisted he was not drunk enough, it took me by complete surprise when he grabbed my hand and dragged me to the main dance floor when ABBA came on. He started twirling me around in a very violent form of swing dancing, and I had trouble sustaining my look of shock as laughter overtook me. Eventually I grew tired and wanted to go home. But I had met a nice group of people in my program, including a girl from Shanghai who invited me to lunch the next day, for which she planned to cook Chinese food.

Food will lure me out any time, any place. So the next day, Frank and I picked up some fruit at the local market and went over to her flat. The group luncheon grew to more than ten people, and there wasn’t quite enough food for us all. I met more people that day: a girl from Oslo, a couple more people from India, an Austrian girl, and a guy from El Salvador. Once again, it felt very L’auberge Espagnole.

Lunch at Zijing’s

That’s me in the red pants checking out photos from Copenhagen on Viktoria’s camera (Scott took this photo)

Ricardo thinks he’s still in his home country as he watches the women cook (just kidding! He helped serve food)

Clearly not enough food (but still very good)

Sunday evening some of our mentors had planned a café meeting, so a small group of us took the #15 bus to the Banegårdspladsen, a place with which I am now very familiar. We met even more students at the cathedral by the canal. It was great meeting everyone, but I despise large gatherings that require moving about or agreeing on things. People in groups of more than three suddenly lose their ability to make decisions; walking takes about five times as long; movement mirrors the reaction time of a fat, inebriated footy fan still at the pub four hours after the final whistle; and conversations are generally insubstantial and dull. I was hungry and grouchy after the light lunch. I went home and grilled some salmon.

Today marked the first day of our introductory week. A small group of us took the #14 bus to campus. We found building 1350, but noted that the meeting hall was on the sixth floor. There were only five floors in this building. After much bumbling about, we found a secret entrance through a computer hall to a room with a beautiful view of the university and city. Over coffee and pastries, we met the program directors and pegged our places of origin on a large map.

Per, the program director, told me that this hall has the best view of the city. Later in his introductory remarks, he stressed how education in Europe is more egalitarian, and how we should address our professors by their first names. High-five, Per.

A guy from Bhutan offers a Danish to a fellow from Kenya

Mingling and morning introductions over coffee and pastries

Afterwards, we checked out the main library (Biblioteket) and cafeteria. Then we went to the train station to get my photo taken in one of those photo booths. I needed it for my monthly bus pass. Here is a lesson in how to waste 90+ kroner. Sure, the instructions are in Danish with cartoon drawings (and we know how good the Danes are with cartoons), but they are absolute rubbish. First, it shows two options: one photo for 30 kroner or 4 photos for 60 kroner. Being the frugal student that I am, I selected option one.

The bulb flashed—no problem. After waiting around for five minutes, a huge portrait-sized photo emerged from the dispenser. Outraged, I had to buy some gum at the local mart in order to get more coins. This time I selected option two. The first time I took a photo, there was some kind of warning. This second option had no warning, so I’m kind of looking off into the distance. Annoyed, I reached down for my bag when a second flash went off, again without warning. Here is the result.

How to waste 90 kroner in minutes

But at least I now have a monthly bus pass (even if that means flaunting this winning photo each time).

Summer Transfer (updated 24/8/07)

A walk to the Latin Quarter in Århus, Denmark

It’s been a summer of big transfers, with Thierry Henry leaving for Spain and Ryan Babel and Owen Hargreaves now making England their home. As for me, I have (almost properly) settled in Denmark.

Three days in, I’ve learned several key points about living in the land of fair, tall, and angular folk:

• Danes like their rooms hot. It can be a breezy 56º outside, but inside it will be a toasty 78º. I first noticed this when boarding my SAS flight. It was so hot, I had to remove my sweatshirt and fan myself with the plane safety manual for several minutes. This trend continued at the International Secretariat office, the Århus Kommune building (where one registers for a social security number and doctor), and various University buildings.
• Only enter from the back of the bus. Ticket stalls are in the back, and everyone exits from the front. That’s what the word “Udgang” would suggest (as opposed to “Indgang” (entrance). You can buy tickets in increments of ten. One ticket is good for rides within two hours. Nobody checks your ticket regularly, but if you are caught by one of the bus monitors, it’s an instant fine of 550 Danish kroners (~$91).
• Bag your own damn groceries! At the supermarket, avoid being yelled at by taking your basket to the checkout counter and placing the items onto the conveyor belt. Then bag your own groceries and follow the signs to “Udgang.” And...
  
• Plastic bags are not free (at least at grocery stores). This is how the Danish government actively encourages people to conserve. At grocery stores, you do not get a zillion double-bagged groceries that you can just chuck once you stock your refrigerator at home. You have to purchase each plastic bag. That’s why it makes sense to carry your own eco-friendly cloth bags, like the ones I use below.
  
  

• Those weird characters actually mean something. The “Å” creates an “O” sound, so Århus is pronounced “OAR-hus.” The “ø” creates an “oo” sound, as in the street name “Søndergade” or in my place of residence, “Skjoldhøj Kollegiet.” Try saying that quickly.
• Danes are pretty friendly. Follow my lead: smile and ask questions without fear, and you’ll be surprised how quickly people open up. From the airport bus driver to the folks at the University to my Danish flatmates, it’s been one big Help Fest of Fun. You meet more people this way, too.
  
• You will need a PIN with your NEW credit card.
  Yes, in order to making purchases with a credit card, you will need to assign it a PIN. I learned this the hard way when a clerk laughed at me. I made a collect call to my credit card company tonight to assign a PIN. Forget what I said yesterday. I went to Bilka today only to discover that my card still doesn’t work. Luckily I ran into Morten at the store, who saved my ass when the transaction failed to go through. Turns out that pretty much all of Europe and the developing world switched to the smart chip in credit cards, so our backward plastic won’t work in their new machines. I have to make another collect call to my company.
• Don’t pronounce “Copenhagen” like a German. Morten and Martin schooled me on my pronunciation, after declaring that I sounded like a German. The American way to pronounce their capital is “CopenHAIGen,” not “CopenHAHgen.”
• Danish water is fit to drink. Morten (or was it Martin?) told me that they tried to push Brita water filters in Denmark, but it failed. Studies showed that the Brita water was actually dirtier than water straight from the tap, due to the filter’s charcoal deposits. One less expense for me.
• “Open container” laws are for pussies. During our university tour today, we saw many students walking around with open bottles of beer. You will see people walking around in broad daylight carrying booze of all sorts. One guy saw someone get on a bus before 11 AM with a bottle of beer. In a society highly regulated in almost all other aspects, perhaps this one lapse helps explains the Danish fan who consumed twenty beers and attacked a referee during the match against Sweden earlier this year.

Here are some photos from today, during our American trip to the Folk Registry, International Secretariat, and the Latin Quarter.

The main library (with a huge group of freshman)

An amphitheater of sorts (it looks better in person and is surrounded by greenery)

A group of freshman demonstrates the lack of an “open container” policy in Denmark

This cute Bernese mountain dog seemed to walk himself home, several trots ahead of his master. He would pause every now and again to look back (just to make sure).

We stopped at Cecilie’s flat in a cute neighborhood called the Trøjberg. It is in the north of the city near the forest.

The garden through the window

The five of us drank juice in the garden. We heard the sound of water running from a shower, hip-hop music coming from the top floor, a baby crying to the left, and a man singing opera to the right.

Look! I match.

It seems that the Latin Quarter of any city is always the coolest. The same is true here.

I went shopping at Fona for a hairdryer (the essentials were an internet cable, food, and a hair dryer in that order). As you can see, one Olsen twin represents “L.A. Style” (Ashley?), and the other gives props to “N.Y. Chic.” The horror, the horror.

View of the canal on the way back to the Banegårdspladsen

Other than that, I’ve been getting along well with my flatmates (although my confusion between Morten and Martin lasted longer than they deemed acceptable), who expected an “American guy” based on my name. Aside from subjecting me to the occasional ribbing against America, we’ve had good conversations about Danish politics, books, language, and television shows. They subjected me to a bad Bruce Willis movie (is there any other kind?) and we watched the “Daily Show” (five days delayed) whilst sharing pears, chocolates, and ice cream (not consumed in one night). We even talked about soccer, as I commandeered the telly to watch the England – Germany match. “I can’t believe I’m getting schooled about soccer by an American,” said Morten. He gives me a quizzical look to almost everything I say, as if he doesn’t quite believe I am telling the truth.

These late night chats are fun, and I am glad I chose communal living quarters. I will get into “The Commune” aspect in greater detail following our “Kitchen/House meeting” tomorrow night. One of the agenda items is “Heidi has something to say.” I like it.