Hej hej, København

A friend told me that an update in my neglected travel blog would be better late than never. It is my last night in Copenhagen. I just called five taxi companies, then finally asked Ask, a Dane who lives in my apartment, what the automated message on one of the lines was saying. I have now successfully reserved a cab to take me on the first leg of a journey back to a country where I understand when I am being put on hold.

This morning, I walked my friends Marlo and Rachel down to the bus stop in our neighborhood to say goodbye. For four months of our lives, we have lived in Copenhagen. The CPR cards, imprinted with our Danish social security numbers, prove it. I made a last trip alone today to Amalienborg Slot, the winter home of the Danish royal family. It is near Kongens Nytorv, just a short bus ride from where I live in Østerbro, just down the street from the hotel where my mom and sister had stayed. My long overdue visit to the castle began at exactly noon, when the Danish Royal Life Guard was changing the guard. Two policewomen on horses stopped traffic as guards in tall plush hats marched by with french horns and tubas on their chests. I grabbed for my camera. It was worth looking like a tourist. I will never see this in Boston or in Waterville, I thought. This was something distinctly Danish: proud, reliable, nationalistic. The movement of a fairy tale through modern city streets.

Tomorrow I will be back in Newton. I hope that I remember some of the Danish I have learned.

The beginning of Paris

I am in North Umberland, a dormitory of the London School of Economics in Trafalgar Square. The London Eye, Westminster Abbey, Covent Gardens, the National Portrait Gallery, and even Big Ben can all be seen in a brisk half-hour walk. My friend Abby has just gone for a day trip to Oxford and Blenham. This leaves me with a strawberry yogurt, her meticulous room, and a few hours to think about where I've been for the past week.

Last Saturday, I returned to Copenhagen from my academic study tour to Berlin and Poznan, Poland. After completing a 12-hour overnight bus-ferry-bus ride, we sleepily dragged our suitcases over the Danish cobblestones to our respective bus and Metro stops. DIS pays for the transportation passes that allow us to travel from home to school each day--or at least siphons off a bit of our parents' money for this purpose--but all of our passes had expired while we were in Germany. As we waited at Norreport station, we each practiced different contortions of fingers and wrists that would obscure the card's expiration date. The generosity of Danish socialism and the fear of the steep fine we might incur, however, eventually drove us to drop the $4 worth of Danish kroner to get home.

Nearly every DIS student had returned to Copenhagen that weekend, each of them with a suitcase of dirty laundry. My own wad of whites and colors somehow made it into one of the washing machines in the basement of my apartment by the afternoon. That evening, a few girls and I celebrated my friend Rachel's 21st birthday, the fifth anniversary of reaching legal drinking age in Denmark. Fighting fatigue, my friend Marlo and I stayed up until two in the morning to talk about what we'd seen and done while abroad in the last week.

Sundays in Osterbro hum with a quiet vigor. I spent my morning in my favorite way, walking through Faelledparken, Copenhagen's "Central Park" which abuts the FC Kobenhavn Stadium, which a 10-kroner chocolate croissant in my hand. Each time I walk down the park's paths, I seem always to see a father running beside a wobbling toddler on a two-wheeler, a woman with a cane and a wrinkled smile, and a senior citizen in spandex who is clearly able to jog farther than I am. I wandered through the neighborhood for a few hours before saying a few goodbyes and riding the Metro to the Copenhagen airport for my flight to Paris.

Many trips to the duty-free shop and a two-hour flight later, I arrived in Charles de Gaulle airport. Through my nine words of French, the taxi driver's knowledge of the city, and my friend Meredith's descriptive text messages, I somehow made it to La Bastille. "Mon amie!" I exclaimed as Meredith appeared in the window of the cab. "Mon petit amie," I said again, but Meredith corrected me. "That's not 'my small friend.' That means my boyfriend."

Mer and I shared dinner at midnight with all the other petit amies at La Bastille. We walked--quietly, blindly, so as to avoid the wrath of her host mother--into her host family's apartment. The home is covered in arrays of mismatched mirrors, bold floral wallpaper, and shelves of unused perfume bottles. (The French affection for eau de perfum is ironic because, well, French people really don't smell all that fragrant.) We snuggled into Meredith's double bed, covering only three-quarters of it.

The next morning, we visited the Pompidou, the national museum of modern art. The building is constructed with its insides on the outside, the water mains and pipes snaking over its exterior walls. The concrete slab of courtyard outside the entrance has improbably become a trendy place to eat lunch and catch wireless. The inside has two main floors of modern and contemporary works. One wide hall courses through each floor, with small tributaries and themed rooms that diverge from its edges. The museum had space to move, but I kept finding myself in the same room twice or walking through exhibits the opposite direction of other people. (That experience should not be attributed to the design of the museum. In fourth grade, I instinctively roller-skated counter-clockwise, right into the faces and knees of the rink's other patrons.)

I had a lunch of baguettes and elephant ears with my friend Caitlin, whom I traveled with to Amsterdam last month, and our friends Melissa and Evan, who also go to Colby. Caitlin showed me to Rue de la Rennes, a shopping street from which my sister had requested a pair of patent leather ballet flats. The gravity of my mission did not preclude me from checking out every other boutique on the avenue, reaching the street's end, and then searching for the department store, Le Bon Marche. By eight o'clock, I exhaustedly wound my way back to Meredith. We settled on a Mediterranean dinner and a late night helping of creme brulee.

I have an entire day of Paris and three in London left to write about. But for now I must go finish packing before I meet one of my oldest friends for lunch. I leave for short trip to Edinburgh, Scotland tonight. I'll continue writing the very next time I get a chance. Of course, pictures will follow when I'm back in Copenhagen.

For now, I must thank all of the people who have been so hospitable to me in the past week: Meredith, Caitlin, Abby, my friend Will. I must thank all of my friends' friends, who have been welcoming and generous. Thanks as well to all of the strangers who have pointed me in the right direction, had patience with my American English, and even covered the cost of my coffee on the plane. Thank you to my parents, my sister, and my brother for traveling beside me, I feel, as I discover so many little pieces of Europe.

Berlin, Germany and Poznan, Poland

Poland's pre-war Jewish population of 3.9 million people has shriveled to just 300. The Holocaust is not mentioned in any Polish public high school curriculum. Konstanty Gebert, founder of the Polish-Jewish magazine, Midrasz writes that, “The word 'Jew' still cuts conversation at the dinner table. People freeze.” With this knowledge, not only of Polish history but of citizens' stalwart attitude toward Jewish people, I prepared for my tour of a nation of ghosts.

Each one of DIS' academic programs has its own week-long European study tour. The Migration and Multiculturalism program traveled to Latvia and Lithuania; the Psychology and Child Development Program spent the week in the Netherlands; and the Medical Practice and Policy program I'm in traveled first to Berlin, Germany and then to Poznán, Poland. Lines from children's books like "Friedrich" and images of emaciated prisoners inside concentration camp bunkers projected themselves boldly into my consciousness during our busride to Germany. I wanted to bury again these details of history, to prevent them from blinding my perception of the present. I worried what I would feel when we arrived. If I wondered constantly, "What some time warp turned the year back to 1940?" or "Will people walking on the street know I am a Jew?", I risked ruining what was basically meant to be a vacation.

Our first stop in Germany was in Oranienburg, at the Saschenhausen forced labor camp. There we typed the numbers of the camps' different sites—07, Infirmary or 11, The Gallows—into handheld audio devices through which a robotic woman's voice told us how many prisoners might be housed at one time or where prisoners might line up to be shot. We listened to stories of genocide spoken in the voice of someone perhaps literally non-human. While visiting Auschwitz, Birkenau, and Majdanek last summer, I often was struck silent with sadness or nausea. But in Saschenhausen, I felt angry. I felt less connected to my own experience. And after my friend Dan and I walked through the mass graves and an exhibit on Nazi medical experimentation, I felt like I wanted to get back on the bus.

When we arrived in West Berlin, my pre-occupation with history was dwarfed by metallic skyscrapers and drowned out by the whooshing of speeding cars. We had dinner at Unsicht Bar, where one of the restaurant's blind servers lead you to a pitch black room and serve you food that you can't see. We hung spoons from our noses, ate with our hands, and lifted our shirts all to the oblivion of our tablemates. We visited the Max Planck Institute for Molecular Genetics, where scientists are researching the genetic mechanisms of several syndromes, including mental retardation. We visited Berlin's Jewish Museum, which was designed by Daniel Libeskind, the architect of Copenhagen's Jewish Museum and the Freedom Tower, which will be built as a memorial to the World Trade Center in New York. The museum does not focus on the Holocaust, but rather on the story of Jews in Germany from medieval times until now. I was impressed with the scope of the museum and particularly delighted to find that the work of Charlotte Salomon, one of my favorite artists, was on exhibition. Charlotte Salomon was a German Jew who studied art in Berlin before World War II. At age 21, she entered into hiding in France with her grandparents, where she created a series of over 1300 painted panels of a work that translates to, "Life? Or Theater?" The story is scored with German music which Salomon also wrote herself. She was murdered in Auschwitz while seven months pregnant. To me, her paintings are a living reminder of the triumph of spirit and creativity over fear and madness.

As you can tell, I'm rushing through the retelling of the trip. I want to write so much more about Berlin and Poland, but I'm actually about to leave for the airport to fly to Paris tonight. I think I'll have to resume this entry or write a lengthier one soon. In short, my whole experience in Berlin and Poznán was more fulfilling and fun than I had ever imagined before stepping on the bus. I discovered firsthand the answer to my question about what it is to be Jewish in countries that only 60 years ago worked to exterminate Jewish culture and religion. Now I have begun to ask new questions.

Here are some of my pictures from last week:

Berlin, Germany
Poznán, Poland

I will try to write from Paris. Until then.

Late night photo stream of consciousness

Tomorrow morning at 8:15 I will board a bus to Berlin, Germany. At the eight-hour mark of the journey, we will pause for a tour of Sachsenhausen, a Nazi forced labor camp in Oranienburg. It seems that this year I cannot help but live and relive the memory of the Holocaust. Maybe I should go to sleep right now to prepare. It is 1:31. But in the past two days, I have been trying to absorb as much culture in CPH—that's what the cool kids call it—as I can, and I'm excited to share what I've seen. When I write at night, it's usually incoherent. That said, I present instead a captioned tour through my favorite photos.

Last night was Copenhagen's Kulturnatten, The Night of Culture. Nearly all of the museums, national buildings, and music venues are open all night to anyone wearing an event badge, which costs only 75 Danish kroner. (The exchange rate is about 5.4 DKK : 1 USD.) I met my friends Marlo, Jo, and Rachael at the København Zoo, where we drank Newcastle beer, peeked into the pens of nocturnal animals, and tried to work the nighttime modes on our cameras.

The flamingos, whose elegance cannot be captured with a point-and-shoot


The arse of an ursus maritimus

What had been advertised as "live music" was actually a children's choir

We rode a bus back to Rådhusplasen, the city center, where we visited city hall in search of more culture and pancakes. No such luck. But they did have public toilets.


The Danish flag

Most Kulturnatten events end around midnight. Our last visit was to Rundetaaren, the Round Tower. Inside, a spiral ramp winds its way up 36-meter tower, which has one of the best observatories in Copenhagen.


The tower also hosts modern art exhibits



And good places to hide

Today, I visted the Ny Carlsberg Glypotek, a private art collection owned by Carl Jacobsen, who owned Denmark's own Carlsberg Brewery. The museum is beside Tivoli, a stately marble building with mosaic floors and elaborate ceilings. Two staircases diverge from the entry hall, each one leading to various ancient and modern permanent exhibits. The main modern wing, home to several Van Goghs, seemed to be sealed off this afternoon. I spent most of my time looking at ancient Greek sculptures and relaxing in the winter garden, an atrium in the very center of the museum.


From the sculpture garden

A favorite room of ancient Greek busts

I realized how little I know about art when I visited the Glypotek. I feel uncultured and imprecise for not being able to provide even the name of this work in my entry. Instead, you'll just have to appreciate it as I did: quietly.

I will do my best to write as I travel in the next few weeks. Tomorrow, my exploration of western Europe begins.

Bad luck lakris

I took a break from studying for midterms today to go to Tiger, Denmark's shabby chic 10-kroner store. After stocking up on a few toiletries for my study tour, I grabbed a bag of large cola bottle-shaped sucking candies on impulse at the register. I popped one in my mouth as I walked back to the the bus stop in Radhusplasen, the city center. Cola? Nej nej. The whole thing was coated in black licorice powder.

Danes are serious about their licorice. This was the real too coarse to bite, salt-coated, nostril-burning flavor that Scandinavian candy is apparently known for. By the time I realized how badly I wanted to spit the thing out, I was already on the bus, a place which has strange and strict rules of decorum, especially concerning food. Spitting it out in front of a car full of middle-aged Danes didn't seem to be an option. After a few stops, I had sucked all of the powder off of the candy. The optimist in me insisted that maybe it was constructed like a Warhead—coated in a tortorous outer layer with a rewardingly sweet inside.

Wrong. Inside, the licorice flavor only got stronger. So I bit the whole candy in half, desperately hoping to finish it. The candy, which was still the size of my whole palate, began to fizz wildly with an unexplainably strong salt flavor. The Danish guy I'd smiled at across the bus looked mildly appalled when he noticed my face now contorting in nausea. I was even beginning to consider following the example of my neighbor, who one weekend puked into the "free newspaper" tote bag that hangs behind the driver. I decided to just get it over with. I swallowed the whole candy. The taste lingered on my tongue, throat, and nose until my stop. I have never been so excited to brush my teeth. Which begs the question, why the hell do Danish supermarkets sell licorice-flavored toothpaste?

Now I'm stuck with a bag of giant cola-shaped pieces of poison in my kitchenette. I've offered one to every person who has come to my room tonight. And this is how we know we've become expert in Danish culture: No one has said yes.

Photos: Public links for those who don't have Facebook

I'll continue posting some photos directly in my blog, but if you're feeling bored here are a few albums to look through.

From downtown København to rural Aalborg
My first few weeks in Copenhagen, with pictures of The Little Mermaid, Tivoli, and my short study tour to Århus and Aalborg

København and more, Vol. II
Pictures from the Frihedsmuseet, the museum of Danish resistance, the botanical garden, the Lousiana, and more

Undutchables: Caitlin and Nina in Amsterdam
A few more shots from Amsterdam, mostly of us eating junk food, drinking pot tea, and wearing the same clothing

The biggest dinner in Denmark
A faux photo essay chronicling the dinner my friends Rachel, Marlo, Jo, and Jo's friend Janna made last night in Norrebro

Enjoy!

To understand

At one o'clock in the morning on Sunday night, I hurled my backpack onto a seat of a taxi outside the airport and grunted to the driver: "Hej. Can you take me to Tåsingegade? It's off of Jagtvej, in Østerbro." Or at least that's what I thought I said. Six weeks into my semester in Denmark, however, my pronunciation of even the street I live on eludes native Danish speakers. Just the way I say, "hej," which sounds almost identical to an English, "hi," immediately marks me as an American. I handed the driver a card with my address typed on it. "Oh, Østerbro. OK."

In Amsterdam, my eyes lit up at the site of any Dutch word that resembled something in my limited Danish vocabulary. I proudly pronounced to Caitlin, the friend I traveled with, that a bus with, "reis" on its side was probably related to transport because "rejse" means travel in Danish. Also, it was a bus. That bolstered my linguistic hunch. Great, I thought. I'm thinking at the level of a two year old.

What I am learning, if not fluent Danish, is how to survive in a world where drivers and doctors and the people sitting next to me in cafés seem to be speaking in code. Caitlin, who is studying in Paris for the semester, has been studying French since high school. She is living in a French host family where she is never allowed to speak English, not even to the other American student in the house. Caitlin humbly explained that French people have asked her if she's Spanish, told her that she pronounces words too perfectly, told her that she sounds like a southern hillbilly—but I am dazzled by the way that she interacts with French people every day in their own language. I think it felt strange for her to hear an announcement on the train and not understand a word, while I have become accustomed to constantly eavesdropping without ever understanding.

Amsterdam's city center is crammed with international tourists, so most people who work nearby had no difficulty assisting us. When we asked for directions or explanations, we received and understood them. Most people in Denmark can speak some English, but they only use it when they are speaking directly to someone who can't understand Danish. Just as they are proud of their national identity, Danes are proud of their language. I've been told, though, that those who only speak Danish are thereby limited to travel within only other Scandinavian countries. If an international traveler can only speak one language, it might as well be English. That's as close as it comes to Esperanto right now. I manage as unilinguist, but it's a little frustrating.

I can't help but feel that Caitlin's experience, like the experience of anyone forced to speak the language of the country they're studying in, is somehow more authentic. An American friend who lives in my apartment told me this week that he's fallen in love with Copenhagen. He is even considering living here after he graduates this year, he said. Another friend, Marlo, told me that she's begun to consider going to graduate school for architecture in Copenhagen. We have all been charmed by Denmark's beauty and life. But aren't we just admiring her from afar? Would we really know what we'd be in for if we began to establish a life here?

Undutchable

My flight to Amsterdam left at 8:00 am on Saturday morning and I returned to Copenhagen on Monday at 2:00 am—more than five hours later than expected. I've been trying to catch up on sleep and homework ever since. I plan to write a more substantial post about my weekend in Holland with Caitlin soon. For now, here's my favorite photo. (Notice, please, that we are wearing the same jacket.)

High brow, low brow, and totally bizarre

Copenhagen is home to only 1.1 million people, most of whom are tall, blonde, and native to Denmark. Because of the socialized government's pension system, the citizens' social and economic statuses are far less stratified than in most US cities. As one medical student explained to me, Danes' even widely agree on most political and cultural matters. Improbably, then, from this small country of similar people, a diverse modern culture has flourished.

On Wednesdays, no DIS classes are scheduled. Most students instead have to attend on-site academic "study tours." For some reason my classes require very few of these, so I've began my own series of weekly Danish enlightenment programs. This Wednesday, I think I saw the country from cultural top to bottom, sliding from the most urbane modern art museum in the country, the Louisiana—to a "36th birthday party" in Christiana, where a communal bong was being hauled through the streets by wheelbarrow.

Tina Turner, singer, New York, June 13, 1971
One of my favorites from the Louisiana's Richard Avedon exhibit

(Which begs the question, how does a Dane feel upon seeing the work of Avedon, whose portraits of celebrities, artists, and vagabonds depict a distinctly American identity?)



The Lousiana's sculpture garden

As I mentioned before, you can't take pictures in Christiania without someone angrily shouting "Nej! Nej!" at you through the crowd, so this photo of our Danish friend Ask waiting to cross the street the Christianhavn will have to do.


Ask, waiting to cross the street in Christianhavn
My most recent cultural experience was one that I can hardly comprehend, let alone classify. The physician who teaches my Human Health and Disease class announced that today a beach party—with the crown prince as its guest of honor—would celebrate the opening of the new Metro stop at Copenhagen Airport. After class, my friend Katie and I hopped on the train to check it out.

As we reached the our stop, rain hammered on the roof of the car and a horde of twelve-year-olds pushed past us toward the concert. We decided to stay on the train and check out another Metro-related event, this one offering free food. There we found free beer, some strange creamy goulash being sold out of striped tents, and a handful of men and women dressed in white facepaint and old-fashioned clothes. Although we both feared that maybe we had taken the train to some strange carnie hell, the alcohol settled in our empty stomachs and we asked our new zombie friends to take pictures with us.



...I don't get it either.

The next best thing to Europe by Eurail

After typing out my debit number a dozen times and having an angry conversation with a representative at the Slovakian headquarters of SkyEurope this afternoon, it's done. I have booked all of the travel arrangements for my study tour!

Sunday, October 14 - Wednesday, October 17: Berlin, Germany
Wednesday, October 17 - Saturday, October 20: Poznan, Poland
Saturday, October 20: One night in Copenhagen
Sunday, October 21 - Wednesday, October 24: Paris, France
Wednesday, October 24 - Saturday, October 27: London, England
Saturday, October 27 - Monday, October 29: Edinburgh, Scotland
Monday, October 29 - Friday, November 2: Prague, Czech Republic

I'll also be spending this weekend in Amsterdam with my divine friend Caitlin, who is studying in Paris for the semester.

Aside from the obvious sites, any suggestions of things I should visit in each city?

Playing doctor

I spent this Sunday at Amager Hospital, swimming in a white coat with a nametag that read, "Læge Jesper Hansen" and a stethoscope that apparently belonged to "Lisabeth" hanging from my shoulders. Feeling both like a doctor and a little girl dressed in grown-up clothes, I followed young physicians around a Danish "acute care" ward.

As far as I know, this department does not have an equivalent in most American hospitals. Danish emergency rooms are responsible for seeing patients who require immediate stabilization or services such as suturing. Because general practitioners are closed after four o'clock and on weekends as well, I think, patients with minor ailments also show up at the ER. Everyone who is stable but may require hospitalization is sent to acute care. There, physicians collect full and recent histories; record the information on microcassettes that the secretaries later transcribe; order blood tests, ultrasounds, and CT scans; and ultimately decide whether or not the patient needs to be admitted for hospitalization.

The time I spent in the ward was a little like a dream: What I saw made concrete sense in each moment, but because all of the interviews and exams were conducted in Danish, the words spun around me in an absurd haze. I actually think that because all of the patients' words were inaccessible to me, I had to be more attuned to what I saw. I noticed scars and colors and equipment in the rooms that I don't think I otherwise would have. And like in a dream, these vivid details began to construct their own reality. What could be more real than the patients who generously shared their lives and bodies with the doctors and me—some strange, small American girl?

After every consultation, the doctors patiently reiterated to me what each patient had said. We often played a game of fill-in-the-blank, in which a doctor would begin to describe a patient's symptomatology or treatment, then reach a word for which he or she did not know the English translation. "So, you can see that the T wave is depressed on this ECG," one doctor began. "And that's evident of ischemic heart disease. If it's bad enough, we'll have to, oh, do the thing with the—" His hands ballooned outwards. "The, uh, stunt? The—?" "An angioplasty!" I'd squeal. Every time I began to I feel as though I were doing more harm than good, getting under everyone's feet as the ward got busy, and demanding time for English explanations, another doctor would ask if I wanted to accompany him or her to an interesting consult. And this is how the three hours I was meant to spend in Amager Hospital stretched into, well, eight.

Upon my arrival back at Tåsingegade, my friend Marlo made me a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs. It was the best meal I've had in Copenhagen. Overall, this weekend was my favorite in Denmark so far. The hospital isn't the best place for photos, so I'll leave you instead with a few from the botanical garden near my apartment in Østerbro. I'm a lucky girl.

And while we're on the subject of anatomy, one final photo in the style of Georgia O'Keeffe.

A few crumbs of Danish

Colby requires that I take an introductory Danish class while studying at DIS. Most young Danes, particularly those working in stores or restaurants, can speak English and are eager to chat with Americans. I've tried ordering a cup of coffee in Danish, but most of my usage is still limited to saying "thanks" and "excuse me" on the street. After a few weeks of class, though, some of the phlegmmy soft "R" sounds and swallowed ends of words are actually beginning to make a tiny bit of sense. This morning I gave a presentation on my family in class. All I have to post here is the text—unfortunately I can't figure out how to upload an audio file to my blog yet—which is a shame, because written and spoken Danish are almost like two completely different languages. If I master technology and a few more sweet gutteral sounds, you may get the chance to laugh at my accent in a later post.

In the meantime, "Min Familie":

Det er min familie. Min far, Joseph, bor i et hus med min mor i Newton, Massachusetts. Han kommer fra New York. Han er en læge på en hospital hvor han arbejder med børn. Han ser fjernsyn hver aftenen. Min mor, Mindy, kommer ogsa fra New York. Hun er en sygeplejerske. Hun er ogsa en lærer på universitetet. Charterferie kan hun godt. På billedet, hun er i Alaska med min far. Min søster, Jessica, er 27. Hun bor i en lejlighed i New York City med hendes kæreste, Josh. Hun arbejder på Liz Lange, en modeskaber. Kunst kan hun godt. Vi taler i telefon om omsdagen og i weekenden. Min bror, Carl, er 24. Han bor i en lejlighed i New Jersey. Han læser medicin på universitetet “Robert Wood Johnson.” Han har en kæreste somme hedder Jess. Han laver mad hver dag. Mit hund, Pablo, er en år. Han bor i et hus med mine forældre. Han er sort og hvid. Han arbejder ikke.

The last four sentences can be translated as:

My dog, Pablo, is one year old. He lives in a house with my parents. He is black and white. He does not have a job.

The rest is yours to freely interpret or copy into an online translator. Hej hej!

Top ten things I miss in the US

In no particular order:

10) Picking up a free copy of a newspaper I can understand every morning at breakfast
9) My hot pink terry cloth bathrobe
8) "Big Love" (although it was on in Danish the other night at the 10 kroner bar)
7) Riding the T, then scouring Missed Connections for my own description
6) Liz Doran
5) Big G's sandwiches (specifically the Captain Bluetooth and Richard Simmons, of course)
4) Improving my game at Sacco's Bowl Haven
3) Page Commons dances
2) My family
1) Sunday brunch in Foss just before 11:00

Learning to play

We made another (mercifully bike-free) stop on our study tour at Børnehaven Østerladen, a Danish childcare center in northern Jutland. Although Børnehaven directly translates to "kindergarten," this piece of abandoned farmland is unlike any kindergarten I've ever seen. The kids, all three through six, tromped freely through pools of mud until every one of their neon rain suits was coated in brown. Some of the boys were playing a game that involved swinging branches of trees at each others' heads. I saw one girl fall headfirst off of the back of the monkey bars then stand up, look a little dizzy, shake it off, stumble for a few steps, and run away. Pens of chickens and free-ranging goats roam alongside the kids. We spent only a short time at the kindergarten and I'm sure that the presence a group of thirty tall, mostly dark-haired people asking, "Hvad hedder du?" and "Hvor gammel er du?" again and again in bastardized Danish wasn't calming the playground mood. But coming from a city where kids now experience flora as a pit of colored rubber mulch, Børnehaven Østerladen seemed fresh, wild, and kind of a great idea.

Of course the whole Montessori model is built on the idea that "play is the work of children." In most American daycares and pre-schools, though, free play is punctuated by classroom lessons. In Østerladen, one teacher explained to me, the kids play all day. They're too young, she said, to benefit from lectures on reading and math. Rather they cultivate independence, social skills, and creativity just by romping around together outside every day. In a basic sense, I'm still undecided about which approach to early childhood education makes more sense to me. Maybe it's a goodness of fit issue. In the largely individualist American context, acceptance to the 92nd St. Y can seem like the only way to achieve success in this world. Because of Denmark's socialist government and regard for the welfare of all, this country assumes a more collectivistic outlook. Eventually, these kids will begin public school, where they'll learn grammar and long division and English. Then they'll go to university, for free. Finally these kids in the mud will grow up to work 37-hour work weeks and take five weeks of vacation every year. I guess learning to play in Denmark is an essential lifelong skill.

So how was the bike ride?

The surburban plot where my family has lived for twenty-four years is always changing to accomodate our newest tastes and hobbies. Twelve years ago a stately Japanese maple was planted in the center of the front lawn, around the same time a basketball key was painted in the driveway, and almost ten years ago plastic sheets temporarily replaced plaster walls as an entire second floor was added to the house. What never changed was where we were: at the apex of a concrete ski slope, hemmed in between dense woods and a dead end. Right on the edge of the worst place in the world for a kid to learn to ride a bike.

My mom used to let me rollerblade on our hardwood floors because, I think, she was afraid of what might happen if I went off of our property on wheels. Until I was in high school, potholes that filled like ponds pockmarked the whole street. Because biking around the neighborhood wasn't an option, my dad used to take me out to parking lots and playgrounds occasionally to ride. But I lost interest at around age eleven and I can't remember getting on a bike since.

Copenhagen is a city with a cycle culture. As sixty-year-old women in high heels blow by me on their one-speeds as I wait for the bus in the morning, I just stare at their coattails in admiration. I was pretty content being a cyclist spectator until last week, when the coordinator of my Medical Practice and Policy program announced that we'd be going on a bike tour as a part of this weekend's study tour. After she finished, I went to speak to her privately.

"So how intense is this bike ride? Because, I, well, I can't really ride a bike." I rambled on that yes, okay, I had learned, and I know it's like riding a bike because it is riding a bike, but maybe I was never really good enough that you could call it, umm, knowing, exactly. I took a breath. In typical Danish fashion she responded, "You'll be fine."

On Thursday our study tour began. I nervously disclosed to a few people that I was dreading the ride. Saturday morning, an hour before the fearsome ride, we found out that we had the option of either biking or taking a taxi to Grenen, the beach where everyone on our program would meet that afternoon. Instead of relief, though, determination surged inside of me. I had been too nervous for too long to not try. I rented a bike with the rest of my group and dragged it into the parking lot.

Even with the seat sunk to its lowest setting, I couldn't manage to get both feet to touch the ground while I stood over my new bike. Sophie, the Danish medical student who accompanied us on the study tour, was watching me from the side of the lot. She recommended that I go back to the rental center to get a helmet and a child's bicycle. I returned with both. With Garik—a kind classmate of mine who expected that I might need thirty seconds of practice before heading to Grenen—standing beside me, I tried to take off on the smaller bike. Ten feet, okay. Twenty, and I had no idea what to do. I slowed down, swerved, put my feet on the ground, and watched the metal basket pop off of the back of the bike as the handlebars crashed to the ground.

As I righted myself by the side of a dumpster, Garik, Sophie, and a DIS intern named Libby were conferencing. The girls who had decided to take a taxi had already left. I could walk to Skagen, but by the time I arrived, the rest of the group would likely be heading back for lunch already. What was I supposed to do? Libby and Garrick, who I imagine felt somewhat relieved, jetted out of the parking lot. Sophie walked up to me. "You're doing great," she said. "But I have an idea. Would you like to ride on a tandem bicycle?"

We rode the three kilometers together on one bike, from that parking lot to the beach. Sophie narrated the whole ride, telling me about the hearty flowers that we passed and asking about US politics. "This is fun!" she even exclaimed as we pedaled. We showed up in style and on time to Grenen: the very point where the waves of the North and Baltic Seas meet above the northern tip of Jutland. The two shores narrow until they finally converge, drawing together waters carried by opposite winds into a sparkling ribbon of water.

What was most magical about the whole experience was that Sophie made me feel proud for trying to ride a bike rather than embarrassed for not exactly knowing how. In a way, this attitude is distinctly Danish. Children here are not academically tracked until the university level; apparently few differences in ability or skill are even acknowledged inside schools at all. Even disabled children are, for the most part, mainstreamed. I think the idea is that if everyone is included and expected to learn, they will. Individual challenges can be handled, even when the individual needs a little help. Furthermore, problems are not seen as something to be solved, but rather something to experience. Seeking solutions is, like most things in Denmark, a pretty stress-free endeavor.

On the way back from Grenen, Sophie, Libby, and I—I was attached the back of Sophie's bike, after all—stopped at a grocery store to buy snacks for that night's bus ride to Copenhagen. As we loaded thirty-six bottles of water onto the two bikes, Libby asked Sophie if she thought we could carry all the extra weight. "Oh, of course. I've ridden with 90 beers on my bike before," Sophie answered casually as she finished packing the two metal baskets.

Christiania, the 40-year "Social Experiment"

Last Monday, between Biomedical Ethics and a dinner for students in the Medical Practice and Policy program, my new friend Katie and I explored Christiania. In the 1960s, this neighborhood outside downtown Copenhagen housed a military base. When the base was abandoned, a community of young people moved in and founded a commune. The community is still vibrant and popular today, although I think the population has diminished since its establishment. (Someone told me that you need to be invited to live there, but I'm not sure if it's true.) The Danish government regards Christiania as a continued "social experiment," a label which somehow has allowed a streetful of vendors to continue selling pot from wooden carts for the past forty years.

(Sorry, you're prohibited from taking pictures on "Pusher Street.")

Aside from the obvious sites, Christiania's attractions are kind of limited. Feeling a little disappointed after all hype we'd heard in the halls of DIS, Katie and I wandered back to the Christianhavn metro station. Across the street, we found a bakery flooded with young mothers and giant strollers, selling the most beautiful pastries I've ever seen.


So, we went all the way to a open weed market and all we bought were some gourmet munchies.

Nearby Travels

On Thursday morning, I head to Århus in northern Jutland on a three-day study tour with my Human Health and Disease class!



We'll be meeting general practitioners, visiting a kindergarten class, touring modern art museums and...

...going on a 3 kilometer bike tour.

The first time I've sat down to think about this

During the start of World War II, Denmark boldly declared neutrality. When the Nazis invaded the country and threatened to bomb Copenhagen, however, the small nation soon acquiesced. As the Germans began to reorganize and control the Danish government, citizens' animosity against the Nazis swelled. A clandestine army, comprised of thousands of ordinary Danes, eventually formed to support the Allies. Meanwhile, in 1943 as the Nazis prepared to expel Danish Jewry, the nation managed to smuggle seven thousand of these Jews to Sweden. Legend has it that Christian X, who served during the war, wore a Star of David on his sleeve in a brave show of solidarity for his countrymen. At a time when most European nations ignored or betrayed the Jewish people who were so enmeshed in their societies, Denmark's government uniquely worked to saved their lives.

The courage of the Danish people continues to inspire hope and pride in humanity. But as a new Jewish year begins, this piece of history—like all stories from the Holocaust—falls farther into the past. I believe that Jews have an obligation to bear witness and never forget the Shoah. So too, though, are we obligated to keep moving, keep living, and enjoy what we have in a time of relative comfort and beauty. But how is it possible to simultaneously create and recall devastation?

This summer, on a Taglit March of the Living trip, I spent five days in Poland visiting Auschwitz labor camp, Birkenau and Madjanek death camps, and the Warsaw and Krakow ghettos with a group of forty American eighteen to twenty-seven year olds. On our first morning, we drove five hours from Krakow to Lublin, where we stopped at Auschwitz. Our tour bus pulled up beside a row of identical coaches, each with tourists spilling down the carpeted stairs, racing toward the public toilets. Polish teenagers in belly shirts crowded beside Chinese men snapping pictures of their wives while we waited for our tour guide. The windows of Auschwitz's gift shop glinted with metallic book jackets and figurines. I had known that it would be impossible to prepare for a trip to a concentration camp, but what I saw was simply the opposite of what I had imagined. The grounds were lush and green. A clear sky illuminated the photographs I took, betraying every feeling I had while pressing the shutter. Just breathing at Auschwitz felt like a contradiction. How could there be light and life, I wondered, inside a place of blackness?

The next four days in Poland did as all days do and went on, each one marching determinedly into the next oblivious to human concern. We drove from Krakow to Lublin to Warsaw, trying to contemplate Poland's role in World War II while staring into the Polish faces we saw on the streets. Each one of the three camps we saw that week revealed new horrors: The train tracks leading to Birkenau. The barbed wire that lined the gravel pathways. The bathhouse. The store of unopened gas canisters. The showerheads. The ovens. The mound of ashes and bone. The houses, still occupied, which lie only a few hundred meters away from Madjanek extermination camp.

As I witnessed each monument of death, however, something strange happened. I began to find light and life not an affront to suffering that had occurred, but as its only possible resolution.

Our tour guide, Zahava, who works at Yad Vashem throughout the year, imparted a tremendous amount of knowledge about what had occurred at the places we visited. Zahava's silences, though, often carried even more powerful than her explanations. On many occasions, she encouraged us to try to "rescue the faces" of those whose belongings or bunks we encountered. I soon began to find not only faces, but the faces of heroes.

Of all of the artifacts we saw, three stand out in my mind: a case of men's hair cream that was seized upon entry to Auschwitz, a tiny, meticulous chess set that a Jewish prisoner had constructed out of newspaper, and Charlotte Salamon's watercolors, a series of panels depicting a musical entitled "Life or Theater?" about her experiences before and during the war. These objects scream with life and autonomy. I came to see their ownership and creation as astounding acts of spirit. After leaving Poland, our group traveled to Israel, where for the first time we processed together what we had seen. One girl expressed disappointment in Jewish people during the Holocaust, arguing that they didn't act bravely enough or fight back against Nazi Germany. But Jews were stripped slowly of their homes, their jobs, their families, their food, their reason, their independence. How could we ask that they had better organized themselves or been physically fit enough to take arms against the SS? Every act of creation, I think, every statement that a person was not dead yet, was something heroic. The next night our group went on a disco boat cruise and after a few much-needed beers, everyone danced wildly—announcing in our way that we had made it, too.

After bearing witness to some of the darkness of the Shoah, I have emerged believing that the past is not to be forgotten but that the present is more important. The present will continue regardless of how often we stop to consider what has come before. Denmark's history, then, is liberating to me as Jewish person, but it does not seem to be central to Jewish life here. Savior is nice, but perseverating on it is only a reminder that the Jewish people needed to be saved. I have only been in Copenhagen a short time but already I have eaten Shabbat dinner with families from six different countries, met an orthodox girl visiting from Melbourne who is one of seventeen children and is busy promoting a movie about their lives, and toured Copenhagen with a Dane who proudly told me that everyone's favorite "ten kroner" store is owned by an Israeli. This is what Jewish life in Denmark feels like to me on this Rosh Hashanah.

I am still trying to figure out what components of the Jewish religion are important to me and how much of my identity is shaped by being a Jew. After all this traveling, what I am convinced of is that Judaism is alive and dynamic. Our complex past, contemporary and ancient, will forever shape religious and cultural Jewishness. But the Jews have survived, and the only possibility now is to continue surviving, to live. We must slick back our hair, play chess, or paint our lives. We must dance.

Happy New Year. Whether you're Jewish or not, September always feels like a fresh start.

Recent Excursions

If you click on the image, it expands to full-size.

(A special thanks to Mr. George White and Newton South's Official Newspaper, Denebola, without whom I would never have obtained free Photoshop software.)

One more thing

The photos taken for my city bus pass.

Some first thoughts on culture

Throughout the past week, I have learned enough Danish to navigate the meat aisle of the grocery store, ordered my first tryksnegel, and begun all of my classes. Each experience revealed a little more about the design and charm of Denmark. Initially I was focused on the similarities between Copenhagen and cities in the United States: Residents are wealthy and well-dressed, grocery stores and boutiques line the streetes of the suburb I live in, American movies are advertised on the billboards at the bus stops. Grasping these details helped me to connect with Copenhagen at a time when I expected to feel foreign. As I have become a little more comfortable, the differences between Danish and American culture that reveal themselves more readily.

The physician who is teaching my Human Health and Disease course provided a succint and beautiful description of the political system of Denmark. I know almost nothing about government, but I'll do my best to reiterate the points I found most relevant in a health care context. The government collects one of three levels of income tax from each citizen: low, medium, or high. Physicians fall into the high bracket, owing 56% of their income to the Danish government. The steep taxes pay for residency, education (from day care through graduate school, including medical school), health care, and other benefits. Disabled and chronically ill children are afforded not only hospital and home care, but special schools and medical equipment. Everyone over the age of 67 has a visiting caretaker assigned to them who aids in cleaning, bathing, and other chores. Nursing homes are provided for the elderly. No one is excepted. Even DIS students, once they collect their CPR or social security numbers at the local kommune, qualify for these provisions. The average work week for a Dane is 37 hours long, which explains why it's hard to find a cup of coffee at 8:00 am or 8:00 pm. Workers are required to take six weeks paid vacation, and new mothers and fathers have one year of maternity/paternity leave to share between them.

This regulated leisure leads an generally easy pace that can't be found in Boston or New York. Everyone stops at red lights. It's a serious fine, not to mention social taboo, to run across the crosswalk before the little green man lights up across the street. Because Danes seem to have everything taken care of, they can be perceived as standoffish or unwilling to hear the opinions of outsiders. Once you start talking, though, they seems to love to practice their English. I talked to some guy the other night who is designing silicon tweezers the size of chromosomes for his thesis at KU. (He knew a lot more English physics lingo than I do and clearly had a much better knowledge of fine American cinema, like Evan Almighty.) I think Danes are proud of the elegance of their country, but if you approach them, they become eager to make a connection.

Exploring the city alone or with friends has been a good way to get my bearings, but my classes will likely provide deeper insight into the Denmark's history and culture. My Danish class is headed to a few movies, a soccer game, and a Christmas lunch at the house of our teacher, Nina. (There are a lot of Ninas in Denmark. In every store or coffee shop I go into, I hear my name called, with the first syllable elongated and the second drawn to a quick halt.) The professor of my Jews in Europe course is bringing a famous Danish klezmer singer, a Holocaust documentary director, and the director of the Jewish Museum in Copenhagen to our classroom. My Human Health and Disease course meets twice a week at Amager Hospital, a general hospital on one of the southern islands of Denmark. Next week we'll be learning to take histories and conduct physical exams, an opportunity which is almost unavailable to undergraduates in the US.

I'm still in the "Honeymoon Period" on the U-curve of cultural adjustment. It's possible that my excitement could subside in the next few weeks. But considering our similar tastes and openness to each other's cultural differences, I think Denmark and I have a very happy marriage ahead of us.

I made it!

You can stop pressing the refresh button because, boys and girls, I've made it to Denmark. I am writing now from one of the computer labs in the DIS building in downtown Copenhagen. This morning we had a lovely introduction ceremony in the Hall of Ceremonies in the main building of the University of Copenhagen, which was built 840 years ago. (300 years before America was ''discovered,'' DIS president, Anders Urkhov made sure to note.) I'll be on a bus and walking tour of the city this afternoon. Tonight I think I'll explore the neighborhood near our housing complex with some of the girls who live on my floor. Traveling by bus and train seems pretty straightfoward. I've even mastered the six minute walk to the station, I think. Maybe my sense of direction will get some sense knocked into it this semester. I'll mostly be using public transportation because its so reliable here, and also because everyone else travels by bike. Unless riding around the city was a lot like making slow circles in the parking lot of the office park on Wells Avenue and its socially acceptable to use training wheels for the first few weeks, I think the S Train and Converse will have to take me where I need to go.

61 other DIS students live on the same floor of my building, Tasingade, which inexplicably seems to be pronounced with a sort of ''L'' sound at the end. Everyone has been extremely friendly, albeit a little sleepy, so far. We have three Danish RAs who took us for falafel last night. I hope I'll get to meet some more people when we go out tonight. My room is remarkably sleek and clean, by the way. Scandinavian design seems to characterize even the smallest indoor spaces. Before I left, my mom recommended that I keep my own furnishings simple. ''Just draw some stuff and stick it on the walls. Then you won't feel so bad about throwing it away.'' And then, after a quiet moment of consideration, ''You could do them on brown grocery bags. You might as well be avant garde about it.''

I'm off now to get some lunch and try to find a place where I can get a photo taken for a bus pass. It seems that about three quarters of people speak serviceable English here. Danish still sounds to me a little like what I imagine someone with a Austrian accent might mumble into their pillow in the middle of the night. Which is a casual way of saying that I have a new Austrian boyfriend. Just kidding.

I think I'll go to Denmark tomorrow

As we hugged for the last time until February in the doorway of my parents' house, one friend purred reassuringly, "You're gonna be great in Denmark. Don't be nervous." We uncoiled our arms. Nervous? I realized that I had been so preoccupied counting out pairs of socks and scheduling goodbye coffee dates this week that I had entirely forgotten to worry about heading solo to Copenhagen. Is that bad, that I haven't been concerned about living alone in a foreign country? Or having to buy all of my own food for the first time? Or flying? Or making my layover? Or looking especially short and un-Scandinavian? Just as I began to importune myself for missing an opportunity to be anxious, a whole slew of irrational concerns rushed reassuringly forth.

My anxiety, however, was shortlived. After my moment of worrying about worrying, I feel, well, pretty at ease. Everything I imagine I may need has been crammed into my suitcase. I've seen nearly every old friend in Newton and caught up with the people I'll miss most at Colby. I had a peaceful and even exciting summer with my parents and siblings. I leave behind little unfinished business here. A lot of new things await me across the Atlantic, but that's the fun of all this, isn't it?

I need to rediscover a spark for everyday learning that has diminished this past year. I studied statistics, organic chemistry, and physics because I have to in order to do what I really want to do one day: become a doctor. But now I get a chance to enjoy the moment, both academically and personally. I'm taking classes in human health and biomedical ethics, among other things, in a hospital setting. I will actually be studying what I think I want to study, right now. Meanwhile, I'll get a glimpse into the workings of universal healthcare. I intend to put to my rest any, "Will I sound stupid if I ask this?" attitude and talk to as many people as possible. I get to explore Copenhagen and travel Europe a little. I can check out concerts, museums, and pubs. I get to order a Carlsberg without even having to wonder if I'll get kicked out of the pub.

So, eighteen hours before I'm scheduled to leave, I feel ready. Excited. Equipped. Nostalgic. Thoughtful. And maybe—if only because all that sounds much too cool to actually be true—a tiny bit nervous.

I leave Saturday

I promise soon I'll write something exciting! If I feel like it.

A weekend in New York

This weekend my sister and her boyfriend, Josh, arbiters of European fashion and practical luggage respectively, made sure that I'm equipped with everything I'll need to make it to Copenhagen. Now I guess I should begin packing. Good thing my mom has a few of those vacuum-seal bags lying around. That's right, I'm living a QVC infomercial dream.

I found this interview today, which coincidentally seems to tie together the March of the Living trip I took in June, my summer physics course, and my impending semester in Copenhagen. Cool.

Contemplating Copenhagen

Yesterday I completed physics, the last of the basic science courses required for application to most medical schools. Now I'm closing the textbooks, leaving the lab, and preparing to spend the next semester in Copenhagen. I'll be in a Medical Practice and Policy program through the Denmark Institute of Study Abroad (DIS). This fall, I'll get the opportunity to focus on subjects larger and more tangible than carbon molecules and spring constants. I'll be studying human health, biomedical ethics, and even learning a few clinical skills at Frederiksberg Hospital. I can't wait.

Right now, most of what I know about Copenhagen comes from the Lonely Planet travel guide to Denmark. The book, which calls Denmark "the epitome of civilised society," focuses on the country's modern design, delicious pastries, and jazz scene. All that, and a statue of the Little Mermaid, too! What more could a girl ask for?



As if I needed another reason to idealize Copenhagen: Take a look at number five, right after macaroni and cheese.