My life on the left side of the road: Revising

All right, I admit that I have been grossly negligent of this poor little blog. But I have an excuse. Well, several actually, but I’ll just go with the main one that hopefully will elicit the most sympathy- I had three papers due within a few weeks of returning from our European holiday (break). AND I lost a week of writing time when we were stranded in Rome due to an Icelandic volcano paralyzing of the European airspace. Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

I have an entire other post worth of material related to the process of researching, writing, and turning in papers here, but I’m going to save it for later. Now that they’re all safe in the hands of the English office, the papers have moved aside for me to begin the process of “revising.” While that term in the States refers to “editing,” here it means “studying.” Go figure.

Any US college student can tell you that there is a certain energy about finals time- a caffeine-fueled, panicked, mind-numbed frenzy. Now imagine placing that energy into a month-long span of papers and finals, on a campus that is already quirky and possessing an energy all its own, and on students who don’t really have many exams and papers throughout the semester to get them acclimated. That’s been the University of Sussex for the past two weeks. However, the frenzy has subsided recently (or revising has completely been abandoned) due to a rare occurrence in England—heat.

For the past two days, we’ve had abnormally good weather. As in, we are all pretty sure we’ve warped to a non-England place…Spain, Texas, Africa…the sun. Since it’s been in the rare 70’s (Fahrenheit), we decided to take advantage of the weather and “study outside”—which almost always translates to an afternoon of napping and chatting. I have yet to go to a school where that is not the case. However, my Sussex experience of “studying outside” has differed from any other, in that the “outside” I study in is in the midst of East Slope. So we get napping, chatting, and entertainment.

Between the 2-3 different types of music drifting and blaring from acoustic guitars and stereos, the water balloon fights breaking out between flats, the smells of portable barbecues firing up, and the parade of the never-ceasing bunny population, there was almost no time to nap. Or study. But not to fear, there was plenty of time for the sun to turn my body to an unnatural shade of crimson. It was worth it, though—laying up on the hill amongst the sea of white, pasty people basking in the rays (another plus to choosing England- my paleness goes unnoticed), gazing at the “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” lyrics that are scrawled in white chalk across the brick of East Slope…soaking it all in. It was the most endearing East Slope moment I could ever hope to have (second only to earlier in the week when I walked out at night to find all of the doors in our alley wide open, people playing guitar on the roofs, and campfires dotting the hill). Sure, living in East Slope means wearing footwear on at all times to avoid broken glass, overlooking and ignoring previously upheld health and safety standards, and dealing with constant noise, but it has its perks (and quirks).

Sitting in the stiflingly hot library, looking around at students who are dwarfed by the stacks of books surrounding them, I am struck by the fact that college students are college students, no matter what part of the world you’re in. Sure, I ran into a group of boys playing hide and seek earlier in the stacks of books upstairs, but that’s fairly typical. As is the night game of capture the flag with nerf guns and head lamps that I observed the night before most everyone had papers due. Figuring out how to blow off steam (and procrastinate a bit) is all part of the game. And if it isn’t actually supposed to be part of the game, it sure is what makes playing the game worthwhile.

The most expensive crepe in France

When most people go to Paris, they see the same main sights—the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomph, Lourve, Notre Dame—the works. However, when we travel, we like to blaze our own trail. So after we had seen that big ol’ tower and arch, we decided to take a grand tour of the Paris medical system. For only 2500 Euro, we got an ambulance ride with the pompier, an afternoon in the Emergencia waiting room, an evening in the Reanimation Unit, and an overnight stay in the hospital. I thought it was quite a bargain.

Since we all know that a tour of the Paris medical system is not as good of a bargain or use of time as I made it sound, I’ll back up and admit that the real reason for our tour was a 7 Euro crepe and a buckwheat allergy. As insignificant as the words “crepe” and “allergy” sound, we found out just how much of an effect they can have when combined.

On our second day in Paris we met up for lunch and sightseeing with my UT friend Sarah, who is doing a semester in Paris. We went to a very authentic creperie (sitting literally shoulder to shoulder with the people next to you, pointing to the menu to order since everyone spoke French, etc.), and noted that the crepes were a darker color than the Nutella and banana crepes we had the previous night at the Eiffel Tower. Sarah casually mentioned that the difference was due to the inclusion of buckwheat, which made the ham, egg and cheese crepe a heartier meal. And delicious, I might add. Which may or may not be an inappropriate comment given the consequences of the crepe, but I had to tell the world.

While we were ordering, Kathryn mentioned that she had a slight allergy to buckwheat but that it should be fine since it was only a small reaction. However, we all forgot the rule of allergy reactions—they tend to get more serious each time you have one. So minutes after leaving the restaurant, the allergic reaction took hold of Kathryn and she was suddenly doubled over with stomach pains and a tight feeling in her chest. I naturally beelined it to the nearest American establishment (Starbucks), as we do in times of stress (needing to using the restroom, allergic reactions, sudden burger craving…). We sat down, sent our French liaison (Texas Sarah) to grab Benadryl, and attempted to communicate to the confused baristas that we weren’t crazy. However, once Kathryn began to talk about passing out, we knew it was time to take it up a notch (well, and the call to my poor slumbering father helped confirm it).

When you’re traveling, you normally know a few things about the country you’re in—the currency, language, local foods and sights. But we realized that “emergency number” was not on that list, and 911 doesn’t exactly work in France. But we made it work with gestures, panicked faces and context clues. [By the way, I’m writing this on a train in Italy and we can all tell you that their emergency number is 118—lesson learned.] The pompier (ambulance) arrived and we all quickly realized that none of them spoke English and couldn’t understand “allergic reaction,” even when it was spoken by six different girls in high-pitched, frantic tones. Weird.

And then we all saw that we had a guardian angel with us in the form of Texas Sarah. Her six years of French sprung into action and we were able to get the right idea across to the pompier. Since she was able to communicate with them, she rode with Kathryn to the hospital—after meeting her an hour prior—and we met them at the hospital. (Which was actually a harder job than one might think—the French take lunch breaks very seriously and consequently all the taxis we passed were empty. We finally found one with a driver eating his lunch in his car and I politely informed him that lunch was over because we needed to get to the hospital.)

After an afternoon of waiting, we were escorted to the “Reanimation Unit,” like an ICU, where Kathryn was recovering. Her symptoms had escalated and she ended up in a shock-like condition, which required them to keep her overnight. While it wasn’t the most ideal situation for her, we all understood the precaution and were more assured after the English speaking intern explained the situation (even if he did strongly resemble the mean chef from Ratatouille). So we picked her up the next morning and went on our merry way…after buying an Epi-pen.

As hard as it is to admit that a crepe created a life lesson and learning experience, I can’t really deny it. We have all become much more aware of health and emergency precautions, and are probably hyper-sensitive about allergies. Plus, being unable to speak with any of the emergency or hospital personnel made me realize just how much I rely on my communication skills. It was a big challenge for me to be in an emergency situation and be almost completely helpless, and it’s good to remember that vulnerable feeling when dealing with other people who were in my shoes. Obviously its something that we have all talked and laughed about since, but the fact of the matter remains—we aren’t indestructible. Just because we’re young and fancy free doesn’t mean that we can’t end up in a foreign hopital…

This is your captain speaking…

If Julie Andrews ever sang a lesser-known song titled “My Least Favorite Things,” those words would be central to the chorus. They certainly would be if I wrote it.  Along with “French boys” and “closed airports.”

Let me begin by saying that Ryanair prides itself on its 90 percent on-time flight statistic. They announce it at the beginning of each flight, amongst all of their other advertisements (a Ryanair flight is pretty much a solid advertising hour-smokeless cigarettes, newspapers, food, and soon to be bathrooms), and play trumpeting music upon each on-time arrival.

However, after my Barcelona and Paris experiences, I have decided that I must just like hanging out in that other 10 percent. Our flight from Dublin to Paris is typically an hour and fifteen minute flight. We left Dublin at 9 p.m.  and rolled into Paris at…10 a.m. Not quite an hour and fifteen minutes.

Our twelve-hour, multi-country adventure began with all of the cabin lights suddenly extinguishing, plunging us into confused darkness. Then those fateful words—“this is your captain speaking…”—followed by instructions to leave all reading and overhead lights off. Let me say, flying thousands of feet over ground in the dark (literally and figuratively) is not the most comfortable feeling. After twiddling our thumbs and beginning broken conversations in a mixture of French and English, we heard those words again.  Apparently the flight attendants had smelled fumes, and out of safety we had to land at London Stansted to check it out.

Once you hear news like that, you pretty much are ready to be on the ground (even if it is at Stansted). But instead, we circled the airport for a half hour, waiting for clearance. I might add that the flight from London to Paris is a thirty-minute flight. I’m not criticizing a choice made for my safety, but you would think they would try to get an ailing plane on the ground a tad faster than the amount of time it would take to just continue with the flight.

So we switched planes at Stansted, got resettled, and I continued naively planning my first trip to the Eiffel Tower for when we landed.  As we took off, our nostrils were all filled with an overwhelming smell of fuel…but after looking at each other we remained silent. We weren’t about to incite another surprise addition to our itinerary (and it went away shortly, don’t worry).

However, we weren’t done hearing from our captain. Around the time we saw the lights of Paris, he came on again to tell us that the Paris airports were closed for the evening and that we were figuring out another course of action. Ummm…what? Since when does one of the biggest cities in Europe “close” at midnight?  I mean, we were only an hour later than our original landing time—someone couldn’t have left a light on for us?

We all laughed incredulously and were in the process of translating the English announcement to our new French friends when our fearless leader returned to the microphone. We were going to land in Lille, France. At first, I was happy to not be returning to Stansted, but I soon realized that I don’t know where Lille is. Nor do I speak French. Stansted began looking better and better, particularly after hearing the amount of laughter from the French passengers who knew where Lille is.

Well we landed in Lille, and immediately called our stateside parents to look up where we were (we found out later that we were about a stones throw from Belgium). As we began to gather our belongings to exit the plane, our favorite voice filled the speaker system to tell us that we couldn’t leave the aircraft since the airport was closed and all of the ground crew was at home. So they were waking them up to come get us off the plane and into the country. Which obviously couldn’t have been done in Paris.

Since this is getting to be a long, sad tale, I will skip through the long wait on the plane, the disembarkment, the non-stamping of our passports (which was the part of the night I was most upset about, oddly enough), and the confusion that followed us being released into an empty airport. Which puts us on a bus to what we were hoping would eventually be Paris. However, by the time we realized the bus was actually going to the Beauvais airport (our original landing site), the bus was on its way and we couldn’t get off. So we took a nap and mentally steeled ourselves for whatever was going to come next.

At 2 a.m., we got off the bus at the closed Beauvais airport, 80 km from Paris. Some motherly ladies took pity on our pathetic attempts to speak French and told us that another bus was supposed to drop people off at Beauvais and continue to Paris. So we waited at the spot where the bus had dropped us off, only seeing one place where a bus could turn around. By this time you probably already know that there was another, hidden bus turnaround where the other bus went. And you can probably guess that we saw it as it was too late, and my sprinting after it (with Big Blue) was no use. I can honestly say that it was one of the most discouraging experiences of my life—right up there with playing jazz piano and honors chemistry.

We convinced a security guard to let us into the dark airport and joined the other slumbering people on the cold tiled floor. We later found out that they were supposed to be on the flight to Dublin that was cancelled due to their plane landing in Lille (it’s all part of the circle of air travel hell).  After two hours, the airport opened and we were able to enjoy a croissant while we waited for the 8 a.m. bus to Paris. We gratefully boarded the bus without a hitch, and finally made it to Paris at 10 a.m.

And that is how some fumes and five little words can put you on an adventure worthy of a bad comedy screenplay. We are still pretty sure that those fumes were the product of poor digestion of a chili dinner and an embarrassed silence. But the whole experience served to make me appreciate that 90 percent a bit more…

Everyone’s Irish on March 17th

I have been living out of Big Blue for over two and a half weeks. My shame of wearing the same outfit multiple times has dwindled out, and I am now operating under the “if it doesn’t stink I will wear it again” policy. Yes, that includes socks. While that may be a gross thing to admit to the world, at least socks are the only undergarments I’m re-wearing. For now.

It doesn’t feel like it’s only been two and a half weeks. So much has been crammed into the past 18 days—a countless number of cities, churches, tourist spots, bus rides, and large amounts of unhealthy food. But instead of being overwhelmed with the amount that I could write about each leg of the adventure, I will just take it a piece at a time. Which puts us first in Dublin, Ireland.

Wisdom from the Guinness Factory

Since England is only a hop, skip, and a jump from Ireland, the natural choice for our St. Patrick’s Day celebration location this year was the birthplace of the holiday. I had just enough time to turn in my end of term assessments before Anna and I scooted off to the emerald island, arriving the night before the big day.

Getting ready for the parade

We didn’t have enough time to deck ourselves in green before walking to the parade route, so we gradually picked up our St. Patrickness as we went. And by “gradually,” I mean we picked up Irish paraphernalia at the same speed as an avalanche gathers snow on its way down the mountain. We left our hotel looking like normal human beings and returned an unrecognizable Irish mess of green shamrocks.

At least she's wearing green...

The parade was quite an experience. Normal expectations of a St. Patrick’s Day parade in Dublin would call for dancing leprechauns, glittery rainbows, and green processions—right? Nope, not at all.

We got an inflatable rainbow, but that was where the clichés ended. Instead, we were entertained by dancing chickens, mechanical insects, robots, and jungle creatures. Oh, and Dracula. I felt like I was in downtown Olympia watching the Procession of the Species: Ireland Edition. But it was so much fun (in a completely wonderful, what-could-possibly-come-next kind of way).

I thought it was interesting that none of the floats were motorized; instead, they were either peddled like a bike or pushed by a team of people. It makes you appreciate the parade more when you watch people toil for your entertainment. I just cannot imagine people agreeing to push a large metal structure through a city in the US. It might be the end of parades as we know them (which I probably wouldn’t mind, as a player of a large, painful marching instrument—I’m only just now able to “appreciate” parades).

The rest of our day consisted of a classic meal (Guinness and beef stew in a bread bowl), the avoidance of large crowds of tourists dressed like us, an accidental jaunt around Dublin, an unclassic meal (Domino’s pizza), and a night out at Temple Bar. Throughout the celebrations, we noticed more non-English conversations flying around than Irish accents and it was obvious that the tourists far outnumbered the locals. While it was a huge day in Ireland, I feel that the more stereotypical St. Patrick’s Day scenes occur in cities like Boston and Chicago. Considering the amount of Irish immigrants that were once concentrated in major US cities, it would make sense that the festivities expanded as their homesickness grew and tradition has kept the spirit alive.

Over the rainbow

That’s not to say that our Dublin merriment was disappointing. Any celebration where its acceptable to wear giant shamrock sunglasses, an orange, white, and green boa, and a light up green shamrock hat is good by me. And who needs to see a leprechaun when you can see an army of red-clad, Mohawk-sporting, water gun-wielding teenagers marching down the street?

Overall, we put St. Patrick’s Day in the success column.

My life on the left side of the road: Episode 2

Naturally, this week has moved a lot faster than I was hoping and expecting. Between getting my spring break notebook ready, going to Les Mis, finishing my multiple papers/projects, and preparing for Anna’s UK invasion, I haven’t really put blogging on the priority list. But now that I have reached a slump in motivation to write my management paper, I’m just going to jot a few more thoughts down.

All of the girls at Les Mis

• Girls rarely wear jeans. I didn’t really think about it until I was walking across campus earlier, but now that I look around the library I see that every girl (except me, of course) is wearing leggings or tights. The whole leggings and boots thing is huge- I’m sure it will catch up to the US by next year. - Every sink we have seen has two faucets—hot and cold. And when I say “hot and cold,” I’m not kidding. Every hand washing experience is like a Katy Perry song—you’re hot and then you’re cold, and there is absolutely no happy warm. We’ve learned to turn both on and swipe between the two, confusing our bodies between being hypothermic and upset about the second-degree burns.

• “Yaright?” When we first came and our flatmates would greet us with this phrase, it took us several days to figure out a) what they were saying, and b) what the proper response was. What they’re saying is “are you all right?”, which would be just like us asking each other “how’s it going?” or “how are you?” When my flatmate first asked me, I froze like a deer in headlights. (“Am I all right? Do I not look all right? I mean, I did just travel across the world and was greeted by an epic snowstorm…does that mean I look upset? How do I respond?”) I finally settled on just smiling confusedly and saying yes. We still haven’t quite perfected the best way to answer, since it still feels like an odd question to get asked in passing. But its just one of those cultural differences.

• Trash bins (or rubbish bins) are practically nonexistent in London. Which is funny, because it’s actually a really clean city. I had to throw out an apple when we were on the Tube and I ended up waiting about 45 minutes until we were above ground, where I threw it into some bushes. Fern, one of our British friends, said that it was an anti-terrorist measure, which makes sense. But it’s still really frustrating to hold a sticky apple core on a packed train.

• British guys are too skinny. I’m not looking forward to shorts weather with these boys (if shorts weather actually exists)—its going to look like a forest of pale, flesh-colored toothpicks. Plus, many of them have earrings. In both ears. Boys should not be able to wear girl pants, and we shouldn’t be able to share our jewelry. And they shouldn’t spend more time on their hair than we do. Come on now.

• Nothing has preservatives or artificial flavoring (well at least, not to our American standards). Which is great for our bodies, but awful for our wallets and taste buds. Starbursts are simply not the same and we have to eat our food much more quickly.

Molly MacBeth’s battery is running low so I’m going to head out. I’ll have to duck and weave between the protesters occupying the library courtyard, but I think I’ll make it. Oh yeah, University of Sussex is in the middle of a huge battle about budget cuts (which could result in things like a faculty reduction of about 115 positions, the elimination of the environmental science program, and a reduction of the English and history departments). Needless to say, it’s a pretty big deal. Last week students staged a sit-in at one of the buildings on campus and it ended with the riot brigade arresting several students (who were later expelled). The UK police really doesn’t mess around…Oh, and teachers are probably going on strike next week (right before our month-long break, oddly enough).  It’s definitely a rough situation, and I feel bad for everyone involved—but I am leaving in several months…and I would rather not get deported because of a protest. So I’ll stick to ducking and weaving.

Calor y Color en la capital de Catalonia

My parents worst fear has been realized—I went abroad and fell in love. Luckily, this love will not involve gown shopping and registries…and likely not a citizenship change. But I can’t guarantee that it won’t take me away from home more.

I fell in love with la capital de Catalonia—Barcelona. And I’m sure that if I had an opportunity to explore the country more, I would have equally adored all of Espana. Here are a few reasons I loved our stay in the seaside Mediterranean city.

Barceloneta Beach

Calor.

It took our eyes a couple hours to adjust to the brightness, but I basked in it the entire time. When we first arrived on Wednesday night, I feared that I would have to title this post “The Rain in Spain,” since we searched for our hostel in classically dark and rainy conditions (two girls with huge backpacks, asking solely Spanish-speaking locals the direction of unpronounceable and unmarked streets). But we awoke Thursday morning to Spanish sunshine streaming through our hostel balcony window.

Passeig de Gracia- Gaudi

Color.

The city was bursting with it. Between the bright hues that naturally were part of the landscape and the amount of contrasting shades splashed throughout buildings and statues, I felt completely at home with my kindergarten-colored outfit (an electric blue scarf, playdough-purple shirt, and the Pink Blob).  Much of Barcelona’s famous architecture is the work of Antoni Gaudi, a Modernist style architect who was most inspired by nature. He included intricate and colorful murals and designs with stained glass, which the rest of the city has adopted as a trademark.

The front of La Segrada Familia

His greatest work, La Sagrada Familia, is an unfinished cathedral that is still being built based on his plans and specifications. I loved the completely unique nature of the structure—it was so unlike the grey, stone cathedrals I have seen so far. It just felt so much more personable and relatable (which may or may not have something to do with the fruit on top of some of the outer pillars…I love fruit). Plus, it was awesome to go inside and watch builders constructing history.

The lifestyle.

It’s a city of night owls. We would be walking around at 11 p.m. and think that it was 7, just based on the amount of stores and restaurants that were open and people walking around the streets. And it wasn’t like they were all drunk and partying—they were just people living normal lives.  That’s my kind of schedule.

Mixed Paella

The food.

Thanks to the suggestions of my friend Samantha, who studied last term in Sevilla, we were able to know what to order when we went to restaurants.  Which is good, given the fact that the restaurant we went to on Wednesday night (after trudging through the rainy city) gave me a hamburger and frankfurter…and nothing else. No buns. No cheese. No veggies (not that I would have eaten them anyway). Just the patty and dog. It was one of the best moments of the trip. Needless to say, we followed Sam’s suggestions from then on…

We went to a place called La Fonda, where we consumed authentic Sangria (no offense, Mom) and mixed Paella, a rice dish with beans, vegetables, and a variety of seafood and meats. Which, thanks to Wikipedia, I now know probably included snails. But what I didn’t know didn’t kill me, so it’s fine.

Churros y Chocolate

We also tried churros and hot chocolate…which was heavenly (in hindsight, that is an interesting choice of words since I actually gave up chocolate for Lent. Whoops.).

I could go on and on about the trip, and I’m sure I will in a later entry. However, I am currently supposed to be in “productive Amy” mode since Anna comes next week and I have quite a bit due in the following week…

So until I get more marketing and management work done, ciao!

I want to be where the people are…

I officially left the island this weekend. Apparently that has negative connotations for all you “Lost” followers, but since I’ve never seen the show I will probably continue to refer to my non-England traveling as “off-island” adventures. Particularly since my stay here did not start with a plane crash (thank goodness).

Big Blue's first trip!

Back on topic. This weekend I experienced the Scandinavian life in Copenhagen, Denmark. We started our journey Thursday night in London (as usual) by staying with Michelle’s friend to prepare for our crack of dawn flight. Discount airlines have their monetary advantages, but they certainly aren’t known for their sleep benefits and general convenience. After an interesting and eventful four hours of no sleeping whatsoever, we took a cab to the train station (London lesson: Tube stations do not open until 5 a.m., which will not help you if your train leaves at 5:02).

Our flight was all of an hour and half, which we marveled about the entire time we were landing. I can be in another country in the time it takes to get to another city in Texas…

As we deplaned, I turned to Spek and Michelle and asked, “hey, do we know how to say ‘hello’ in Danish?” Their blank expressions confirmed my realization—we knew about as much about Danish language as I know about neuroscience. Whoops.

Fortunately, Spek’s family connections met us at the airport and the entire country speaks almost flawless English. We really did luck out on both accounts (though if I was actually worried about it, I would have brought a language book, I promise you).

Me, Spek, and Michelle at the top of the Round Tower

We took the metro into the city and walked around to the general sites, including a little jaunt to the top of the Round Tower (which was built as an observatory in 1642 by King Christian IV).  Luckily it wasn’t a St. Paul’s experience- the king had a ramp installed instead of steps so that his carriage could take him to the top. I appreciated his laziness (or innovativeness…?), since I made the climb with Big Blue.

Copenhagen is a nice, small city, and we were able to see most of the main sights by late afternoon. Which, of course, includes the Little Mermaid statue. Hans Christian Anderson (the author of  “Little Mermaid,” for all the non-English majors…) was Danish, and the statue serves as a classic symbol of the city. It also caused me to have “Little Mermaid” songs stuck in my head the entire trip. Everyone was thrilled.

Hanging out with the Little Mermaid

Our long day of traveling combined with our short night of sleeping to create an extremely low-key Friday night. Spek’s uncle John made us chili and French bread and we experienced our first television in seven weeks. Considering the minimal amount of TV watching I did in the States, I’ve been surprised at how much I miss it. I think its more the fact that I feel cut off from everything—we haven’t even been able to watch any of the Olympics, particularly since the normal online TV sites aren’t available in the UK. So needless to say, we were very content to watch the skiing events and Danish “X-Factor” (which is actually a British version of “American Idol”)—even if most everything was in Danish (except for all the American songs on “X-Factor,” of course).

We got to ride in a car on Saturday, which is probably the highlight of the trip for me. Not to say that we didn’t experience anything cooler, I’m just that excited to be in a car. And we were on the RIGHT side of the road! I’m still messed up on crossing streets, though- I wonder if it’s going to be a permanent thing…

Fredricksborg Castle

We went to Frederiksborg Castle on Saturday afternoon, built by King Christian IV for a summer home. King Christian IV is one of their most famous kings, not only because he was the longest-reigning monarch, but also because he created so many building projects in Copenhagen and throughout Denmark.

We returned on Sunday morning, and spent six times longer getting from London Stansted airport to Brighton than we did getting from London to Denmark. I tried to count the amount of busses, trains, metros, Tubes, and planes we were on throughout the weekend but I got too tired. Moral of the story is I got to ride in a CAR.  I really miss Emma Jane.

Some general observations about Denmark (and then I have to go pack for off-Island trip #2):

• Bicycles were everywhere in Copenhagen. And not just mountain bikes—the cute Schwinn-type bikes with baskets. There was even a method of parking them on the trains and metros, which were wider to allow them to fit.
  

  Copenhagen transportation

• The amount of consecutive “j”s, “i”s, and “ae” combinations in words made it impossible for us to attempt to understand or sound out anything. To me, Danish sounds like a combination of German and French, but we had a really hard time picking out anything that we recognized. So its a good thing we had John and Michael, and that English is such a well accepted and spoken language in Denmark.

• Some of the coins have holes in the middle and hearts around the edges! We are making them into necklaces…

• “Hi” is “hello” in Danish. “Tak” is “thank you.”

• Their currency is called the krone and is worth 5.5 kroner for every $1. So we had to get used to paying 100 of something for a sandwich (which also shows what an expensive city Copenhagen is). I did feel pretty cool carrying currency that said “200,” even if it didn’t quite mean the same thing.
  

  We're in the money...

• It is illegal for stores to be open on Sunday. While they are allowed a certain number of open Sundays a year, it is an extremely small number and is very rare. The only exception is small family shops with a yearly sales average under a certain amount.

• Blonde people everywhere. No surprises there.

• Like England, Denmark is not a very religious country. So all of the beautiful old churches are either not used very much or are rented for other purposes during the week. (Sidenote: several churches have been converted to hostels and nightclubs in England. Not quite sure how to handle tequila being served at the same altar as the Blood and Body…)

• All of the green throughout the city buildings and castle is copper that has been oxidized. I loved it, and I vaguely remember learning about that at some point in school, but it was cool to see in person.

Classic Copenhagen

It was a wonderful weekend- relaxing, informative, and full of non-East Slopeness. It was nice to feel kind of like we were back in a world like ours at home (other than the Danish speaking, of course).  It’s fun to travel and stay in hostels and hotels, but its really nice to be in a “home”…even if it isn’t yours. I can’t wait to see another dishwasher, clean bathroom, and couch…but I’m not complaining. Just appreciating the things I never thought about having when I had them. I mean, that’s what college is all about, right?

Aaaaaannnnnnddddd….the BEST part of the weekend (and let’s be honest, the best part of the past million weekends) was coming back to my cousin McCayla’s email announcing that she and John are ENGAGED! With the amount of girly shrieking noises I made, I’m pretty sure my flatmates thought that I was the one who had been proposed to. This is going to be such an amazing journey, and I cannot wait until August 28th! Now I just need to get used to saying McCayla Butler…

Me and the happy couple at my 21st in August <3