Days of Being Mild

Yes, I now realize I’m holding a Lazio scarf (and that it is upside down)

It’s been a rigorous social calendar lately...

Thursday: Dinner/Movie Night

I had cooking duty this time

Globalization gone awry: Martin applies wasabi to his quesadilla

I made crispy won tons and soft tacos (sharing my precious Cholula hot sauce imported from the States!) for our weekly dinner and movie night. Sigrid baked a traditional Danish cake, topped with crème fraiche. We watched Flags of our Fathers afterwards since Martin, the guy with horrible movie tastes, left early for a party.

Friday: Party at Nielsenhaus

A very special beverage from Belarus

It was the “Dress like your favorite dictator—just kidding” party at the Kiwi’s spacious flat. If you have a themed party, you can’t make it optional. Nobody dressed up. It’s too bad I chucked my Hugo Chávez costume. I thought, “Why would I need this in Denmark?”

Daniel’s wife, Sara, sporting an interesting shirt dress

Jessica, an American, chats with Fuchun

Chetna is a good sport (and this shot had some accidental lighting/exposure effect)

Thousands of miles away from W’burg and the East Village, hipsters flourish.

Saturday: The Tour des Chambres

A sober start: farmer Sigrid dines with football ref Martin

The much-anticipated Tour des Chambres did not disappoint.

To refresh your memory: the Tour des Chambres involves all members of the suite. Each person picks a theme for her room and decorates it accordingly (costume optional). She also picks an alcoholic beverage to go with that theme. Individuals are assigned cooking, cleaning, or grocery duties. We eat dinner together, and then draw room numbers out of a hat. When your number comes up, you go to your room, prepare the drinks for all members, and invite everyone in. The party continues until we’ve visited all rooms.

Heidi in her goth/cutter outfit; pasta for dinner

This year, we only had six participants (a relief for me; if you know my tolerance level, the thought of my consuming twelve drinks is frightening). Since I have instituted fiscal austerity measures, I opted for something easy: a Brooklyn artist/photographer’s minimalist Williamsburg studio. I wore all black.

Sigrid dressed like a traditional Danish farmer; Fuchun chose a Chinese moon festival theme, complete with moon cakes and Chinese alcohol; Morten had a yuppie, colorful ‘80s room, outfit, and cocktails; Heidi slashed up a shirt and wore leather pants to promote her S&M, goth room (which had knives, scissors, candles, and Marilyn Manson music); and my favorite: Martin’s football room.

Room number 12

The ‘80s room (that blazer is even more horrible in person)

To create a little DIY fun with my lazy theme, I asked each person to use my point-and-shoot Canon to create MySpace-like self portraits. Then I had people pair up and asked them to “surprise me” with a photograph or series of photographs; we then left them alone in my room. The winning team would get some kind of prize. First, the self portraits (I forgot to do mine!):

Next, the team portrait competition:

Team 1: Sigrid & Heidi

Team 2: Fuchun and Martin

Team 3: Robin & Morten (the clear winners; I am wearing his blazer)

The evening’s unrelenting flow of booze pressed on, paused only by a brief midnight feeding frenzy. I almost lost it in the ‘80s room. The cream in the shots of the football room made me reel. I think I had close to nine drinks.

Unintended portrait of my neck

Danish beer

Soused

Welcome to the football room...

ARSENAL!!!!!!

Dancing to Danish music

In the last room (S&M), slurred speech filled the air as we crashed on the animal print blankets, dangerously placed near a tray of candles. Headbanger music raged on. I remember snapping some incriminating photographs of Heidi and Martin.

The final frontier

Playacting? You be the judge.

Martin kept removing my shoes and placing them near the candle flames. He muttered something about fire and velvet, and then stumbled into the hallway. That was his last appearance for the night. Fuchun passed out on the bed, his face obscured by a Dr. Seuss-like Silkeborg football hat. Heidi and Sigrid chatted in Danish.

You are getting veeerrrrrrry sleepy

Update: 6 October 2007
Faithful readers will notice I have removed the remaining portion of this post. It is a mea culpa to expunge from the public record any damning evidence that will surely be used against me for years to come about my already well-documented cluelessness. Much gratitude to the blog’s ombudsman, NP, for steering me straight. And, more importantly: apologies to the affected (and much adored) party, DL.

Ego Almost Full

The beauty of the EPL manager’s club just fell by 500 points

It’s curtains for the Chelsea FC drama starring José Mário dos Santos Mourinho Félix, or the man I like to call “The Hot One.”

The long-standing tension between Mourinho and Russian billionaire owner Roman Abramovich finally culminated in not a bang, but a whisper, on the horrid Chelsea FC Web site: “Chelsea Football Club and José Mourinho have agreed to part company today (Thursday) by mutual consent.”

The way the press has chronicled Abramovich’s lust for the Champions League title conjures up unflattering images of Golem pining away for his “precious.” The relationship survived whilst Mourinho delivered the silverware, but the demands for immediate gratification and the expectations of a feckless billionaire mobster can never be satisfied.

A favorite amongst many experts to reclaim the Premiership title this year, Chelsea FC now await a disruption much bigger than the departure of David Dein and Thierry Henry from Arsenal. How will new manager Avram Grant steer this off-course ship, full of egos big enough to fill ten Emirates stadiums? I look forward to seeing whether or not the age-old tale of blinding power, ego, and resulting hubris will return Chelsea FC to the ground on which it belongs.

Another Urban Chameleon

An impostor tries to challenge my authority!

During last night’s partner university reception, we enjoyed glasses of chilled cuvée with assorted appetizers whilst mingling with professors and administrators. There is a possibility I may spend two years in London instead of one (more on that much later).

Hungry students know how to turn appetizers into dinner

Professor Henrik immediately sought me out by the grand piano. He’s Danish, but completed part of his studies in northern California. The very first day of introductions several weeks ago, I asked a question about the professor-to-student ratio. Afterwards, he introduced himself to me, wanting to know where I grew up. We formed a Californian bond. He is the sort of cool professor you always dreamt about in undergrad: articulate, knowledgeable, and stylish. He has messy blond hair, wears cowboy boots and not-too-ironic tees, and speaks with a devilish accent courtesy of his time spent in America. I challenged him to pick out the other three Americans in the crowd. Aside from choosing a Canadian, he did pretty well.

I had two glasses of wine—the most I’ve had my entire stay in Denmark. Fuchun crossed the room and interrupted my conversation. “You are…very rosy,” he remarked. “Oh no!” I said. “It’s already too late. How red am I?” I frowned. “No, it looks very attractive,” he said in accented English. Fuchun and I are suitemates, if you haven’t already gathered that from previous posts. We talked about Amsterdam and the housing situation.

I looked up and made eye contact with Jigme, who was clearly talking about me with his guest across the room. I walked over. “We were just talking about football and wondering whether or not you are a professional,” he said. “Oh good grief no,” I said. And then I snapped the photo above to get Cristina’s lovely sweater against the green chair backdrop.

We have formed a football team. So far, I am the only woman on the team. Daniel, who is part Danish and part Kiwi, serves as team manager, but he has selected a horrible name: Global United (we are now petitioning a name change). Practice began today; I missed both sessions. So far, we’ve got a Bhutanese, a Salvadoran, a Dutch guy, Daniel, a Nigerian, two Americans, and a Belarusian. My soccer boots are still lost in the post, thanks to the Confederacy of Dunces, a.k.a. the United States Postal Service.

Your tax dollars at work: the USPS marked my package for SWEDEN, not DENMARK (the Dane with the green pen probably had a good laugh).

Oh, and three cheers for RvP, C.Fab, and Eduardo! I am enjoying watching Champions League games at night, as they ought to be watched.

And earlier this week we had a huge vegetarian potluck. These kids can cook.

My stomach was probably shocked from all the great food

Giulia brought a traditional Italian dish: aubergines (yes, they call them that here), tomato, and cheese

Larissa slices into a delicious spinach lasagna

One of three men present, Ricardo understands the new world order: men (who know what’s good for them) cook and clean!

Velkommen til Kollektiv

Life in the commune offers stark contrast to DIY New York. The methodical pace of egalitarianism has proved both vexing and logical in its Beccarian spirit.

Our highly organized communal kitchen

The kitchen organizational structure works like this: each of the twelve suitemates corresponds to his room number. I am Number Six (yes, like The Prisoner). We each have a full cabinet (marked by number) for dry goods, and half a refrigerator for groceries. For frozen goods, we have a different colored bag (again, marked by number) which we toss into the stand-alone freezer.

Cabinet system demarcated by room number (notice the clothespins)

Every Tuesday is general cleaning (rengøring) day. This shift rotates to two people, who must clean and vacuum the common room, wipe down all the surfaces in the kitchen, and vacuum and mop the floor. The whole process takes only about 30 minutes. I had cleaning duty my first week with Stephanie, an attractive, dark-haired Danish girl (or, Number Eleven). It’s a good system, since the kitchen counter starts to resemble a bread crumb factory and a Jackson Pollock painting by Monday night.

Cleaning board shows who has duty this week (green placards)

Individual chores depend on your number. I share laundering the kitchen towels/rags with Anders whenever the bin fills up. Others must clean the ovens, take out the trash, or buy supplies (out of a fund to which we all contribute 30 kroner a month). During our first house meeting, someone made a movement to amend the chores. I noticed later in the meeting minutes: “Number 3 and Number 12 switched chores and the cashier-chore was passed to Number 7; Number 2 was put on Oven 2.” It is all very regulated and democratic.

Almost all kitchen electronics, pots, pans, and dishes are communal. Anything private is marked by a clothespin identified by number. Everything else is fair game, including the three toasters, sandwich maker, electric kettle, and microwave. Each person is responsible for cleaning his own dishes in a timely manner; if he wants to do them later, he clips a pin onto an offending dish.

Laundry is free. Anything that might hinder cleaning is made easy; we also get soap and cleaning supplies. An American classmate of mine had a large flier entitled “HOW TO CLEAN” in her welcome binder. It goes into minute detail on how to clean the bathroom, kitchen, and common room, complete with diagrams.

The other day we received notice of autumn cleaning from the janitor. After cleaning, an inspector comes in to check that we’ve done an acceptable job. If not, they hire a professional cleaning team for which we have to pay. This is a shocking change of pace for someone coming from the individualistic American system (which gives rise to some of the filthiest living conditions I’ve ever seen—greasy pizza boxes packed with soiled boxer shorts, encrusted silverware soldered to bowls, and unimaginable odors clinging stubbornly to fabric surfaces). See the notice below.

They took care to put the notice in both English and Danish

More fliers: one announcing the Tour des Chambres party sign-up; the other, notes from our house meeting (click to enlarge for a laugh)

The Danes eat early. The kitchen is pretty full by 6 o’clock, so I’ve learned to avoid that hour. Morten commented with surprise when he saw me cooking at 9 PM. He said I am like the French guy who lived here last year; we’ve had multiple conversations about the differences between northern and southern Europeans. Other times I beat the crowd by starting to cook at 5 PM.

I like my suitemates much more than my non-Danish classmates. Perhaps it is a fondness born from a new life in a foreign environment, only to wither away once safety and routine are reestablished. I have not been in a rush to declare particular allegiance to the quickly forming cliques within my program, fueled by the false intimacy of Facebook, booze, and a shared—though hardly singular—experience. They walk about the city in herds, desperately thankful for companionship in any form.

But the Danes in my suite act like old veterans. Many have been living here for a couple of years and see their family several times a month. They have jobs at the local Bilka or eatery. They are sociable, but not intrusive—very Danish. They are curious about America. I am constantly fielding questions about New York, George W. Bush, The Daily Show, “globesity,” film, and music. I can be curmudgeonly and introspective, so their initiative to have a weekly dinner/film night has been a pleasant surprise. Pairs rotate cooking duty, we eat together at the dining table, and then pick a movie to watch together.

Last Thursday, Fuchun and Morten created a truly globalized meal: Korean sushi filled with sausage/hot dogs and miscellaneous vegetables and eggs, boiled glutinous rice balls filled with red bean paste, and a seaweed stir fry. Afterwards, we watched Friends with Money. Martin, with his affinity for action and war movies (we watched a Bruce Willis movie my second night here), said he could never get that time back in his life. Morten wanted to know if Americans really have such shitty relationships. “Oh yes,” I replied.

Table setting courtesy of Fuchun and Morten

Fuchun toiled for hours to create this meal

Rice balls with red bean paste

Brave Danes (and Fuchun) wielding chopsticks (L to R): Heidi, Sigrid, Martin, Morten, and Fuchun

Sigrid and I are up next. I’m planning a Mexican main dish and a Chinese appetizer. I have a feeling we’ll be watching a war movie.

The Urban Chameleon

Paint it red (in Copenhagen on Saturday)

A friend just labeled me the “urban chameleon” after seeing my latest photos from Copenhagen; my colors just happen to match the city environment. Too much has happened in these first few weeks in Denmark. I will have to write more later, but here are some recent photos from Copenhagen and Århus.

Having juice in a garden in Århus

Testing the interactive display at the Danish design museum in Copenhagen

Good physical therapy for my recently injured ankle

I wasn’t quite sure what this wheel exercise was supposed to do

Turn!Turn!Turn!

Triceps workout (or how to save money on gym membership)

Testing out Danish furniture