Cheers: To Roger and his white russians. To Sommersby and their new pear hard cider.
Cheers: To kulorbar, for once again providing free beer from the hours of 11 to 1, after entry and coatcheck.
Cheers: To the kulorbar DJ, for playing some enjoyable mashups, and looking like Mario Lopez.
Jeers: To the kulorbar coatcheck, for once again refusing to retrieve a coat, because the coatcheck ticket is in fact inside of the coat. Sorry roj.
Jeers: To the two girls dancing wildly on the elevated cube in the middle of the dance floor. Your nights were going well until you fell from said elevated cube and one of you busted your nose on the floor, spouting blood immediately all over your white dress and the dance floor, while your friend laughed.
Cheers: To the rest of the dancers, who danced around the blood at first, and then decided that you can't spend your entire night dancing around blood.
Jeers: To the AIDS epidemic.
Cheers: To me, for once again enjoying yourself responsibly.
Jeers: To me, for waking up at 9:30, when today all I plan to do is feed myself, and maybe go to a bakery.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Travis Henry and the Conundrum of the Copenhagen Nightlife Dynamic
The headline refers to two topics, not one.
First, Travis Henry. A decent NFL runningback between the years of 2001 and 2007, but an outstanding specimen of what Darwin might call ''biologically fit.'' The New York Times just released a piece on Henry's child support dilemmas (yawn). However, the article pointed to the fact that Henry has nine children, between the ages of 3 and 11. Wait, 11 - 3 = 8. He had 9 kids in 8 years? Impressive. Or as the article calls it, ''prolific procreating.'' There must have been more than one mother involved. Why, yes, there were. Each of his 9 kids, in fact, has a different mother! Some of their births were months apart! Way to go Trav. You are officially the Rickey Henderson of babymaking.
Some quotes from the article:
''educating its players about making wise choices''
''the attention he received after he was indicted on charges of cocaine trafficking''
''“They’ve got my blood; I’ve got to deal with it,” Henry said''
''“I love all my kids,” he said''
''The child was unplanned as were all but one of his offspring, he said.''
''Henry’s mother, who picked oranges for a living, disapproved''
''“Knock on wood, or something, I’m blessed not to have AIDS.”''
''Back in Denver, his fiancée awaits...neither wants children.''
Now, the Conundrum of the Copenhagen Nightlife Dynamic. There are a couple of facts about the Copenhagen downtown bar scene that lead to an unsolvable conundrum:
1) Americans like to seek out the genuine experience, so they like to avoid other Americans.
2) All of the big downtown bars are full of Americans.
You can see where this goes. Bummer.
Yesterday I went to the Museum of Danish Resistance. Yeah, I know. It's like the Museum of German Non-Racism, the Museum of Swedish Brunettes, the Museum of Swiss Taking Sides, the Museum of Romanian Fair Political Arena, and other Museums that follow the naming scheme of ''The Museum of (Country) (Something that Country is Definitely Not Known For).'' But it was a positive experience, although it did reinforce some stereotypes. And if everybody heard the story about the King of Denmark wearing a jewish star during the holocaust to get the entire nation to do it as well, it is apparently false.
Correction from last post: As numerous people have showed me, Norway is, in fact, NOT between Sweden and Finland (although a small northern portion of it may be considered to be between Sweden and Finland). I apologize for the misinformation and I hope my mistake has caused any irreperable damage.
First, Travis Henry. A decent NFL runningback between the years of 2001 and 2007, but an outstanding specimen of what Darwin might call ''biologically fit.'' The New York Times just released a piece on Henry's child support dilemmas (yawn). However, the article pointed to the fact that Henry has nine children, between the ages of 3 and 11. Wait, 11 - 3 = 8. He had 9 kids in 8 years? Impressive. Or as the article calls it, ''prolific procreating.'' There must have been more than one mother involved. Why, yes, there were. Each of his 9 kids, in fact, has a different mother! Some of their births were months apart! Way to go Trav. You are officially the Rickey Henderson of babymaking.
Some quotes from the article:
''educating its players about making wise choices''
''the attention he received after he was indicted on charges of cocaine trafficking''
''“They’ve got my blood; I’ve got to deal with it,” Henry said''
''“I love all my kids,” he said''
''The child was unplanned as were all but one of his offspring, he said.''
''Henry’s mother, who picked oranges for a living, disapproved''
''“Knock on wood, or something, I’m blessed not to have AIDS.”''
''Back in Denver, his fiancée awaits...neither wants children.''
Now, the Conundrum of the Copenhagen Nightlife Dynamic. There are a couple of facts about the Copenhagen downtown bar scene that lead to an unsolvable conundrum:
1) Americans like to seek out the genuine experience, so they like to avoid other Americans.
2) All of the big downtown bars are full of Americans.
You can see where this goes. Bummer.
Yesterday I went to the Museum of Danish Resistance. Yeah, I know. It's like the Museum of German Non-Racism, the Museum of Swedish Brunettes, the Museum of Swiss Taking Sides, the Museum of Romanian Fair Political Arena, and other Museums that follow the naming scheme of ''The Museum of (Country) (Something that Country is Definitely Not Known For).'' But it was a positive experience, although it did reinforce some stereotypes. And if everybody heard the story about the King of Denmark wearing a jewish star during the holocaust to get the entire nation to do it as well, it is apparently false.
Correction from last post: As numerous people have showed me, Norway is, in fact, NOT between Sweden and Finland (although a small northern portion of it may be considered to be between Sweden and Finland). I apologize for the misinformation and I hope my mistake has caused any irreperable damage.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Pancakes and Norway
Pancakes and Norway: The story of the past few days, in two parts
i.) Pancakes
On Thursday, a planned Keops Kooking Klub dinner was cancelled due to things coming up. Tragedy. Sarah sends me a text, "Pancakes for dinner? Yummm..." One text conversation and a trip to the Lidl and Netto later, we are all set. On the menu: Pancakes (regular, chocolate, banana, banana chocolate, white chocolate strawberry, strawberry cream, raspberry cream) from scratch, and crispy bacon. I don't want to say that Sarah and I saved the day, but the pancakes were delicious and satisfying and we saved the day.
ii.) Norway
On Friday, we departed on a cruise to Oslo, the capital city of Norway, the land mass between Sweden and Finland located at the heart of Scandanavia, the cold unsavory portion of Europe. Most of the time spent on the boat either consisted of light-hearted chit chat or, if at night, bouncing between the various night spots on the boat. This included Force 7, a nightclub on the Seventh floor of the ship.
It also included a passionate game of Kings, and being yelled at no less than four times by the same security guard. The first three times were for being in the ball pit at inappropriate times of the day. Although the ball pit was noticably off limits due to the bars inhibiting entry, the security man's responses were unnecessarily cold, calculated and direct. "Do you have eyes?" once. And then "unbelievable," in a voice so disappointed it would make even a Jewish mother wince. When he caught myself and Emily in the kitchen of the restaurant that offered a $40 buffet, he accused us of trying to steal food (if a hungry man steals a handful of Honey Smacks to feed his family, is it really stealing?) and said if I was caught one more time, I would be punished.
This man took silver in "my favorite employees aboard The Pearl of Scandanavia," losing out to the man over the loudspeaker who would wake us up or give us other important announcements. When he spoke in his native Danish, he sounded like the rest of Denmark, bubbly and incomprehensible. However, when he spoke in English, he sounded as if his nose and his testicles had been switched.
We went to the highest on the ship that men can go, and it was something of a crisis. The Scandanavian sea at night was pure black. All you could feel was the ship's slow bobbing. You could not see anything at all, we could have been in a completely black room. It felt not unlike the paintings of Edvard Munch (1862-1944).
We visited the Munch Museum, a Norwegian painter famous for The Scream and Madonna. The Scream was stolen twice, once recently. Unfortunately we were not able to view it, although we did see a different version that Munch painted. The man in The Scream (not this painting) who has his hands on his face is Munch. He was walking with some friends (the people in the background, on the left) when he lagged behind and then heard the scream coming from nature, an audification of the eternal existential crisis of the modern man. The sky turned an appropriate (maybe not?) red and life hit him. I enjoyed the style of Munch and for some reason his paintings came off more earnestly than what I would expect from a painter of existential tragedy. I especially appreciated his paintings of love, which were also touchingly earnest, but obviously in a very different way. Many of his drawings or paintings showed two lovers, but entirely alone together. My two favorite paintings were Jealousy and Murderer. I suggest looking up both, especially the second one, pictured here. I also bought a poster for a Munch exhibit in the 70's featuring a piece of a man that apparently looks just like me.
BY ANDREW IAN LIPSTEIN
On Thursday, a planned Keops Kooking Klub dinner was cancelled due to things coming up. Tragedy. Sarah sends me a text, "Pancakes for dinner? Yummm..." One text conversation and a trip to the Lidl and Netto later, we are all set. On the menu: Pancakes (regular, chocolate, banana, banana chocolate, white chocolate strawberry, strawberry cream, raspberry cream) from scratch, and crispy bacon. I don't want to say that Sarah and I saved the day, but the pancakes were delicious and satisfying and we saved the day.
ii.) Norway
On Friday, we departed on a cruise to Oslo, the capital city of Norway, the land mass between Sweden and Finland located at the heart of Scandanavia, the cold unsavory portion of Europe. Most of the time spent on the boat either consisted of light-hearted chit chat or, if at night, bouncing between the various night spots on the boat. This included Force 7, a nightclub on the Seventh floor of the ship.
It also included a passionate game of Kings, and being yelled at no less than four times by the same security guard. The first three times were for being in the ball pit at inappropriate times of the day. Although the ball pit was noticably off limits due to the bars inhibiting entry, the security man's responses were unnecessarily cold, calculated and direct. "Do you have eyes?" once. And then "unbelievable," in a voice so disappointed it would make even a Jewish mother wince. When he caught myself and Emily in the kitchen of the restaurant that offered a $40 buffet, he accused us of trying to steal food (if a hungry man steals a handful of Honey Smacks to feed his family, is it really stealing?) and said if I was caught one more time, I would be punished.
This man took silver in "my favorite employees aboard The Pearl of Scandanavia," losing out to the man over the loudspeaker who would wake us up or give us other important announcements. When he spoke in his native Danish, he sounded like the rest of Denmark, bubbly and incomprehensible. However, when he spoke in English, he sounded as if his nose and his testicles had been switched.
We went to the highest on the ship that men can go, and it was something of a crisis. The Scandanavian sea at night was pure black. All you could feel was the ship's slow bobbing. You could not see anything at all, we could have been in a completely black room. It felt not unlike the paintings of Edvard Munch (1862-1944).
We visited the Munch Museum, a Norwegian painter famous for The Scream and Madonna. The Scream was stolen twice, once recently. Unfortunately we were not able to view it, although we did see a different version that Munch painted. The man in The Scream (not this painting) who has his hands on his face is Munch. He was walking with some friends (the people in the background, on the left) when he lagged behind and then heard the scream coming from nature, an audification of the eternal existential crisis of the modern man. The sky turned an appropriate (maybe not?) red and life hit him. I enjoyed the style of Munch and for some reason his paintings came off more earnestly than what I would expect from a painter of existential tragedy. I especially appreciated his paintings of love, which were also touchingly earnest, but obviously in a very different way. Many of his drawings or paintings showed two lovers, but entirely alone together. My two favorite paintings were Jealousy and Murderer. I suggest looking up both, especially the second one, pictured here. I also bought a poster for a Munch exhibit in the 70's featuring a piece of a man that apparently looks just like me.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
A Letter From My Future Boss After My First Post-College Interview, As I Imagine It Today
So this is sort of a cheap blog-entry because I wrote this before I came to Copenhagen, but how things have been going in the "future" department, I think it's relevant and okay:
A Letter From My Future Boss After My First Post-College Interview, As I Imagine It Today
BY ANDREW IAN LIPSTEIN
Dear Mr. Lipstein,
I’d first like to thank you for personally redefining what we know as “charisma,” “magnetism,” and “professionalism.” Your interview, needless to say, went swimmingly. Not only were we all, here at our large company that makes creative publications of some sort, impressed with the fact your greatest weakness was being a perfectionist, but your subtle yet largely evident use of a power tie was original. Breath-takingly original. Your blatant eye-contact upon meeting myself, the President of the aforementioned company, and the CEO definitely corresponded with the promised “nose-to-the-grindstone” work ethic your cover letter promised. We also appreciated that the same letter distinguished you from all other job candidates by discussing the fact you are “multi-dimensional.” I gotta tell you, if we get one more one-dimensional average Joe, I’m going hand it in. I’m going to literally quit my job and hand the company over to you, you talented son of a bitch. In addition, the fact you ended your letter with the phrase “I look forward to hearing from you” implied a certain confidence that we don’t have the opportunity of seeing everyday. It was almost as if you knew that when we contacted you, it would be good news. Stunning.
If your flawless, charm-filled interview and Magna Carta-esque cover letter were not enough to sway us here at this company to hire you, than your résumé surely would have done the trick. Right off the bat: in High School you took “all classes at the Advanced Placement or accelerated level”? This is unheard of, and although we definitely trust you (because of the aforementioned eye-contact), we had to fact check this caveat of your résumé. I mean, nobody is able to take ALL classes at the Advanced Placement or accelerated level. What, were you some sort of well-rounded renaissance-man prodigy as a young high schooler? Out. Of. This. World. Surely this fact directly proves the multi-dimensionality mentioned in your cover letter. We also noticed from your resume that you were peripherally involved in QUITE A FEW clubs and organizations on campus. Writer for the newspaper? Kayak club? Young Republicans? Peer tutoring? Where do you find the time!? No seriously, we MUST know. How often do you meet someone who has been in at least four clubs in college AND has at least a 3.0? A 3.0 is a solid B. Most people get C’s. Transcendental.
Also, needless to say, the professionalism, symmetry and cool font you used on your résumé definitely stood out among all of the other lame candidates who used a right-justified Arial font without including their middle name.
Now, there is some slight bad news. Actually, two bits of bad news. First off: While there is definitely a need to offer enough money so that you can live within a few blocks of the city, we cannot offer you enough so that you can afford the Rittenhouse apartment you always dreamed of. Instead, we will be offering you housing outside of
And before you take another thought about whether or not to accept our offer, a few more minor details:
- As you informed us of your quirky hunger schedule, your work hours will be 10:00-11:00 a.m. followed by a 2 hour lunch break, and then from 1:00-3:00. And yes, of course we will have a company fridge completely stacked with pizza, ketchup and diet root beer.
- Fridays will not be given off, but will be for the weekly softball game against or rival company that produces creative publications as well. We are in desperate need of a starting pitcher, and we heard about your slider.
- Just as a general rule of thumb: if it’s a holiday somewhere, it’s a holiday here.
Thank you, Sincerely, and Love,
Peter E. Flipcomber (just call me Flip, Boss, Bud or Big Guy)
President
Monday, March 2, 2009
$40 a Day
One of Rachael Ray's many shows on the Food Network is the show "$40 a Day," which began in 2002 and ended in, what? It's still running? At least that's what IMDB says. Also, under Plot Keywords it says: "Spoiler Alert! Rollover or vote to view plot keywords" and then once you rollover (spoiler alert!) it says "Travel | Food | Cuisine | Money In Title | Budget"
Who is searching for the plot keyword "Money in Title"? I want to meet them.
Anyway, by cutting corners and being an absolute maverick, Rachael Ray can show you how to eat "scrumdiptiously" and things "that are absolutely to DIE for" for only around $15,000 a year. She can also make you hate how she says E.V.O.O. (extra virgin olive oil) but at the same time work it into your own vernacular so you hate yourself a little when you say it but then convince yourself you only do it because it's half the syllables.
Because most of America can't afford $40 dollars a day, and I'm willing to bet most of the world couldn't afford $40 a month, I am going to do something Rachael Ray never did nor could do. No, it's not pass up an endorsement on Triscuits, it's a $15 a day, Kobenhavn Edition! Also, keep in mind that Kobenhavn (taking the exchange rate into account) is massively more expensive (keep in mind a Big Mac Meal can run you about $10 US) than the places Ray visits. Also, unlike Ray, my recount is going to be realistic meals for people actually living life. Therefore, there won't be 3 hour brunches nor cute visits to cute souvenir shops cute:
Breakfast
Half a quart of milk: 2 Kroner
3-4 Bowls of Cereal and other Mix-Ins: 5 Kroner
(Alternatively, Egg, Bacon and Pancake Breakfast will run around the same cost)
Lunch
Water: 0 Kroner
Packed Sandwhich: Approximately 6 Kroner
Packed Dessert: Approximately 4 Kroner
Snack
Street Figs: 5 Kroner
Snack
A few pieces of candy from the candy store. So little, in fact, that the register person gives you a "really?" look: 3 Kroner
Snack
Free sample of as many nuts as you dare take from the roasted nuts and waffle stand: 0 Kroner
Snack
Pre-Dinner snack of cereal, raisins, et cetera: 3 Kroner
Snack
M&M vending machines, which will give you four (4) peanut M&M's or fifteen (15) regular M&M's for 2 Kroner: 2 Kroner
Dinner
Three days a night (thanks to Keops Kooking Klub): 0 Kr.
Monday Night Hamburgers at Peder Oxe (where every student will be from the Americans paying $40,000 a year to be there to the Danish who are being paid a few grand to be there): 35 Kr.
Total: Breakfast (7 Kr.) + Lunch (10 Kr.) + Snacks (13 Kr.) + Dinner (0 - 35 Kr.) =
Between 31 and 65 Kroner, or, between 5 and 10 dollars. Hey Rachael, put that in your blender and whisk it.
More realistically, if I go for the Happy Tirsdag 20 Kroner Happy Meal (20 Kroner) and get a pastry at Taffelbay or Saint Peter's Bakery (12 Kroner), and eat out for dinner (30-60 Kroner), it will run me 62 to 92 Kroner, which is still around $15 dollars.
Moral or the story: If put in Kobenhavn with a true-to-life schedule, Rachael Ray would be one of the very few homeless Danes, asking for money in reasonably looking jackets, with a few teeth missing from her award-winning smile.
Who is searching for the plot keyword "Money in Title"? I want to meet them.
Anyway, by cutting corners and being an absolute maverick, Rachael Ray can show you how to eat "scrumdiptiously" and things "that are absolutely to DIE for" for only around $15,000 a year. She can also make you hate how she says E.V.O.O. (extra virgin olive oil) but at the same time work it into your own vernacular so you hate yourself a little when you say it but then convince yourself you only do it because it's half the syllables.
Because most of America can't afford $40 dollars a day, and I'm willing to bet most of the world couldn't afford $40 a month, I am going to do something Rachael Ray never did nor could do. No, it's not pass up an endorsement on Triscuits, it's a $15 a day, Kobenhavn Edition! Also, keep in mind that Kobenhavn (taking the exchange rate into account) is massively more expensive (keep in mind a Big Mac Meal can run you about $10 US) than the places Ray visits. Also, unlike Ray, my recount is going to be realistic meals for people actually living life. Therefore, there won't be 3 hour brunches nor cute visits to cute souvenir shops cute:
Breakfast
Half a quart of milk: 2 Kroner
3-4 Bowls of Cereal and other Mix-Ins: 5 Kroner
(Alternatively, Egg, Bacon and Pancake Breakfast will run around the same cost)
Lunch
Water: 0 Kroner
Packed Sandwhich: Approximately 6 Kroner
Packed Dessert: Approximately 4 Kroner
Snack
Street Figs: 5 Kroner
Snack
A few pieces of candy from the candy store. So little, in fact, that the register person gives you a "really?" look: 3 Kroner
Snack
Free sample of as many nuts as you dare take from the roasted nuts and waffle stand: 0 Kroner
Snack
Pre-Dinner snack of cereal, raisins, et cetera: 3 Kroner
Snack
M&M vending machines, which will give you four (4) peanut M&M's or fifteen (15) regular M&M's for 2 Kroner: 2 Kroner
Dinner
Three days a night (thanks to Keops Kooking Klub): 0 Kr.
Monday Night Hamburgers at Peder Oxe (where every student will be from the Americans paying $40,000 a year to be there to the Danish who are being paid a few grand to be there): 35 Kr.
Total: Breakfast (7 Kr.) + Lunch (10 Kr.) + Snacks (13 Kr.) + Dinner (0 - 35 Kr.) =
Between 31 and 65 Kroner, or, between 5 and 10 dollars. Hey Rachael, put that in your blender and whisk it.
More realistically, if I go for the Happy Tirsdag 20 Kroner Happy Meal (20 Kroner) and get a pastry at Taffelbay or Saint Peter's Bakery (12 Kroner), and eat out for dinner (30-60 Kroner), it will run me 62 to 92 Kroner, which is still around $15 dollars.
Moral or the story: If put in Kobenhavn with a true-to-life schedule, Rachael Ray would be one of the very few homeless Danes, asking for money in reasonably looking jackets, with a few teeth missing from her award-winning smile.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The New Animal Collective
The title is a reference to a tidbit some of my good friends might know about me. That is, I feel nauseous if I listen to Animal Collective in the morning after a late night.
This morning I woke up and made myself the trifecta: eggs, bacon and chocolate pancakes (cereal too, but that's a given). And then I covered it with the sauce trifecta: ketchup, maple syrup and pommes frittes sauce. And I ate it and then wikipedia-ed "placenta." Apparently, this shows symptoms similar to the Animal Collective Effect, maybe even more exaggerated.
My ambitions for this Saturday:
I guess I'd find out who here is really a friend, wouldn't I?
Last night I went to Shabbat services with Joel, Joel's girlfriend Gil (very nonreligious, from Israel) and Lucy (not even a Jew, from San Fran). First mistake both Joel and I made was blowing our load on the appetizers. I'm going back in my head to try to remember if I used the phrase "blowing [my] load" in this blog yet and the freudian implications a potential reader might make.
Anti-climactic moment of the night: When I waited past the seven songs that were queued on the jukebox before my choice finally came up. Emily even waited up for me while everyone else was impatient. And then finally, the jukebox inaudibly dripped out the normally-bombastic-but-now-unenthusiastic first fifteen seconds of Bowie's "China Girl." I was so embarrassed for both myself and the jukebox I had to leave.
This morning I woke up and made myself the trifecta: eggs, bacon and chocolate pancakes (cereal too, but that's a given). And then I covered it with the sauce trifecta: ketchup, maple syrup and pommes frittes sauce. And I ate it and then wikipedia-ed "placenta." Apparently, this shows symptoms similar to the Animal Collective Effect, maybe even more exaggerated.
My ambitions for this Saturday:
- Take the bus down downtown
- Buy my first street hot dog
- Stay classy, San Diego
I guess I'd find out who here is really a friend, wouldn't I?
Last night I went to Shabbat services with Joel, Joel's girlfriend Gil (very nonreligious, from Israel) and Lucy (not even a Jew, from San Fran). First mistake both Joel and I made was blowing our load on the appetizers. I'm going back in my head to try to remember if I used the phrase "blowing [my] load" in this blog yet and the freudian implications a potential reader might make.
Anti-climactic moment of the night: When I waited past the seven songs that were queued on the jukebox before my choice finally came up. Emily even waited up for me while everyone else was impatient. And then finally, the jukebox inaudibly dripped out the normally-bombastic-but-now-unenthusiastic first fifteen seconds of Bowie's "China Girl." I was so embarrassed for both myself and the jukebox I had to leave.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A Stilted, Pretending Day
You know if the title makes reference to The National, it couldn't have been a good day. Think about it. Try to find one lyric out of a song by The National that would make for an upbeat blog entry title. Impossible. I know because I just tried.
Up to this morning, I was feeling optimistic and ecstatic about a potential job this summer. Specifically being a baker in a pancake house in Holland. Specifically Amsterdam. Unfortunately, apparently one of their employees wants to move to the kitchen, and just like that, my hopes and dreams of having this opportunity were taken from me.
Nota Bene: If you have ANY summer opportunities or ideas, contact me. I have a resume, and maybe even a CV, if you play your cards right.
Also, my jar of honey fell from my shelf into my sink and shattered my second to last bowl. The third to last was shattered a week ago. I can't continue this habit because you can't eat cereal off of a plate. You can however eat cereal out of a glass. You can't however eat cereal out a glass AND maintain all of your dignity AND enjoy cereal in a free-flowing spoony kind of way, if you know what I mean.
Also, I forgot to bring my ipod and headphones to the laundromat cafe, where I am currently in. Yes, part cafe. The other part is for laundry.
Also, a crick, in my neck.
Well, this entry sufficed in showing how dour I feel. Usually I would have stuck another adjective in there after dour (such as "dour and gloomy" or "dour and down and out") but dour is too accurate. I'm looking at Tiffany right now, across the table, and thinking about how much she's going to appreciate this paragraph.
To make this entry less of a downer. I'm throwing in a sneak peak (the entirety) of my Letter From Abroad, which will (most likely) be in this week's Bi-Co. I think it's funny to read. Enjoy:
Up to this morning, I was feeling optimistic and ecstatic about a potential job this summer. Specifically being a baker in a pancake house in Holland. Specifically Amsterdam. Unfortunately, apparently one of their employees wants to move to the kitchen, and just like that, my hopes and dreams of having this opportunity were taken from me.
Nota Bene: If you have ANY summer opportunities or ideas, contact me. I have a resume, and maybe even a CV, if you play your cards right.
Also, my jar of honey fell from my shelf into my sink and shattered my second to last bowl. The third to last was shattered a week ago. I can't continue this habit because you can't eat cereal off of a plate. You can however eat cereal out of a glass. You can't however eat cereal out a glass AND maintain all of your dignity AND enjoy cereal in a free-flowing spoony kind of way, if you know what I mean.
Also, I forgot to bring my ipod and headphones to the laundromat cafe, where I am currently in. Yes, part cafe. The other part is for laundry.
Also, a crick, in my neck.
Well, this entry sufficed in showing how dour I feel. Usually I would have stuck another adjective in there after dour (such as "dour and gloomy" or "dour and down and out") but dour is too accurate. I'm looking at Tiffany right now, across the table, and thinking about how much she's going to appreciate this paragraph.
To make this entry less of a downer. I'm throwing in a sneak peak (the entirety) of my Letter From Abroad, which will (most likely) be in this week's Bi-Co. I think it's funny to read. Enjoy:
Hey Fool, It’s Not
It’s København, Danmark.
By Andrew Ian Lipstein
The first thing I learned about
Upon arriving in København (pronounced Queue-Ben-How-N), I stepped off the plane and noticed the airport was in fact in an Ikea, which is unexpected because Ikea is Swedish. The airport was somewhere between the Countertop Department and Sinks & Faucets.
I was greeted by Rasmus, my assigned Dane. All travelers to Danmark have an assigned Dane who follows them on a Segway gargling incomprehensible Danish phrases and occasionally singing a prayer for either the queen or Hans Christian Andersen. This service is provided by the Danish government, which might help to explain their income tax, falling somewhere in between 103 and 107 percent. If you work for an hour and make 100 Danish Kroner (the exchange rate is usually around 1,000 American dollars to one crumpled up piece of Danish currency, but also depends on how sheepish you appear at the Currency Exchange), you must pay 103 to 107 Kroner back to the government. Just from an outsider’s perspective, it seems their system is quite broken. But hey, Universal Healthcare, right?
All Danish men are 6’5’’ (children are somewhere in between infant height and 6’5’’) and all Danish women are 6’2’’. Once, there was a Danish man who was 6’4’’ (or 6’6’’, I forget), but the government took him away for research. Every Dane is blonde and they all get a rosy glow when they smile or think about cold things.
In upholding tradition, all Danes wear wooden shoes. Combined with the cobblestone streets, the Danes are introduced to pain and broken phalanges at a very early age. I’ve caught many of them gawking at my Sketchers, wishing they could go a day without filling their clogs with pure Danish blood.
But while I have it easy walking, I have traveler’s stomach. This is when coddled and privileged Americans travel to less fortunate countries and experience a lesser quality of food. Danes are brought up to solely eat pastries and drink Carlsberg. They derive all nutrition from icing and carbonation; it’s how they are built. I am not quite used to this and I’m pretty sure I have scurvy and maybe dysentery. I’m seeing my free (!) doctor about this tomorrow. All I have to do is blow my “boo-boo” whistle. Then Rasmus Segways me to the nearest hospital (in
Before coming to København, the Study Abroad Office introduced something called The W-Theory to all students planning to study abroad. This empirically-backed and irrefutable theory states that when arriving, you will feel euphoria something similar to crack cocaine. Soon after going through customs, your mood will plummet into a feeling of loneliness and deep depression, similar to, well, I guess the after-effects of crack cocaine. But soon after, you will once again reach that high that you’d sell a sibling for. But, wait, it’s not over. You will become manically depressed, doing anything to feel love or at least some sort of human connection. And once you do, you will skyrocket up to a new feeling of adrenaline pumping through your veins, reminding you of that craving to feel what you felt when you arrived. And so on.
Well, let me tell you: it’s all true. I just got back from dinner with some friends and I am riding an incredible high of cultural integration. I’m just so afraid of what happens when I hit the wall again…
Anyway. København is breathtaking. Go abroad. Lose some teeth. Gain some scurvy. Meet your own Rasmus. After all, it’s about the experience, right?
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