A Fly on the Wall: Inside conversations in Denmark

For the uninitiated American, danish people just might be some of the rudest on the planet. God love ’em.

But here’s the rub – and it’s a big one – they are only kidding. Danish conversations are rife with irony, always detectable to the native speaker by the stressing of certain vowel-rich sounds infusing the greater sentence with a blunt sarcastic edge. What I’m starting to realize is that danes, 90% of the time, might mean the opposite of what they say.

Especially when leveling insults or rather, compliments. Often, forms of flattery are cloaked in wicked garb. During my first lecture at Roskilde nearly 11 months ago, the Head of Studies Carsten took a swipe at the Department Counselor he was encouraging students to consult, by dead-panning “Peter doesn’t know much about anything! He’s been at this university waaaay too long.” Peter stood at the back of the room, cracking a dim smile.

Confused, I later inquired with Anne Louise if it was normal for professors to insult colleagues in their midst. She explained that, evident by the fact that Carsten mentioned Peter at all, he was actually complimenting him. Nevermind the rude context, it was intended ironically.

Denmark is a society uncomfortable with flattery. Compliments are deliberate, thoughtful and harder to spot than real boobs in Hollywood.

It’s a huge departure from the trademark embellishments Americans tend to make. We exaggerate and make extremist statements, we consider everyone our “friends,” we send Christmas cards to our therapist. Statements such as “Target is my most favorite place on Earth!” would earn you a funny look in Denmark. (Not that I’ve ever said that, but I have). The consequence of all this is that a received compliment can be taken all the way to the bank, provided you convert the insult into a flattering currency you understand.

In a fleeting moment of insecurity I once let slip to a male friend that I would love to drop a few kilos. He politely nodded and called me the word “flodhest”… which means hippopotamus. American men could take some pointers from the danes in sure-fire ways to end maddening conversations about weight. By calling me a river-cow, he was actually calling me skinny, or at least, not too fat. It was ironical.

Yesterday, following an afternoon jog around the city-lakes, I found myself in a popular American eatery ordering take-out as a reward for the vigorous workout. I was clad in loose-fitting spandex and a running cap that I received at the finish line of Ironman Idaho.

The blonde gentleman behind me in line gestured to my hat and asked me if I had raced the Ironman triathlon. Ever the shy, proud girl, I responded with a smile that I had completed the race last June. So had he, it turned out. As often happens with two competitive people -- tri-geeks nonetheless -- we sized each other up from our respective corners in the restaurant.

“So, you’re still showing off?” he said with a straight face, once again referencing my hat.

One point Denmark.

“Yes, I’m an American, so I can get away with it,” I countered.

One point USA.

“I try to be as un-danish as possible.”

Two points USA.

He managed a smile as I grabbed my food.

“Well, enjoy your M-c-D-o-n-a-l-d’-s,” he enunciated.

Two points Denmark.

“Tak. They make a mean c-h-i-c-k-e-n s-a-l-a-d.”

One point USA.

I breezed out of the restaurant with my iPod blaring, looking back at the handsome, 40-something stranger who had just called me a show-off. Somehow I managed to be the ruder one in that conversation.

You can find sparring partners in the oddest places, in the most remote corners of the globe, I’m learning.

The fact that this stranger even spoke to me, in this shy, impassive country, is a huge compliment. I will call him my mean friend from Copenhagen’s McDonalds.

Zeitgeist of Camryn’s pop-life in Denmark

What I’m reading:
Critifiction by Raymond Federman………………. ..“Brilliant and sexy wordplay.”
The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon…………. “Quirky, emotional, stunning. Dakota Fanning reads him. So should you.”
VeloNews and Feltet.dk………….. “If only to cry at how f’ed up cycling’s become.”


(uh-oh)

What I’m watching:
Klovn w/ Kasper Christensen……….................. “Denmark’s Curb your Enthusiasm. Hysterical.”
Kindergarten Cop with Arnold Schwarzenegger…......................……………... “I miss my old boss.”
The Christening of Denmark’s newest princess………………….….... “Isabella Henrietta Ingraa-da Something Something. The baby has 5 names. Precious.”

What I’m eating:
Noget. That’s danish for nothing, baby………………. “Need to lose 10 kilos by yesterday. I think that’s maybe...5 pounds?”

What I’m eating when I'm eating carbs:
Frøsnappers & thebirkes…….. “Danish pastries, fluffy confections with a bottom layer that tastes like marzipan snowflakes on the tongue. Light and delicious.”

Who I’m rooting for:
For President…............................ Rudy Giuliani, Barack Obama or Nancy Reagan
For the Tour de France………………..Jens Voigt, Dave Zabriskie, Frank Schlëck, Carlos Sastre.



What I’m chewing:
Stimorol gum….. “Denmark’s original gum -- like vintage Chewells. The 1st bite gives a squirty surprise. Delightful.”

What I’m listening to:
Soko, Katie Melua, the new Wilco, the new India Arie, and Johnny Cash…. “Soko is a crazy/angry French ingénue. Make her the centerpiece of a CD-mix you send your parents, just to make sure they still worry about you.”

What I’m wearing:
Mary Jane flats, espadrilles, flowy feminine skirts (shocker), black and pink and turquoise. Yves Saint Laurent mascara (most lush-ious around). And LOTS of rainboots these days.

What the boys are wearing:
Euro-gay skinny jeans. Faux-hawks (like a mohawk, only cool), sweatshirts with skulls & crossbones, Converse, speedos at the beach.

Who I’m seeing:
My good friends from Roskilde—Liza & Emilie…. “We aced our group project.”
(Pictures below from the "end of finals" party I held at my flat last week).



Who I’m seeing, after hours:
You’d like to know.

What I’m smoking:
Marlboros……………. “Lights” these days


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An evil friend of mine plays a little game with me called “danish lesson” where he teaches me generally offensive words by having me use them in sentences as descriptions for myself. Resultantly, my counter-culture vocabulary has become top notch. “Hej. Jeg er en luksusluder” means, “Hi! I am a high-priced luxury hooker.” My “friend” thought it would be a handy icebreaker for use in job interviews or making friends on the bus.

He claimed generosoity for not teaching me the word “narcluder”. Unlike her high-priced cousin, that winner-of-a-gal is a “crackwhore.”

Welcome to Dark Danish Humor

It must be the six months of spirit-crushing darkness in Denmark’s winter that motivates danes to sprinkle their sassy with just enough black sarcasm to confuse the perplexed newcomer. It’s a side of Denmark I love, as I’ve been told I'm a tad bit sarcastic myself.

This same “friend” came up with a terrific practical joke I could play on my parents during my next visit home to the States… whereby I will pretend I’ve gone “European” and picked up a 2-pack-a-day habit. I brushed him off, saying they would be highly skeptical their naïve, triathlete, teetotaler daughter had crossed over to the dark side with smoking. In my youth, I wanted so badly to rebel against my parents, for 16 months I became a democrat (and a vegetarian, to complete the look). But that was as far as I could take the joke. As pissed as I hoped to make mom and dad – and my Rush Limbaugh-loving grandparents—they only snickered in the corner and challenged me to donate my early weekend mornings to helping campaign for Barbara Boxer, California’s beloved liberal Senator. My mom got the chance to rebel before I did when she lovingly took me aside during my UCLA years and said it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I tried mari-juana.

But they would draw the line at cigarettes. I think there are only 5 or 6 smokers left in California anyways, and they’re either in jail or headed home soon to Europe.

So my wicked friend and I hatched a plan where I could secretly burn cigarettes out the window of my old, Laura Ashley bedroom in my parent’s house. I would have to act irritable on occasion (not a stretch) and excuse myself frequently to use the bathroom. The trick would be in capturing an authentic smoker’s cough that I’m defensive about.

As appealing as it sounds to be a prankster for a day or two back home, I confess that I love my parents too much to attempt such a charade. I miss them a lot, and I’m so proud of them for raising me. A high-priced, smoking luksusluder. Just as long as I don’t become all liberal, we won’t have a problem.

Some notes from Østerbro... where I’m now Copen’ in the Hagen.

I have moved! My new neighborhood, affectionately called yuppie Østerbronx, is a delightful enclave a kilometer outside City-proper, close to the 5 city lakes, some stylish boutiques, chic cafes, cool clubs, bars, city-squares, and some ol’ churches (a charming one just across from my flat, behind the Thai take-away joint that serves deliiiicious karry kylling).

You should see the neighborhood for yourself. Visitors are welcome anytime.

[I should mention... that during a bike ride a week ago I hit the deck (that's cyclists' parlance for crashing hard). I suffered two breaks in the greater tuberosity bone of my shoulder... and if you've ever seen Dawn of the Dead my bruises resemble an attack by one of those ooky creatures. Like a zombie hickey. Cool.]

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At the end of this update, you’ll find a link to an interesting Travel & Leisure article I stumbled upon. Apparently I'm not alone in my decision that Copenhagen has the most forward-thinking design concepts this side of Mars. Danes eat style for breakfast, and apparently it's fat-free. I marvel at the way danes stay so trim when half of the 6 aisles of their super-cute danish supermarkets are entirely devoted to sweets. Chokolade, licorice, flødeboller, hindbærsnitter-- heaven scent confections that give you a toothache just looking at 'em. Except for their black, salty licorice. That so-called “candy” is beloved by all native-born danes, but I think it tastes like fertilizer. Not the sweet type that grows pretty pink flowers. But the coarse, poisonous kind that kills the weeds on the lawns of Communist palaces. Licorice isn’t just a candy in Denmark, it’s a movement. As a postmodernist, I think its for the birds. So I stick to the marzipan.

Candy is apparently not a threat to the modern danes’ waistline's, as most are far too active scurrying about town on their bicycles. They are also less crash-prone than foreigners such as myself.

There’s a reason why Americans give a shout out to Denmark for the breakfast pastries we eat on occasion (or every morning, if you’re my father): I speak of ‘the danish.’’ I don’t like American danishes. They are too sacchariney sweet, monochromatic, bland and stale. They don’t eat anything in Denmark that resembles our version of a “cherry danish”… like the Svenhards’ brand you can buy at the Piggly Wiggly, or the organic, whole-wheat vegan fare at Whole Foods (scam alert). Rather, the danes give a nod to an Alpine nation to their south, Austria, and use the word “wienerbrød” to classify sweet pastries we know as danishes. Wienerbrød translates to Viennese-bread. My favorite treat is called a rum-snegl.

In case you didn’t know by now, the danish M.O. is humility. I think Denmark produces the best pastries in all of Europe, and I’ve tasted breads and confections in most countries on this continent, with the exception of a few hot contenders (France and Belgium). But typically danish, in Denmark they name their breads after another country.

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My mom came over for a visit a few weeks back, and I did what most normal kids do on Mother’s Day when visiting with mom on her special day. I had her (help me) paint the kitchen of my new flat. Then in the afternoon, we went out for some culture, which we found at the Fredriksberg Designer Outlet sale... and later at a tour of the Carlsberg Brewing Factory.
Carlsberg has been around since 1847. Its headquarters is in a neighborhood of CPH called Valby, and they offer educational tours that include just enough free beer samples to get you and your mom wasted.

Going back to Danish humility, the slogan of Carlsberg beer—that you will see in green flashing signage scattered across Denmark is this:

Carlsberg. Probably the Best Beer in the World.

Notice the stress on the probably. Non-commital, upbeat, brewed with humility, the danes like to under-promise and over-deliver. They don’t need to tell anyone how great they are, how wonderful their product is, or how hygge/cozy their country feels. They know it already, and that’s all that matters.

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I stumbled on a Travel & Leisure article the other day and found it stunningly accurate. The editor of the magazine agrees that Copenhagen is a rising star as far as European capitals go.

Don't tell too many people however. It's in my own selfish interest to keep Americans thinking that I’m living in “Denmark” -- a region of…. hmmm?....not Sweden, not France, somewhere near the Netherland’s underpants. Yes, er—near Amsterdam maybe—where the hash-is-a-plenty and so are the beautiful tall people. Right?

One day, maybe I’ll understand why so many Americans make that gaffe, thinking I live in Holland. Anywho… read this travelogue and book your ticket to one of the Nordic countries, that is: Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Iceland or Finland. (If you’re rich, go to Iceland, buy one of their famous mini ponies. If you’re not, try Finland—it’s the poor man’s Russia. Sidebar, the Finns hate the Swedes, because they were sold by them to Russia a century ago. I’d be pissed too.). If you’re looking to party like a rockstar, go to Denmark. If you want to buy oil, barrels of the most expensive kind, go to Norway. If you want to find people even more repressed and attractive than the danes, go to Sweden.) Tell them I sent you.

Okay, enough ridiculous stereotyping. Det er ikke sjov. Knus fra Cammy.

http://www.travelandleisure.com/articles/designed-for-living

Jeg kan tale dansk. Ikke!

(Reading Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Far easier than learning Danish.)

I Can Speak Danish. Not!

Few languages in the world are as difficult in the area of pronunciation as danish. Its complexity, in my (unreliable) opinion, beats Dutch, Hungarian, Mandarin Chinese and Klingon. It poses certain tonal challenges similar to the first 3 languages, and its guttural flatness parallels the shrill, yell-like nature of Klingon.

It’s easy to observe a danish conversation and think a fight will soon break out. “Oh boy…she cheated on him, the way he’s bellowing those øø-sounding words at her,” I frequently catch myself thinking.

When the couple start to make out passionately — in front of dozens of other subway passengers (unfazed by the display, mind you) — you realize quickly you misheard.

Have I mentioned this country loves PDA (or public displays of affection)? Nearly as much as they love pronouncing D’s like L’s, and never admitting to this fact. They call it a soft “D”, but it is really a hard-as-hell “L”. To say a word like "hvad" properly, your lips must sound out a "v" immediately followed by the fetching of a light "e" from the back of the throat. You must wiggle your tonsils first, followed by a note that resembles an "l" or a "th" that leaves your tongue hanging outside of your mouth. It's easy to get out of breath speaking danish. Hvad sige du? is one of the most commonly heard expressions in the language and it means what did you say? Apparently even danes struggle to hear each other correctly. (Hvad sige du is pronounced val-sier-doo?).

As an expatriate, it’s tempting to be in awe of the language capacity of the citizens that surround you. The ease with which danes can articulate the difficult words I can barely mutter(mis)leads me into thinking they’re the most intelligent people on Earth.

Take my friend Anne-Mette for instance, who has two of the smartest shih-tzus around. These dogs know more danish than I do.

She tells them to ‘dæk’ ‘bliv’ ‘kom’ and ‘plads.’ Through their response to her commands, I learn words like ‘down’ ‘stay’ 'heel’ and ‘take a shit.’ These bitches don’t mess around when they hear the flatlining orders of their ‘mor’ (mom). And their squeaking woofs back are always in English. Brilliant. Even the pups in Denmark are bilingual. (In case anyone needs reminding, a bitch is a female dog, in the classical sense).

My Swedish friend Sara told me that the sound and intonation of the different Nordic languages resemble the landscapes of its given nation. Denmark is a very flat country, likewise the sound of the language is flat as well. As you move north, you get to the mountains of Sweden. Though hardly jagged, alpine terrain, Sweden features altitude changes and a ‘rise and fall’ language similar to the Swedish spoken by the Chef on the Muppets. Traveling further north to Norway, where their mountain peaks dwarf those of their neighbors to the south (as do their ginormous bank accounts), you find a language that sounds like a parody of itself. It is beautiful, in its uniqueness, but it resembles sing-songs, on crack (at Disneyland). Nearly all sentences uttered in Norwegian are sung, strung together, bouncing up and down at high and low pitches; often cueing the listener to wait for a punchline… that never comes.

So in short, Danish is flat, Norwegian is sing-song and Swedish splits the difference. It doesn’t really matter what the Swedes say anyways, because you barely listen to them in the first place. (And I don’t say that like the annoyed little brother Denmark, taking jabs at big brother Sweden—the acid-reflux habit of 95% of all Danes).

Rather for me, the bewitching attractiveness of most Swedes is too distracting to cobble any meaning out of the words that pass their lips.

Last month, when I was in Skåne at a friend’s summer house we went into a pottery shop whose owner had a pet parrot in his workshop. He was the smartest parrot I had ever met; he spoke Swedish! Though I did detect a faint accent, the bird deserves credit for trying.

If all these animals can conquer such exotic tongues, maybe I’m not the hopeless case I once thought I was. They set the bar pretty low, but I hope to one day ‘fetch and heel’ my way through a conversation in Danish, with a hot Swedish man. Or a parrot.

Did I mention that Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians can understand each other perfectly? Reason #296 that living in Denmark rocks.

Children can be helpful & honest language teachers.

They will tell you how dumb you sound.

Message in a Bottle: Sending out an SMS

It’s weird when a guy breaks up with you and you’re not even his girlfriend. “Sorry, Lars. I mean … Lasse… didn’t realize we were in a relationship?” seems such a lame response.

That’s happened to me in Denmark. It’s even weirder when he chooses to do it in a text message. That’s happened to me as well. It’s the weirdest, however, when he writes the break-up SMS missive in a language you don’t speak.

And he knows you don’t speak it. So, he writes something that he knows you’ll need help in translating by a fluent danish/english speaker. Which could come in the form of, say, the blonde gentleman in a gray suit sitting next to you on the train from Høje Taastrup to København. Who politely stammers, “I’m sorry, but it’s not a match,” um…. “I wish you off. Tax! Wait no… I wish you well, sweetie.” Yes, that’s it.

You can do two things in a sticky situation such as that, assuming you’re unable to lunge for the nearest emergency escape hatch. Lick your lips and smile broadly at your seatmate in such a way that shows composure and grace. Always take the high road, and if he asks you if you’re okay, respond, “Oh, yeah! I just hope Lasse gets the help he needs.” An illusive story to deflect all blame works like a charm. Adds to the 'hygge' in the train cabin.

If this ever happens to you, the second step is a bit trickier and calls for creativity. Peer around the cabin for a person who looks like an expatriate, equally as non-danish as you. Avoid anyone wearing hemp bracelets and white sneakers (American), or anyone with a massive maple-leaf stitched to their backpack (Canadian). Preferably find a young woman who hails from Poland, Turkey, Pakistan or Namibia; someone with dark eyes that have seen a lot.

There’s an unwritten rule between foreigners in Denmark that you help each other out when in trouble. We all seem to speak the same language, which is called nøtdanish.

Once spotted, plunk yourself down in the seat across from her and say, “Undskyld! Can you please translate something for me into your native language , [Polish]?”

Then, feverishly jam your thumbs into your mobile phone until you’ve written the following message: “Powitaninia! Porządku. Wy jesteście odurzonymi człowiekiem! i czuję współczucie do waszego *bony* osioł!

In English, it would mean, “Hi! Nimrod! I wish you (and your bony! ass) all the best in love and life! Ta-ta.”

Again, keep it classy. The exclamation points! will convey cheerfulness and civility! Once you’ve fired off the text message, say thank you to your kind savior and return to seat number one.

Proceed to set up a date with the blonde guy. Everything else will sort itself out from there.



(April 14, 2007... Arild, Sweden).

An American Rides in Denmark

One of my beloved weekend rituals in Denmark is a ride up the coast of Sjælland on my 10-speed Dutch bicycle. This not-too-strenuous workout fuses three of my favorite activities: sight-seeing, day dreaming and exercise.

On these bike rides I think about nothing and everything. I’ve solved all the world’s problems a few times over (too bad I didn’t have a pen and paper handy). I think about my charmingly Marxist university, and the irony in them embracing with open arms my heartless republican ways. Sometimes, when a bug flies in my eye, I ponder why it is I’ve never been able to wink. After years of trying, I’m convinced it’s a genetic trait that, sadly, some are born without, much like being able to roll the tongue into a burrito or properly pronounce the Danish dessert rødgrød med fløde.

Sometimes, I consider pressing global events, like the making of the last, littlest superpower on Earth—Denmark— and how it’s a microcosm for a perfect society with values, riches, culture, great pastries, high taxes, skilled workers, human rights and smartly dressed citizens. I call Denmark my pocket country, because it’s just so cute and wonderful, I want to put it in my pocket.

These are the musings that accompany me on the bike.

A couple weeks ago, on the heels of a promising Danish romance fizzling like a can of old Carlsberg, I found myself mashing the pedals along my normal route up the coast. Through the lively streets of Copenhagen, weaving in and out of blond men pushing baby carriages, I headed east 5 km toward the Øresund Sound, then north through the towns of Taarbæk and Humlebæk on a concrete bike path, smooth as glass, that runs parallel to the sea. The Øresund strait is the body of water that separates Denmark and Sweden, the Nordic name for the mingling of the North and Baltic Seas that hosted legendary battles centuries ago between pillaging explorers in funny hats. It was a blustery day, two weeks ago, as I peered out into the foaming sea and imagined Hans Christian Andersen staring into the same space a century and a half earlier. His Little Mermaid lingering beneath the navy-blue water was an image dangling in my mind, safely encased in a bike helmet two sizes too small for me.

Some days — particularly when I’m bothered by some major or minor injustice, or plagued with a hangover — I pedal my bike with an overly excited vigor that would look bizarre to the innocent bystander. I probably resemble a full-grown Napoleon Dynamite, who is still pissed off at the world. Those days are rare, however, as life in Copenhagen gives me precious little to fret about.

But that day, I was upset. And sad. And I didn’t know why—or at least, I thought I didn’t— which upset me further. You know that feeling you get when you haven’t cried in the longest time, and you peer inside yourself and marvel at your strong, vibrant interior—coated in deep colors and textures of wool and steel? And you reach across your shoulder, and give yourself a proverbial pat on the back, for being so impressively strong? You know, sensations like that? In that moment, riding the bike, I made my escape into that tough-girl daydream.

But I didn’t get far. Peering across the Sound at Sweden to the north — a land where deadpan Vikings ferment their emotions into congealed ale — I noticed a tear leak from the corner of my eye, still caked with day-old mascara. I put my head down, embarrassed.

As the rain began to pour, I looked up to the sky and thanked whomever for not letting me cry alone. Denmark is a country where (when sober) everyone is preoccupied with the issue of embarrassment. I’m picking up on that tendency to a degree. But that day, somebody saved me from such a fate, and wasn’t going to let me be the weeping, pink-wearing American Napoleon Dynamite, pedaling toward Sweden, but going nowhere fast.

I cried freely with heaving sobs. The salty mist conspired with the rain to tangle my hair, swinging in a long ponytail down my back. Looking inland, I let go of the handlebars to crane my neck in sight of the one white house I needed to spot. A stately mansion on a hill across from the ocean in Charlottenlund is the U.S. Ambassador’s residence, where the Stars & Stripes fly, adding primary colors to a gray skyline. It is the only spot in Denmark permitted to fly the American flag. It is a fixture of vast mystical proportions for a homesick girl on a rainy day… in a land filled with shy, tall heartbreakers uncertain how to receive her.

I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t find the Ambassador’s home. It wasn’t in front of me, and it wasn’t behind me. With each pull on the pedals, each grating swing of my knobby knees, I bobbed my head forwards and backwards, grasping for some sign of life. I needed something to straighten my spine, to salute the tears out of my body like a squeegee scraping on glass.

The absence of the flag made my emotions unravel further, until my breathless moans were whittled down to a whimper, which became a hiccup of laughter. I pedaled on the edge of my passions, between joy and sorrow, between two nations, until the cry became a giggle, and the giggle became a sore stomach. I deserted my search and gazed at the road in front of me, with side-splitting hysterics navigating a crooked path. An old man in his church suit pedaled in my direction, with a wet dog perched in a basket over his front wheel. I winked at the old man, the only way an American girl who can’t wink can.

I had blinked my last tear. He spun past me, attending to an inner-debate in his mind that lasted an instant and ended with a faint smile over his shoulder, directly at me. Behind him, I spotted my old friend. The American flag soared in the sky, but there was no rain above it. The clouds parted, and a weary sun peeked from behind a canopy of gray that had been in place all winter long.

I call it Denmark’s winter filter that turns bright shades to gray and the moods of an entire population to ash. Soon, in the spring, the filter would fade away, and pale people would emerge from their houses, euphoric.

Seeing all there was to see, I turned for home. On the ride back, I thought about mermaids and Swedish astronauts… and the hard-earned smile from a stranger. I thought about the chipped fortress around my heart… and polished European men and women sipping lattés with their lovers... and all that tricky sunshine.

Sometimes, on rainy days, on bicycles, the world becomes a little clearer. If only you could take that clarity home with you, inside your pocket.

From Paris to Malmö to Girona...

Recently, I've been fortunate enough to take some quick trips to France, Spain... and Sweden. That last country on my list doesn't really count ('no offense' to my Swedish friends), but the country is only a 30 minute train ride from Copenhagen, via the Øresund bridge connecting DK and Sweden.

In early March, I had my first Parisian adventure... and it was j'magnifique. (I don't speak a lick of French, so that is a completely made-up word, never to be uttered in the company of a francophile). I was there under the guise of "work," which means: a comp'ed hotel room, swanky dinners at Michelin star restaurants and lots of high-grade French wine, cognac and cheese.

I highly recommend the following accomodations: Hotel Saint Germaine in Sector 6. St. Germaine is a bastion for all things culturally inspiring, religiously uplifting, and consumer-centric. That means, there are pretty churches, cool museums and great shopping! Literally, the shops rival the finest boutiques on Rodeo Drive, a formative place where I honed my shopping skills in the my late-teen years while at UCLA. I'll leave the museum critiquing to the experts...

I will, however, freely critique the level of friendliness and hospitality I witnessed in Paris, and give the city a 9 out of 10. Too many Americans (erroneously) believe the French are out to get us. We take to heart the criticism leveled at us by their more-vocal politicians over our foreign policy, which they may or may not find slimier than escargot. Regardless, it's unfortunate we take the comments so personally, and assume that when they speak of the war in Iraq, they speak ill of us. Or even worse, that they hate us. The French do not. Visit the country and see for yourself a population of passionate, honest, good-natured, loyal people with joie-de-vivre and a classic radiance that is all their own.

While in Denmark, I've had the privilege of befriending two French expatriates who live in Copenhagen. One of them (employed as a communications director for the UN) has been in Denmark for 4 years; the other one (working on her PhD in computer science) has been in DK nearly 2 years. After many fits and starts trying to learn danish, both have quit completely. Neither of them are capable of speaking or understanding much danish at all. What captivated me was how proud of this fact they are! The gentleman said to me, "Why do I need to learn danish? Everyone here speaks English!" I laughed at the irony. The woman also turned up her nose at the thought of trying a bit harder to speak danish. Apparently not all french people are averse to learning English, but they draw the line at danish. So, if you want to find a citizen of France who speaks perfect English... go to Denmark. (Please note the lower-case "d" in danish is the correct usage, according to the danes).

Upon returning from France, I had the rare opportunity of hosting two close Sacramento friends, Penny and Alene. It was their first visit to Denmark, and they remarked how impressed they were to find such a clean, friendly country. We had a marvelous time together, even managed to squeeze in a trip to Malmö, Sweden. The photo (above) was taken in front of City Hall... (I think? My Swedish is a bit rusty, and I had trouble reading the signs).

Last week, I spent several days in Girona, Spain… as part of a series of interviews with an American pro-cycling team, with a growing European contingent. They put me up at a lovely hotel in the Jewish Quarter (Ciutat de Girona), near the city’s main walking street – the Rambla—that runs parallel to the Onyar River. Girona is a very friendly and gracious city, with architectural style that mixes modern and classical. It is off the beaten path for most pedestrian tourists in Spain, which adds to its charm. The cycling industry (and the fact that Lance lived there for 5 years, along with many prominent Tour de France riders from various teams) has invigorated the city's appeal to tourists looking for a quiet, medieval town away from Barcelona (on the Costa Brava), and close to the border of France.



Its citizens were warm and inviting—laughing whenever I broke into danish while stopping for directions or purchasing specialty chocolates (one of its famous Catalonian products). Girona’s centerpiece is the old quarter—where I stayed—which stretches out beneath ancient walls and watchtowers on a hillside on the east bank of the Onyar. Girona has a rich and glorious Jewish history in the Catalan region— even housing the medieval community of El Call, where the Kabbalah was first written down in España. I found the following excerpt: “For nearly 500 years, it lay buried, literally sealed off, as houses and streets were, in successive layers, built over it. Now in an ambitious restoration project, Gironans are digging down through levels of construction and back through centuries to unearth a part of Jewish and Catalan history that began at the start of the ninth century, ended at the close of the fifteenth, and then slowly faded from public memory until it was completely forgotten.” The expulsion of the Jews in 1492, and the Jewish diaspora that bookended such events—added layers to the city that could only cover up, and build on… its Jewish roots. You can still find centuries-old mezuzahs on the entrances into homes and businesses.

It is possible this recent field trips—and future pilgrimages to Spain—could initiate my own spiritual renaissance, if I choose to revisit those old feelings. (Those that I nurtured long ago… but have neglected in recent times, in favor of long runs & races. I’m speaking of faith, with such inelegance. Apologies!) In this season of Passover, I guess it’s a timely theme.

Knus, fra Denmark. XO.