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.)