Birds & fishes

As luck would have it, I didn’t have school or work today. So on this balmy afternoon, after washing away my sins and stains at the Laundromat Café around the corner, I curled up with a bowl of risengrød (rice pudding) and Book of Longing (by Leonard Cohen).

In the humdrum of daily life – negotiating a schedule of full-time school and a near-full time job – moments of pristine rest and rumination are rare. I looked down at my bowl of pudding, topped off with a dollop of pure butter collapsing into the cinnamon, and paused to thank the country that taught me how to enjoy it. I eat it like a child sucking on ice cream.

The short poem The Sweetest Little Song floated like a bubble off the page.

“You go your way.
I’ll go your way too.”

My friend, the Danish writer Nils Thorsen, gave me the Book of Longing on my 30th birthday. It was his own copy, making the gift all the more precious. A few of my – or our – favorite pages now have tattered edges. A brown smudge, likely from his two-year-old’s thumb, is streaked across Cohen’s bird on a branch.

“You go your way.”
.........................................................................................................

Leonard Cohen is Canada's national treasure: a raspy-voiced singer/songwriter, and poet slash tortured artist. Every country has 'em. Denmark churns out more than you’d expect for a country of 5 million. The weather is just one cog on an assembly line of national demerits that spits out virtuosos of the written word: Kim Larsen, Jørgen Leth, Søren Ulrik Thomsen, and Mr. Cosmopolitan Benny Andersen, to name a few.

Hidden in their golden words are some answers to the familiar question I’m posed on a near daily basis.

Why did I move to Denmark?

Early on, I turned to glibness for an answer. Yet each response contained a breadcrumb of truth for the discerning listener to catch.

“I’m running from the FBI.”

Which is partially true.

“Being an American is tiring. I needed a break.”

Also true.

“But why Denmark,” they pester me to know.

It’s been said that Danes are a people self-obsessed with their own identity. Not in the grating, Narcissus way, but from a position of raw self-consciousness. Stunned, they ponder why or how anyone would ditch a palm tree-skyline in California for a cigarette-sky 6 months out of the year in Denmark.

What gets these probers every time is my final answer: that I haven’t a clue as to why I’m here. And that, perhaps, the absence of a reason is the reason itself.
..................................................................................................

Outside, I hear a young child squeaking “Moo-ah” to his mother. The sound grows on me. A pack of young ones are exiting a city bus, holding hands in pairs. Each fair-haired child wears a puffy one-piece that looks like a flightsuit. There’s magic in the way they float across the street, bundled up and still in love with the aquarium they were born into.

For anyone that’s been an expatriate and wandered the unknown streets of a distant land, listening, observing, imagining, and not understanding… you know how I feel. Feeling timeless.

That sensation of being a fish-out-of-water. And realizing, that your lungs grow stronger and your skin stays soft. And that you can grow alternative means of breathing and staying alive.

Denmark has developed aquatic mood-lighting to fill interior darkness. Candles cast a nice glow that form strange shadows on the blue wall of my flat. It gets us through the chill of autumn.

On the days when I gasp and long to dive back into the warm Pacific Ocean – and swim among my own kind – I call a friend like Nils. He's offered to breathe for me when I need a break.

It's nice knowing I don’t have to run from my fatigue, or march onward to the next place – or to some unknown amorous agent to distill meaning into my grief. For now, I have risengrød, longing in my heart, and a way to split myself in two. Part American, part fish. I’ll go where the tides takes me.

“You go your way
I’ll go your way too.”

I just may get there later.


(The old life :)

10 Things to do on a lame-ass day

When times get tough, it's helpful to set up a 'plan-of-action' to help get through the day. Perhaps it’s an American tendency of mine to take stock of troubles, then pin-point a methodology for ridding them. Here’s what I’ve come up with:

1. Make a batch of cupcakes.
2. Go for a run – listen to music on iPod (*avoiding Tracy Chapman at all costs).
3. Call 2 friends who like you more than they liked him.
4. Change the bag in your Bosch vacuum cleaner. Pull out all loose change.
5. Watch a Sex & the City episode (*while sipping a Cosmo. Identify w/Carrie only in severe cases.)
6. Eat ½ a cupcake. Feed the second half to the swans at Sortedam Sø.
7. Try to find some taste in it. Be grateful.
8. Read a Leonard Cohen poem. Poke fun at the strange words.
9. Go for a bike ride.
10. Make a list of things to make a list about. Turn into a Powerpoint.

A final option -- in the event the other 10 fail -- would be a last-minute jaunt to Paris. When in doubt, get out of town. Throw your cares away like an old, stale baguette and stand amidst a city of people just as confused as you.

Au revoir.

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.