Fall is in the air. Scarves abound.

New Job… New Semester… Newt Gingrich

I have nothing to say about Newt Gingrich other than the obvious: is he going to run, how’s his hair these days, and will he shake-up the Republican primary?

Moving on…

I’m thrilled to report that I’ve begun a new job at a dynamic Danish TV development company. It’s nestled within a larger reklamebureau (or “advertising agency”) and has developed several credible programs for Danish TV (such as Laudrup Høgh and 2900 Happiness). Thus far, I couldn’t be more content, challenged or inspired in this new position. My title (in Danish) is Projekt Assistant. If you translate that into English, it means: high-ranking person. The K in projekt is a legitimizing letter outside the English language, lending instant credibility. I fall somewhere below the CEO in the chain-of-command (how far below doesn't really matter) .

This job is a striking departure from my activities at university this past year in Denmark. And it’s only mildly, hugely different from the position I held in the Governor’s office. Where my title had “Senior” and “Executive” in it. I know it’s ghastly arrogant (and pathetically wistful) of me to mention that point, but I do so only to make a larger one. A former hang-up on things like title, position and ‘career path’ has been called into question in the week+ that I’ve been a member of the Danish workforce. That is because the Danish office is constructed much more laterally, as opposed to the rigid hierarchies you’ll find in the US or the UK. Assistants will often share the same office as their superiors, and bosses will fetch their own coffee. In Denmark, its okay, even encouraged, to question those in authority. I still find that point quite strange, the fact that... those under me, like my stapler, can snap at me.


It feels like a homecoming, of sorts, back to my creative roots in television. This time around, my “first days” have been no less memorable than when I began in Hollywood, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, out of UCLA's film school. At Fox, my first day saw me tipping too far back in my squeaky office chair, and falling on my derriere – legs splayed – staring at the fax machine I had been instructed to watch. At the Paramount lot, on my first day at Roswell I got to zip around the studio in a golf cart, which was exhilarating until I rounded a corner too fast and entered the camera-shot of an actor performing a monologue on "New York” street. The actor, Al Pacino, stared back at me, daggers in his eyes matching my own shocked stare as I trembled, hiding behind the steering wheel. I was certain my ass was fired.

Somehow, I’ve managed to squeak by those first fretful days which we’ve all experienced in new jobs. Where you feel clueless, moronic and over-dressed. I told Anne Louise after my first day at CO+TV that I felt like the new kid in school. Only someone, by accident, dropped me off in China, and I don’t speak Mandarin. The language barrier has provided another intrigue angle into this struggled I’ve faced, learning the ropes. My ear must tune in to much more Danish than ever before, and at a company of 50, there are only two of us who don’t speak it fluently. Or even, not fluently.

My mother began an exciting, new job a few months ago, and she was ever the ace when I made my tearful phone call home last week. She described feeling lost, confused and hopeless when she first began her job. Her heart would race rapidly every time they asked her to work the cash register.

Even my mother, with her Mensa IQ and her illustrious medical degree, felt lost when she began her part-time gig at The Pottery Barn at Arden Fair Mall.

What a peach, my mom is. So I’m letting her words be a lesson of forgiveness for the idiotic moves I’m destined to make, like when I cheerfully asked the young CFO if he was an intern. If my mother had only known how many cocktails her once-classy daughter would throw back with her new colleagues, just days after that phone call, she would have issued a sterner pep talk.

But again, as I suggested, the "Danish office" is a liberal and open-minded place. Progressive, if you will. And by getting drunk in their company I was making a bold statement: “I belong here.”

Or at the Betty Ford Center. I haven’t decided which one.

The fact that the “Danish Company Party” (where said drinking occurred) often ends in monster hangovers, expensive dry-cleaning bills, minor felonies, Donald Duck tattoos, jail-time and paternity tests, doesn’t make the office any less advanced.

I’ve officially been initiated into the European workforce, but I’ll write the party entry another time. Perhaps if I get bored at work.


(The other Bridget Jones. Not a mentor to young girls everywhere).

Sacramento, Tahoe... & back to Denmark

The Royal Danish Consulate.... of Sacratomato?!?

Ja, it's true, there is one. For Danish-American citizens of the greater Sacramento, Stockton, Modesto areas the Martensen/ Wright Law Firm is under appointment by the Royal Consulate to handle all of your passport, marriage license and visa needs. It's located in Old Sacramento, on a cobble-stoned street lined with crickety raised-wood sidewalks. You'll find covered wagons and the old California Railroad Museum just around the corner. Ask for Layla and she will kindly help you. (I practiced my sophisticated danish on her to rave reviews: "Hvordan går det?" She is "fine.").

The trip back to California was an opportune time to conduct a nonscientific report measuring USA alongside Denmark. The following results are neither stunning nor worthwhile.

Bilateral comparison of America vs. Denmark:
A pseudoscientific, nonmetrics opinion study.

----------------------------------------------Denmark -----------------------------------USA--------
More friendly----------------------------------------------------------------------------USA--------
More honest------------------------------Denmark-------------------------------------------------
More politically correct----------------------------------------------------------------USA-------
Greater sex appeal-----------------------Denmark-------------------------------------------------
More blondes-----------------------------Denmark-------------------------------------------------
Greater diversity------------------------------------------------------------------------USA--------
More candles per capita----------------Denmark-------------------------------------------------
More fattening---------------------------------------------------------------------------USA-------
More pig farms---------------------------Denmark-------------------------------------------------
More Appleby's--------------------------------------------------------------------------USA-------
More Jensen’s Bøfhus & 7-11s--------Denmark------------------------------------USA--------
More men who help w/housework---Denmark------------------------------------------------
More Jews--------------------------------------------------------------------------------USA--------
More Muslims----------------------------Denmark------------------------------------------------
Flashier wedding rings------------------------------------------------------------------USA-------
More fun weddings----------------------Denmark------------------------------------------------
Lower gas prices-------------------------------------------------------------------------USA-------
Better arts & culture--------------------Denmark-----------------------------------------------
Better TV programs---------------------------------------------------------------------USA-------
Least responsible under-age drinkers------------------------------------------------USA-------
More smoking 14-year-olds-------------Denmark-----------------------------------------------
More litigious-----------------------------------------------------------------------------USA------
More bicycles------------------------------Denmark-----------------------------------------------
More vacation time-----------------------Denmark-----------------------------------------------
More well-behaved children-----------------------------------------------------------USA-------
Longer school-year-----------------------Denmark------------------------------------------------
Better universal health coverage------Denmark------------------------------------------------
Better medical intervention------------------------------------------------------------USA-------
More guns---------------------------------------------------------------------------------USA-------
More men who ask women out--------------------------------------------------------USA-------
More religious----------------------------------------------------------------------------USA-------
More fond of astrology & zodiacs-----Denmark------------------------------------------------

Disclaimer: I make no pretenses of knowing anything at all. And I will not say I know something about nothing. The aforementioned results cannot be used against me in a court of law.

(With thanks to Nis).


(She can't be trusted).

Back in California...

I surprised my family and flew home for a few weeks. My parents did not know I was coming, which was all the more exciting when I arrived at the house at 12:32 AM last Thursday. Arlo, our gay family dog, ferociously wagged his tail in what I'm assuming was delight. Groggy, my mom came stumbling down the stairs wondering if the dog was having a seizure. Or had learned how to turn on all the living room lights.

I've been sifting through old family photo albums to take some pictures with me back to Denmark. I've posted some below.

It was a little emotional returning home to the (surprised)welcoming arms of my mom, dad and sisters. Things haven't changed drastically in Sacramento, but it's good to be back in my mother-country. I'd forgotten how open Americans are. My first day back, while shopping at the fine American boutique/superstore Target, four different people talked to me, striking up little conversations here and there. "Does this top fit?" "Do you know where the nail polish section is?" "Would you like to get a slurpee with me?"...

At first I was taken aback, before I remembered that I wasn't in Denmark any longer, where people are less chatty. Danes are just as kind and welcoming, but are ever cognizant to not impose. I love that about my hometown city, Sacra-tomato. Though still rural in its roots, the city has always struck me as a charming, friendly and open-minded locale (often under-appreciated by Californians). No matter what, Sacramento will always be better than Stockton, Fresno and Bakersfield. Pee-yew.

I've become more danish in the way I like to pick on other cities in a game of friendly intra-state ribbing. In Sjælland, the island I live on in Denmark, the locals like to make fun of Jylland (Denmark's much larger, more rural country-bumpkin island to the west). Jyllanders think Copenhageners are snobs. And the entire country likes to tease the bigger country across the Sound to the north, Sweden. Sweden picks on Norway, and all three countries pick on Finland. Denmark also suffers from Small Country Syndrome, and I haven't figured out why yet. One of its symptoms is a sudden urge to blurt out in conversations with non-danes that Denmark is: 1) sooooo small and 2) has only 5.4 million inhabitants. When you measure the country's booming economy and performance on the global scene in areas of foreign aid, philanthropy, human rights, health, science and sports, the countries 'contribution to population ratio' is deeply impressive. I think that's probably why they remind me how teensy their country is. Lest their small little nation gets a big big head, I always counter by stating that many European countries are smaller than theirs. (Iceland: 300,000, Luxembourg: 480,000, Lichtenstein: 34,000, and Norway squeaking by with 4.7 million).

I flew home on Delta Airlines via Georgia, and spent an exciting 6 hours at the Atlanta Airport. Coming out of customs, you are surrounded by drab cream-colored walls and a long escalator that climbs a thousand feet into the air, leaving baggage claim-hell behind and entering purgatory in the form of a Food Court to shame all food courts. Nothing says "Welcome to America" quite like the sight of "Chick-filet", "Arby's," "McDonald's," "Panda Express" and "Dunkin Donuts".... which you'll all find in just about every terminal of every airport in our country.

Chicken 'n biscuits to my left, my recoiled face quickly swung to the right where I found a defibrillator on the airport wall. Right next to the fire hydrant. Two life-saving devices, one that works wonders when jump-starting ventricular muscles of the heart in the event of myocardial infarction ("heart attack").

Heart disease is America's number one killer. It's not a laughing matter. Neither is the truly frightening sight at how "portly" "chubby" "big-boned-deded" and down-right FAT our nation has become. I think I'd blocked out that reality. I have my theories as to why 'fat' has become the new 'normal', but I'll spare you for now. And I admit it's terribly politically in-correct of me to address fatness with such bluntness. But I don't really care anymore. In the States we've been so hung up on the language of our discourse -- being sensitive, inclusive and careful not to offend. Its time to stop worrying about hurting people's feelings and instead, take a closer look at reality.

I'll climb off my soapbox now. For further reading on this trend -- what has been called the "wussification of America"-- you need look no further than Sacramento's favorite morning talk radio show: Rob, Arnie and Dawn. http://www.robarnieanddawn.com/RobsSoapbox5Articles.htm

Or, we could just reminisce on the old, trimmer days.

XO.

Cammy

(Most kids cuddle with teddy bears. I bonded with my cool, pink sneakers).

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


............................................................................................
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