The Island of Dr. Samsø

At 5:44 in the morning, the sun isn’t shining in Denmark. Indeed, the sun has yet to rise. But I woke up at that ungodly hour on Thursday to catch a bus which would take us to the ferry, which would in turn deliver us to the renewable energy island of Samsø.

View from the ferry (yes, it was this gray)

In the summer, Samsø is known for its beautiful, white sand beaches, strawberry fields, and early potatoes. The island’s modest population of about 4,200 residents swells to more than 100,000 during the peak months of concerts, beach-going, and vegetable-picking. In the fall and winter, it is cold and dreary.

In 1997, Samsø won a national competition to establish an island community run entirely on renewable energy by 2008. The project, established through a governmental initiative in conjunction with the UN Conferences on Climate Change, would serve as a model for the rest of Denmark, which has a goal of 20 per cent renewable energy for the entire country by 2030. Samsø has since reduced its import of fossil fuels by 60 per cent with its eleven land turbines, which generate enough electricity for the entire island, and the development of biomass fuel (rapeseed oil) for tractors and other machinery. Many of its citizens have personally invested in solar panels and masonry heaters to improve energy usage and efficiency, thereby reducing their own energy costs. Running on biomass fuels, wind power, and solar power is cheaper than burning oil and gas.

The island now has a 140 per cent electricity output, meaning it can export 40 per cent of that energy for profit to be distributed amongst its citizens. While Samsø is 100 per cent carbon neutral, the technology for renewable energy for transportation (cars, buses, ferries, etc.) has yet to be developed, so it offsets those energy costs through ten offshore turbines that required an investment of 17 million Euros, or roughly 4,000 Euros per citizen. The offshore project, headed by the farmer we met during our field trip, has proved profitable, enabling the island to earmark 400,000 Euros for the development of its own Energy Academy where NGO representatives, government officials, and students can gather to learn about the technology involved.

The Energy Academy (and unideal conditions for solar panels)

The Energy Academy was our first stop. Frank, our guide, met us outside the eco-house, built about a foot off the ground for better energy efficiency (land temperature is so volatile that it saps the heat from the house). The gray zinc roof has both heat-retaining and solar panels to provide all the electricity and heating for the house. But I must confess: I was cold, keeping my jacket on throughout the entire visit. Even in cloudy Denmark, the house sees about 200 days of usable sunlight. Much of the heat generated inside the house is contained within another structure that slowly releases the heat to the rest of the house for better efficiency. During the summer, windows at the top and sides of the house open automatically to create a cooling wind current.

The simple, long-house style of the building was modeled after local Samsø homes by a Danish architecture firm to blend into its environment. The architects kept locality in mind for the design, wanting to construct this house using local materials by local workers. A large part of the renewable energy effort means sustainability in all aspects of the island, not just energy efficiency to hit certain benchmarks. If the island were energy efficient whilst jobs declined, the project would prove a failure for the rest of Denmark. So the house’s walls consist of small panels made of gypsum and insulated with paper wool. Gypsum is a byproduct of certain pollution, and therefore is readily available and cheap. It works just like plaster, and seals out water, making it an ideal material for an economical home. My only concern arose after learning that gypsum is “slightly more radioactive” as far as its isotopic instability. I felt that our guide slipped that fact into his speech a little too silkily.

The office

We met a photographer from National Geographic on assignment in Samsø for three weeks; the magazine will have a feature on climate change in April. I introduced myself to Andrew, asking him about life in Washington, D.C. He has only lived there for two months, and of that time he’s been on assignment for all but two weeks. So his apartment in Adams Morgan goes unused, and he has never been to Kramerbooks. I asked Andrew how he became a full-time photographer at the magazine, considering the competitive field. He had worked at a newspaper previously. “I never considered moving to New York,” he admitted, when I told him how many struggling photographers I’ve met in the Big Apple. “I always went to places where I knew I’d be the only guy and I’d get work. I built up my portfolio that way.” So far he’s been to Wales and London and will be going to China or India for the remainder of this story. One of five (I think) staff photographers, he contributes to story ideas and brainstorms. He now shoots with digital cameras exclusively. I asked him if he studied photography in school. “No, I was a history/liberal arts student,” he smiled.

After watching a film on Samsø’s story, Frank announced that fresh pots of coffee and tea were waiting for us in the lunch room. I talked with Ulla and Ar*ndh*ti about the scalability of the renewable energy initiative to Denmark and the rest of the world. Ulla, a Dane, explained the history of Denmark as one marked by cooperation (very much like Holland). Aru*dhu*i and I had our doubts. “Take India, for example,” she said. “We have a history of splintered groups that refuse to cooperate with one another. I can’t see this surviving there, not to mention the lack of public funds.” “And it’s not just the lack of funds,” I added. “In the US, we’d have so many oil and special interest groups lobbying to block any such progress. Heck, it took us until this year for our own government to admit that global warming is even happening.” Ulla explained that the Danish oil companies realize they have only about fifteen more years of oil reserves left, so they are now selling the oil abroad and investing money into alternative energy sources.

Lunch break

We climbed into our rented coach after lunch to meet Jørgen, the farmer who runs one of the eleven land windmills. As we walked up to the windmill’s base, we heard a rumble from behind as a large man with broad features driving an ATV sped up to us at an alarming pace in an unpredictable, zigzag pattern. A small white dog raced behind the vehicle, prancing in its wake. After a general Q&A, we learned that we’d be climbing the 70-meter-tall windmill. The climb is divided into sections with wooden platforms and ladders. Each platform can hold a maximum of eight people. With a group of eighteen, we had to pace the climb appropriately, ensuring that if one went up, another went down without overloading one level.

We climbed that first one, yes.

Chetna went first

Jørgen shut off the windmill and we began the ascent. I still have the calluses and sore muscles from this adventure, but it was worth it. The top of the windmill opened up, exposing the giant engine as we walked gingerly around the pod. The wind was fierce, but Andrew, the photographer, was unfazed. He stood up on top of the engine and took photographs. The rest of us were content to mimic Titanic poses and take in miles and miles of landscape and ocean. At one point, Jørgen had some fun and hit a button on his control panel. The entire windmill started turning to the right. We screamed as he laughed devilishly.

We made it to the top! Our hands are dirty and sore!

Ready to deploy a missile onto the Danish countryside (or: inside the turbine engine)

By the time we all made it down, we were giddy from the exercise and fresh, cold air. We raced over to a pumpkin patch near the bus and admired the bright greens mottled with orange and brown that was the field. Our hands were dirty from picking up pumpkins and climbing the ladder. We got back into the bus, which took us through several communities and then along a large stretch of white sand beach hemmed in by choppy blue water with white caps.

We arrived at a woodchip energy plant. A flock of curious sheep resting near some solar panels stopped to stare at us. The wood chips smelled fresh (a bit like menthol?). We went inside to inspect the factory we had just watched on film.

“Baaaaa!” said the sheep

Then it was time to visit the town of Nordby (NOT pronounced “Nord-BEE,” but more like “NOR-bu” with a very soft “oo” sound at the end), which was voted as the best preserved village in Europe a few years ago. It is a town in the north, as its name suggests, and has sea-faring roots. Samsø served as a gathering place for the Vikings, and it is believed to be the launching pad from which the Vikings set sail to conquer England and other distant lands. In Nordby, the inheritance pattern worked like this: the son received the ship or fleet, and the daughter received the farm. So the men would sail off to make their fortunes, and the women would stay home. This created a matriarchal society. In the south, where the economy wasn’t based on fishing and the sea, the men retained the farms and houses, thereby establishing a regular, patriarchal society. Perhaps this explains why Nordby remained the best-preserved village in all of Europe for so many years.

The quiet streets of Nordby

Nothing seemed to be open in Nordby except the public toilet next to the post office. We learned that Danes like to have little mirrors on their windows to see what is happening outside without having to get up. “So just because a house seems quiet, doesn’t mean they aren’t watching you,” Frank explained. We also wondered about miniature statues sitting on the window sills of almost all the homes. “If you see two dog statues facing outside, it means the master of the house is out to sea. If they’re faced inward, it means he’s home,” said Frank. Our walking tour, interrupted by rain, concluded at the Underground Café for a hot cocoa and ice cream break.

It was fun to spend the day in Samsø, a distinctly different part of Denmark. The idea expressed by the Samsø Energy Chairwoman about the energy island’s community can also be applied to Denmark in relation to the rest of the world: “In a time when bigger is better, it’s important to show that smaller entities can survive.”

For more photos, go here.

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.

The Midfield “Maestro”

Arsenal midfield “maestro” Cesc Fabregas and me (I have no intention of ending up on random Fabregas fan sites, thank you).

How to mar a good photo? Put Wayne Rooney's ugly mug in the background.

Cesc turns 20 today, and to celebrate the occasion, I will pick up where I last left off in London. I had just finished watching the Arsenal youth team beat Manchester United at the Emirates. My hands smelled faintly of oranges after eating the fruit plucked from a sculpture at Tate Britain.

As soon as the game ended, several kids in track suits ran onto the pitch, only to be trailed by overweight, middle-aged men who struggled to maintain a semblance of a chase. It became more of a suggested jog, as the lanky lads raced around in circles on the green, laughing their heads off and flashing victory signs at the crowd. Out of breath, the “security” waged a war of attrition, eventually cornering the kids, one by one, just in time for the start of the automated sprinkler system (perhaps—one would think—a more effective way of clearing the field).

The next day, I took the Tube to Knightsbridge to do some recon at Harrods. I didn’t believe the clerk’s assessment that arriving an hour early would suffice, so I showed up three hours ahead of schedule. Stepping off the escalator at the fifth floor sporting goods department, I casually walked past a colorful display of trainers and glanced down the football corridor. Not a soul, except for one clerk. What to do for three more hours?

I went to the ground floor food market and took a seat at the charcuterie station. Two years ago, I had had afternoon tea there with a friend. I whiled away an hour reading a book and sipping my tea slowly. I decided to assess the situation upstairs once more.

As I took the escalators up, Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor, Op. 64 filled the large hall, filtered through the elaborate and expensive sound system on display. Suddenly, the music paused. An automated message delivered in a proper, British accent announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, Arsenal and Spain midfield maestro Cesc Fabregas will be upstairs meeting customers and signing merchandise at 3:15.”

I tried to suppress a laugh, glancing around at the other shoppers. Nobody seemed to notice or care. They were either serious female shoppers who hadn’t a clue about football, or tourists snapping photos of garish Egyptian décor.

After another hour of dawdling—examining accoutrements for horseback riding, looking at the Sweaty Betty yoga line, and trying out an £8,000 exercise machine—I wandered back to the football section. Now they had set up a red velvet rope, indicating the queue starting point. And there were several conspicuous lurkers surveying the room, almost daring someone to make the first move.

I decided to try on some hoodies, and then flipped through a massive £3,000 book covering the history of Manchester United (not worth the price). “Whatever you do,” I thought, “you don’t want to be first in line. Give the guy some time to warm up and get comfortable meeting us, but don’t wait too long, either. Eventually, his hand is going to cramp and he’ll become a signing, smiling automaton.”

When I returned, a little boy carrying a poster stood by the red velvet rope with his father. The “midfield maestro” announcement came through the loudspeakers again, and I heard the clerk behind me snigger. “Maestro?” he said incredulously to a coworker. “I’d call him bloody all right, maybe. Not maestro.” Then a young woman inched her way over to the queue. It had begun. I heard one man say in an exasperated tone, “I'm just here for some cricket whites, not to see this footballer!” as a Harrods employee tried to block his passage.

I waited for more people to queue up before joining the line behind a young blonde woman. I would come to regret this placement, for soon thereafter, two men got in line behind me. I couldn’t place their background, but they spoke a language I did not recognize, and had dark, tanned skin. My guess was some sort of south Asian origin.

The two stood about five inches behind me. Each time I moved up a little to maintain my personal space, they followed, as if someone might take advantage of those precious five inches and cut in line. Worse: one stood unbearably close, in prime position to talk to my left ear in acoustic perfection; the other mirrored his stance to my right. They spoke loudly, in guttural tones, so I heard their conversation in stereo. The guy to my right seemed to have no understanding of voice modulation, like that Will Ferrell SNL character, Jacob Silj. And his speech pattern resembled Norm MacDonald imitating Bob Dole. Except it wasn’t funny, and it hurt my ears.

But that’s not all. Both men had the most rank, foul breath imaginable. The kind that becomes its own entity—a third presence, shouting unrelentingly in your face, “I’m HERE and I’m not going away! Aiyayayayaya!” The kind that renders breath mints impotent whilst traveling in all directions across large, airy spaces, undiluted and menacing in its virulent power. It was as if they had been feasting on rotted, maggot-infested carcasses for days, and then nonchalantly said, “Hey, let’s go meet Cesc Fabregas.”

So there I stood, in a line that didn’t move for an hour. What did I do? I dabbed some perfumed lotion on my upper lip. I did the reverse triangle pose to impose distance between us. Whenever a passer-by brought a draft of perfumed air with her movements, I inhaled deeply, grateful for the momentary reprieve. I coughed frequently and loudly, hoping the distant memory of Asians and SARS might raise alarm bells. Nothing worked. Soon, one of the men’s wives joined them, creating a swirling cesspool of smells.

Cesc Fabregas arrived through the main entrance near the display of trainers. A large crowd had gathered by now, including photographers with telephoto lenses (despite the fact that he was only about ten feet away). Everyone strained to look over the person in front of him to catch a glimpse of the Spanish teenager. He waved at the crowd. The Harrods emcee made a few dull remarks. Cesc posed for photographs, and then it was time to meet and greet.

The line started to move briskly. I needed to figure out a plan to get a photograph taken of Cesc and me. The natural and unfortunate option: asking the Death Eaters behind me for a wee favor. I decided to target the woman, seeing as she was the least offensive of the lot.

“Would you mind snapping a quick photo of me with him when we get up there?” I asked politely. The request seemed within reason. I expected no resistance, but the Land of Death Eaters breeds curious creatures. She gave me the once-over, her eyes filled with disdain and impatience. “Well, I’m not sure if that’s possible. The line is moving quickly and I don’t think there’s time.” “Are you serious?” I asked incredulously. She looked away. I laughed out loud, embarrassed for her existence.

Desperate, I made the same request to the blonde in front of me. “Oh, no problem,” she said easily. I then explained quickly what had transpired. Having stood in the same queue, she had intimate knowledge of the grating voices carrying forth noxious fumes behind me. “Really?” she asked. “Some people have no manners.”

Cesc signs away

As we inched closer to the signing table, I noticed one of the Harrods clerks offering to take photos for customers. I walked up to Cesc, who smiled and said hello quietly. I was immediately struck by his accent. I’ve been watching him play for months now, and it never occurred to me what he must sound like. I had almost forgotten his Catalan roots. “How would you like me to sign this?” he asked. “Oh, don’t address it to anyone,” I said. He signed my jersey carefully and then added “C.FAB.” at the bottom, demystifying his looping scrawl. I asked if he would take a photo with me; he nodded. And then it was over.

My impressions? He seemed young—that is, he acted his age. There is a bit of shyness and slight hesitation present in all teenagers that I found endearing in him. When he’s on the pitch, he moves with such speed, agility, and confidence that it’s easy to forget he’s still a young man who has time to develop into a great player. I also noticed that we’re about the same height, and that he has terrible taste in clothes (if he chose that outfit). Look at that shirt. What is that? It’s like Fat Albert jogging or something (although several friends have now inquired as to where they might be able to acquire a Fat Albert shirt). I didn’t notice it until after examining my photos onscreen. It’s like a modern-day version of Antonioni’s Blow-Up, in which the crime committed only becomes apparent when captured through the lens of a camera.

The Blow-Up

Eventually the excitement wore down, and I took the Tube to Green Park for afternoon tea at the Wolseley, amongst adults once again.

London (in pictures)

It’s been a watershed week for Arsenal, with yet another beautiful goal by Cesc Fabregas yesterday against Manchester City. I’m resting up for the early morning game Saturday against rival Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane. In less happier news, rumors still abound about an American takeover by billionaire Stan Kroenke.

And now: pictures from London. Again, let’s start with the food.

Diner’s delight: soft shell crab and assorted dim sum at Hakkasan

Hakkasan, one of London’s most exclusive restaurants, earned a Michelin star in 2003 for its Chinese cuisine. Created by French designer Christian Liaigre, the sumptuous interior resides in the basement of a tiny, nondescript alley just north of Tottenham Court Road tube stop. Indeed, even the bathrooms are noteworthy.

My eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light as I descended down the stairs to the reception area. Reservations are difficult to come by unless you go for a weekday lunch; I rang that morning and made a reservation for one. The dark wood paneling featured oriental carvings and cutouts offering privacy without sacrificing ambiance. The bright spotlights situated over every table had a dramatic effect against the cavernous darkness; it intensified the dining experience, shutting out everything—surroundings, wait staff, people, mobile phones—but the food.

The pièce de résistance: passionfruit ice cream with chocolate fondant

Bacalhau à Brás (baked cod with onions, potatoes, and eggs) with a glass of vinho verde at Canela

We tried a Portuguese and Brazilian restaurant called Canela Cafe in Covent Garden. I had a glass of vinho verde (to bring back memories of Portugal) along with a classic baked cod dish. Kris had another form of baked cod; I think it had spinach. This cafe is so cute, situated near the 7 Dials; it only has about five or six wooden tables, incredibly high ceilings, and a nice, comfortable atmosphere.

Banana cake with espresso and a cinnamon stick (canela means cinnamon in Portuguese)

I went to many other wonderful restaurants. We tried Roast in Borough Market (but had to order from the food stand). There was a pumpkin curry at Busaba Eathai on Wardour Street (alas, the mango lassi has lost its kick). And I muscled my way into the Wolsley, without reservations, for afternoon tea, consisting of delicate finger sandwiches, scones, and the creamiest tarts on the planet. I read The Evening Standard (which is how I learned about the grand opening of COS, H&M's new, upscale chain that would open the next day on Regent Street) amongst all the proper British people having tea outside of the office.

At Ottolenghi in Islington, I tried the fresh bread board, which includes homemade sourdough bread based on a sour culture from a Danish bakery over a century old. Come on. You hear that and you just bloody order it. Ottolenghi has communal seating, which includes toaster stations with fresh jam and butter. I read my football book over breakfast in this bright, modernist space.

I also had random snacks at Harvey Nichols, Harrod’s, and places in SoHo. We walked through Borough Market on Saturday. I had a half pint of cider with a sandwich. Then I picked up some fresh goat cheese at the French cheese stand. We ate by the Thames in the afternoon sun.

Let’s move on to art.

White Cube Gallery in Hoxton Square

Tate Britain’s sexier cousin, Tate Modern

Right after eating at Roast, we walked along the Thames and spotted the Tate Modern. I asked Dave if he wouldn't mind going in again so I could look at the slides. This, of course, turned into the slide adventure I’ve already recounted. This was a definite highlight of the trip!

The fifth floor slide is well worth the wait

At Tate, everyone can hear you scream

The Tate has this thing called the Tate to Tate ferry, which we considered taking. Designed by Damien Hirst, the boat takes you from Tate Modern to Tate Britain (for a fee).

The view right outside near the Millennium Bridge. Look at all those cranes!

White Cube Gallery in Mason’s Yard (near Green Park tube stop)

The other White Cube Gallery in the West End had a show by Anselm Kiefer; I went on the very last day. The main floor featured a three-dimensional piece called Palm Sunday. Downstairs had the most amazing, texturized paintings. I wanted to snap a picture, but Madame Matron gave me the Death Stare. White Cube had new works by Andreas Gursky lined up for the following week. Gah!

And now for the miscellany, including Arsenal FC.

The cutest street in London: Charlotte Road

On the way back from Hoxton Square, we happened across Charlotte Road in the East End. We spied the most wonderful things windows, like this office with artwork and robots and other interesting gadgets in the works. Across the street was the art gallery with the red velvet couch.

On the way to Liverpool Street station

View from the London Eye

Whoever said London has bad weather all the time didn’t factor in global warming

Walking through Neal’s Yard in Covent Garden (to visit Rough Trade)

My seat at Emirates: a dream come true

The crowds waits for the approaching Wave

Some hobbyists along the Thames

Saturday night fever: birthday party near Farringdon

Saint Paddy’s Day isn’t such a big deal in London. I saw about nine people with Cat-in-the-Hat-like hats in a green and white take on the original. I ended up going to a birthday party with friends at a restaurant (the birthday boy is a chef, so it featured fine, catered treats).

Somehow I found myself in the back of a BMW with a fellow named Alex at the driver’s seat. Alex is a doctor who lives in Hampstead, and he loves my laugh. He has impeccable taste. At the party, I chatted with a South African guy (over which all the gay boys were drooling) about rugby and the 2010 World Cup.

The next day I went for a long walk.

Sunday in Hyde Park after the rain

London: I’ll be back (and sooner than I thought)

March Madness (in pictures)

I had big plans to categorize last month’s adventures by food, A&E, and football, but it gets confusing with different cities. So let’s begin with Los Angeles—specifically: the food.

Lunch at the Getty Center restaurant

Nicoise salad

Chicken stuffed with goat cheese and spinach over fingerling potatoes and green beans; blackberry mojito

Salmon over crispy polenta and fresh sugar snap peas and greens; pomegranate margarita

We finished the tech day early. The client headed for the swimming pool; I had no plans to be in a swimsuit in front of him. We chose art over shopping and took the 405 to the Getty Center. The museum restaurant offers fresh dishes along with outstanding views of Los Angeles. For dessert: a delicious sorbet platter (raspberry, blueberry, strawberry, oh my!). I was more than a little inebriated by the time we walked through the corridors of the museum.

With stops at Matsuhisa (the original Nobu), Urth Caffé (for the best coffee just about anywhere, including Italy), and Little Ethiopia, this trip was well worth it for the food alone.

I got sunburnt waiting for jets to land.

Our producer is a crazy driver. That’s a cup of ginger ale in my hand. I got car sick after a wild ride through the Hollywood Hills. From then on, the producer kept telling everyone I needed to sit in the front seat because “Robin gets car sick.” I’d like to point out that I have been car sick exactly once before in my life.

My, you look ravishing in Richard Meier white!

On a rare, clear day in Los Angeles, things actually look nice

West towards Santa Monica

Caspar David Friedrich, Gerhard Richter, and Sigmar Polke exhibits; new works by Tim Hawkinson

Zoopsia: visual hallucination of animals; sometimes occurring in delirium tremens (which is also the name of a Belgian beer)

Part of “Octopus” (look closely: suction cups are mouths and tongues)

“Bat” made of Radio Shack bags and twisty ties

“Dragon” hangs from a wooden rod; it’s the largest piece

“Leviathon” looks like a skeleton but is actually a sculpture of men with oars

The Getty commissioned these new works (in a bold statement for contemporary art?). It’s a small exhibit, but worth seeing. The zoopsia theme might be fun and gimmicky, but the larger message is one of observation: taking the time to see things and really understand them.

Hawkinson’s massive “Überorgan” in the main lobby plays music every hour on the hour

“Überorgan” is a Dr. Seuss contraption come to life

Sound blows out of these devices all over the room, creating a bellowing tune you must strain to identify

“Überorgan” processes these black boxes through a light code reader to play familiar tunes (I heard “Swan Lake”)

The machinery that reads the enormous sheet music

You can see the light code reader here. Hawkinson also created a machine that signed his name repeatedly, creating a growing pile of strips on the floor of the Whitney a couple of years ago.

Perfect weather

Cactus garden

Cactus (and trash)

Sunset at the tram platform

Business trip self portrait

Up next: photos from London.

The Great Pretender

Last night whilst watching Father Ted and World Cup cricket and football highlights, I saw an advertisement that captured my attention completely:



And now, breakfast in Islington...

Fly Emirates

Today I met a cute and talented Spaniard: Cesc Fabregas. Indeed, a lot more has happened.

After parting ways with the Germans yesterday, I decided to take advantage of the nice weather in Hyde Park. But first I stopped at a bookstore to pick up Brilliant Orange (the store had eight copies). My approach has been relatively simple: in nice weather, take advantage of the outdoors, and when not, visit the many museums and shops around town. In between, always try a new restaurant.

When I arrived at Knightsbridge, though, clouds loomed above and the wind chilled the air. So I went to Harrod’s instead. I wandered quickly through the “Rooms of Luxury” on the ground floor, passed the women’s fashions (the exchange rate is cruel), and accidentally went up to the fifth floor sports and leisure department.

Lo and behold! I saw an inconspicuous sign announcing that Arsenal midfielder Cesc Fabregas would be in the store on Thursday to meet customers and sign merchandise. I couldn’t believe my luck. Furthermore, none of the shoppers seemed to notice or care. Talk about wrong clientele for football: society women from Notting Hill and Kensington. I grabbed some jerseys and tried them on in the fitting room. I settled for a classic red and white jersey in a Boys size (Generation XXL has reached the UK, too).

Then I bombarded the clerk with questions: What time should I arrive in order to be first in the queue? How many people did he expect? Has Harrod’s ever done anything like this with other Arsenal or Premiership players before? Which jersey would be best for signing? Are photos allowed? How far in advance does Harrod’s book these events? Where is it advertised, other than the store? He gave me a quizzical look and seemed to scrutinize me more closely as time wore on, but he answered my questions (for inquiring minds, here are the answers in order: one hour before scheduled appearance; he didn’t know; no other Arsenal players, but Harrod’s has had events with rugby and cricket players recently—was I interested in either sport?; red would be fine; photos are permissible; it depends; the Web site and in store).

I bounded out of the store with my brand new jersey, wrapped in plastic, tucked away in a green Harrod’s bag. I decided to walk towards Sloane Square in search of the Saatchi Gallery, which still appeared on my map, even though I was certain it no longer existed following the huge sell-off of artwork. The rumor proved true, so I took the Tube to Pimlico station and found the Tate Britain.

The museum, like many other British art spaces, has free admission. It was practically empty by the time I arrived. I walked through the contemporary art section. My favorite was Tim Head’s “Displacements” in Room 31. It uses a mix of projected images and real objects within the room to play with your sense of reality and time.

I walked into the adjoining St. Martin’s Sculpture (She studied sculpture at St. Martin's College) Department room. The first thing I noticed was a big pile of real oranges on the floor. It’s a piece by Roelof Louw called “Pyramid (Soul City).” I read the sign. It said that the sculpture starts off as a pile of 6,000 oranges. The artist intended to have each viewer take an orange to see how the sculpture shifted over time. Anticipating my next question, the sign reiterated in bold writing: We encourage you to take an orange to eat outside. So I walked up to the display and, examining the fruit as I would produce at a grocery store, I plucked a ripe orange. As soon as I had straightened up, I made incidental eye contact with an older, matronly woman who had just entered the room from the opposite side. She gave me the sternest look, as if I had just been caught spray-painting her silver Bentley. I was Eve, fallen from grace after picking the forbidden fruit. I knew exactly what she was thinking, shrugged, and moved on. When I glanced back, three other people followed my lead and grabbed oranges.

I walked into the 1960s room, holding the orange up to my nose to inhale the fresh smell of the rind. The room was quiet except for the sound of my footsteps; the experience became personal, visceral. As I walked into the Francis Bacon room, I realized I was alone with my orange in hand. I remember saying this aloud: “I am just so happy to be here.” I have thought this statement several times in the past couple of weeks (the first time was at the Getty Center, when I raced up the steps to look at the gardens and take in Meier’s white structures glowing in the California sunshine). I spent more time wandering through the hallways, reading placards, and sitting in rooms looking at paintings from different eras. The museum closed at 17:50, so I exited the building and joined the crowds heading towards Pimlico Station.

Arsenal had an away match against Aston Villa that evening, and my preliminary plan involved watching the game at a pub near Emirates. I went home first to lighten my load. The night before, I had posted to a soccer message board to get a list of recommended pubs for watching the game in the company of other Arsenal supporters. I checked the board to see if there were any final words of advice. A local informed me that the game would not be televised in the UK, and suggested I go to Emirates Stadium instead to watch the FA Youth Cup semi-final against Manchester United. Tickets would still be available; they expected a crowd of 20,000.

I had my coat on in six seconds and was out the door. The game had a 7 PM kick-off, and the Arsenal stop on the Tube required one transfer. It was already 6:30 and I still needed a ticket. I raced past the crowds on Oxford Street (Londoners are no match for New Yorkers when it comes to speed walking) but came to a slamming halt into the person in front of me at the corner of Regent Street. A yellow light flashed in the Underground’s entrance, and nobody was allowed to move past. I waited impatiently for five minutes, and when nothing happened, I turned on my heels and raced towards Tottenham Court station.

Once I secured a spot on the Piccadilly train, I had a moment to catch my breath. I noticed a boy, aged eight or nine, with big brown eyes framed with long eyelashes looking at me from across the aisle. He had a burgundy Arsenal Youth scarf tied expertly around his neck; he held a pen in his right hand and what must’ve been an autograph book covered with hearts in the other. His dutiful father stood next to him on the train; it is likely he rushed home from work to take his son to the game. The boy looked to be of African-Caucasian descent, based on his father’s darker skin tone. His delicate features resembled those of Theo Walcott. He was beautiful. Father and son did not speak, but an air of warmth and closeness emanated from them. I could tell by the father’s body language that he was keeping an eye out for his son. When a couple of fat, hooligan-wannabe teenagers in track suits boarded the train smelling of fast food and cigarettes, the father shifted his position so that his body blocked these eyesores from his son’s view. I remembered The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup mentioning that many young boys around the world have their first football awakening when they are eight or nine. I felt lucky to catch just a glimpse of that development, with a father introducing his son to a great tradition.

“Next stop, Arsenal,” announced the automated train message. Everyone piled out, and we began the climb through the tunnels of the station. I began to worry. The hooligan-wannabe types with bad haircuts were everywhere. I noticed the father and son were almost out of sight. How did that boy move so quickly? Did they hurry because we had missed kick-off, or because it was unsafe? Among the Thugs was still fresh in my mind, and visions of steel pipes and chants of “Wogs out!” filled my head. I had also read in the papers that there were several stabbings and violence following the Chelsea-Tottenham game on Sunday. I picked up the pace until the father and son came back into view.

Soon the crowd grew, and I realized I had nothing to worry about. People just wanted to watch the game. As I crossed a bridge, Emirates Stadium came into view. I heard the roar of the crowd, reacting to what was happening on the pitch. I, too, was eager to get inside. I found the box office, bought a ticket for ten quid, and walked through the turnstiles.

Seating was unreserved, but most of the lower sections were full. I went up another level and found a seat. I couldn’t believe I was there. During the interval, I walked briskly to the lower level. I had spotted some seats very close to the pitch, and I was determined to make one mine.

I found a fantastic seat about six rows from the pitch. In any other circumstance, I would never, ever get a seat this good. The action resumed. The chants and songs began. A group across the stadium started the Wave. People participated with gusto. It was the longest-running Wave I had ever witnessed; it made the US-Mexico Wave seem like child's play. Each time the next ripple approached, the crowd stamped their feet, creating a thunderous rumble. Then we stood up, shouted, and sat down again.

The energy was incredible. There’s nothing quite like seeing a match live. Television deceives; you cannot grasp the speed, dexterity, and violence with which players move on the pitch. The two men behind me analyzed the moves of #9 and #4 and went through a brief history of the Arsenal youth team. The father and sons to my left started to chant “Arsenal! Arsenal!” The dad stood up and yelled, “Come on, boys!” It might as well have been Henry and team out on the pitch from the way the crowd cheered.

Over 38,000 people attended the match, a record attendance for a Youth game. I joined in the chanting of “Arsenal! Arsenal!” and then…goooooool! Everyone was on his feet cheering and clapping. I was so close to the pitch that I could see clearly the features of each player. I realized, at that moment, that I was starving. So I peeled the orange from “Pyramid (Soul City)” and consumed it rapidly. Arsenal beat Manchester United 1-0. I had never tasted fruit so sweet and delicious.

To be continued...

London Fields

This morning I met two Germans in a Soho café. I was sipping my latte, minding my own business in an efficient New York manner, and figuring out the day’s plan when the man interrupted: "That is a very small mobile." It’s true. I have the world’s smallest mobile (I will post a photograph when I get home). Think of that SNL skit in which Will Ferrell snootily opens up a microscopic mobile. The device has inspired anger, surprise, and curiosity during my brief trip.

We began chatting about London and New York. Within minutes I knew the intimate details of this man’s life (number of sexual partners he’s had