Back to America!

Now that I am back to the land of Chipotle and department stores, I need a new platform to shamelessly talk about myself. Follow my new blog!!

http://zogonewild.blogspot.com/

The St. Petersburg Metro for Dummies-- Russia Part 1

Sooo last week I went to Russia.

It was an optional school trip, and somehow DIS managed to convince 36 students and 4 teachers that it would be a good idea to haul out to the outskirts of Siberia in the middle of winter (by the way-- did anyone else know that Siberia was a real place??).

We started in St. Petersburg. The first night of our trip, people had the option to pay to go to the ballet or to go to a bar. Considering I am bored easily and bordering on bankruptcy, I chose the latter. My friend C. and I tried 3 different places before we finally found a Hookah bar that agreed to seat and serve Americans. We ended up sitting with three boys from our program who we had never laid eyes on. We felt super awkward, so we got drunk.

Welcome to my nightmare.

By the time we met up with the rest of the group to go to dinner, we were hammered. We walked into the restaurant and were welcomed with plates covered in multi-colored combinations of fish and mayonaise... our two least favorite foods. And vodka shots. At this point, C. decided to start finger painting with the mayonaise and flinging baby shrimp at me from across the table. We were really making good progress with our new boy friends. Luckily, the boy next to me (with whom I had been going shot for shot with ...) took this opportunity to buy three rounds for our chaperones. They were blacked out within the next 8 minutes.

After two hours, six shots and ZERO food, we stumbled out of the restaurant to embark on our first ride on the St. Petersburg metro. Our chaperones wanted to give us a tour of the metro as a group in the hopes that we would figure it out and be able to use it on our own during the few days we were in the city. Our behavior during that first night shattered those dreams pretty quickly. Before being abroad, I had never taken public transportation in my life. Now, I can proudly say that I have mastered public transport in 7 different cities. I do not consider St. Petersburg to be one of these cities.

Somehow, C. and I got "distracted" and ended up at the back of the group with two of the boys. Apparently we were supposed to switch trains, but none of the four of us ever really got the memo. We ended up riding around for 45 minutes until by some stroke of miracle, I figured out how to get us home. That's right. Me. I take full credit.

When we finally made it out of the metro, the boys were so excited that they tackled me to the ground to say thank you. Like -- actually tackled. I have bruises. I spent the rest of the night bitching about a "concussion" for attention, which didn't really work. Especially when I tried to tell my teacher it was the brain damage, not the alcohol, that caused us to get lost.

Russia- 1  Zo- 0

Milan LOL

Everyone has a travel horror story. Until this month, mine was the time when my boyfriend broke up with me 45 minutes before I boarded a 15 hour flight to Egypt. I was so hysterically upset that my mom force fed me 3 ambien and a bottle of Pinot to shut me up. This backfired when I started hallucinating while I was watching Wild Hogs in Japanese for the third time in a row. I thought the flight attendants were trying to traffic me, which was awkward. And super embarrassing for my family and everyone else seated in first class. Sorry mom! (but thanks for the drugs.)

As bad as that was, it does not begin to compare to my trip to Florence last month. At the beginning of November, 4 of my friends who are studying at the Georgetown villa in Fiesole came to visit me in Copenhagen for Sensation White. The concert was an adventure, and the next morning we all woke up feeling like hell. That morning also marked the beginning of DIS's two week break, so I had planned to fly back to Florence with the Villa girls before I went on to Barcelona and finally Russia. The cheapest flight we could find actually went into Milan, which is only a 45 minute train ride from Florence. What we didn't realize, though, is that the last train left from MILAN/MARIPOSA (a name I will never forget) at 8:15, and our flight landed at 7:45. We knew it was going to be a crunch, but none of us were very concerned-- we had gotten a little too used to the study abroad mantra of "we'll figure it out."

When the flight landed, we ran down to what we thought was the train (with 10 minutes to spare!), and realized that it was only an airport shuttle -- the actual train station was 35 minutes away. We hopped on and headed to the train station, still maintaining that we would "figure it out," and got to the station at 8:23. There were no trains until the morning -- we were officially shit out of luck.

At this point, the girls from the Villa began to realize the gravity of the situation and started to freak out. They HAD to be back for classes the next morning. It was time to get creative.

Someone jokingly suggested that we rent a car and drive to Florence, which somehow went from "viable option" to "best idea ever." Everyone was on board, except for my best friend who may or may not have been in tears over the fact that she would have to be in a car for 4 hours with me behind the wheel. While she went to go call her family and tell them how evil we all were, we devised a plan to drug her and throw her in the trunk-- we legitimately considered crushing Ambien into her Diet Coke. She may have actually been onto something about us being bullies.

Finally, after MUCH discussion, everyone had agreed to drive. The train station was (of course) out of rental cars, so three of the girls took a taxi back to the airport to try and get one there. The person in front of them in line took the last Automatic car, and like most 20 year olds from the North East none of us know how to drive a stick. My friend Casey, God bless her, actually attempted to learn in the parking lot, but that obviously didn't work out.

By the time they got back to the train station, without a car, it was 1:30am. We were all miserable and exhausted, and had resigned ourselves to the fact that we would not be getting back to Florence until the morning. We walked into the first hotel we could find and asked for a room. The man at the front desk told us that we could give him 15 Euro each for a room, as long as we promised to be out by 6am (our train was at 6:15). Because none of us are very familiar with illegal activities in the European hotel industry, we thought this guy was doing us a real solid. It wasn't until we (happily) forked over the cash and he told us that we had to go up one by one to avoid the security cameras, did we realize something was sketchy.

I was the first to enter the room, and the image I was met with is one that will stick with me for the rest of my adult life. The bed had not only been slept in, it was absolutely filthy and covered in stains. The bathroom was soaking wet, and had blood spatter and towels all over the floor. It looked like a scene from a horror movie. Three of the girls (one of them who has a severe irrational fear of bed bugs) took one look at the place and decided to sleep in the train station among the hobos. Seriously -- they almost got arrested for loitering. The rest of us slept on the floor, on top of our suitcases, in full winter jackets.

It was far and away one of the worst nights of my life, but somehow we survived and made it back to Florence the next morning-- with an amazing story and a good excuse for a mimosa.

If you are asleep on the floor of a train station, people
will probably assume you are homeless. Especially
if you look like this. 

Things I Love About Copenhagen- BABIES!!!!

Last January, I became an aunt. My nephew is named Maxwell Stanley, and is the cutest damn kid I have ever seen. I am literally obsessed with him, and can't wait to be the cool grown up who lets him do all the things his parents won't. My sister, who is one of this blog's two followers, has no idea what she's in for. Hi Cathy!!!

Because I have to be away from the love of my life for four months, I have to settle on the babies here to fill the void (does that sound creepy? is this post creepy? whatev.). Lucky for me, they are EVERYWHERE. They are all blonde and precious (though they are no Max Stan.)

And the best part? They are left unattended.

A few years ago, a Danish woman was arrested in New York City for leaving her infant alone in íts stroller outside of a coffee shop. People were outraged at the lady's negligence, but she had no idea what she did wrong. BECAUSE THAT IS TOTALLY NORMAL HERE!!! Every day I walk down the street and see babies wrapped up like little babushkas just chillin in their strollers. They are so cute! I want to take one! How do people not just scoop them up and take them home?? I legitimately only came abroad here because I thought I would be able to get a free baby. Would anyone in the O street house be down? Leave me a comment if you have a hair color/gender preference.



*no babies were harmed in the making of this post

Things I love about Copenhagen- 7/11

I like to think of myself as having pretty healthy eating habits. Well, until I get drunk. Once, last year, my roommate came home to find me asleep in her bed (still covered in body paint from a theme party) with a half eaten pot of pasta on the floor of our closet. She was pretty upset, but not nearly as mad as the time she came home and saw that I passed out before I ate my pasta... without turning off the stove.

Really. You don't know what I'm capable of.

In Copenhagen, my regard for nutrition has become completely obsolete. I actually can't remember the last time I ate a piece of fruit, unless you consider Absolut Peach to fall into that portion of the food pyramid. The market we use is horrible-- I once walked in on a Monday afternoon to find that the only "fresh produce" they had was garlic cloves. No thanks -- I'm trying to secure a Danish boyfriend.

Luckily, we have 7/11.

In America, I would never be caught DEAD eating something that came from a gas station. Don't they serve like, corn dogs and churros? For like, a dollar? But here, it has become a total obsession.

Wine? Ice Cream? Condoms? If you need it, 7/11's got it.

Every morning, I stop at one of the four 7/11's on my block to grab a cup of coffee. Do not be mistaken-- the coffee is not good OR cheap. It tastes like secondhand cigarette smoke and costs $5. And there is no splenda. But somehow, my day seems incomplete without it. It's a total addiction-- sort of like shoes or cocaine. They also have some cappuccino flavored frozen thing that comes out of a slurpee machine, but my iced coffee craving will never be worth the 5,000 calories that that mess would cost me.


If I'm feeling skinny (or hungover), I will add a croissant to my morning order. Denmark has some of the most amazing bakeries in the world, yet the most delicious pastry I've tasted here costs $2 and comes from a convenience store. Go figure.

As much as I hate American 7/11's, one of my dad's and my favorite activities at home is to go into a gas station and examine the selection of diet sodas. We both always end up with Fresca,  but it's sometimes fun to pretend we'll venture out and try Diet Cherry Cream Coke Zero or something. Here, there are thousands. And they are all European-- which is cool, but dangerous because it is impossible to tell which are calorically evil. I usually go for something called "detox water," as I can't remember the last time my body hasn't felt totally toxic.

As amazing as 7/11 is during the day, it is ONE MILLION times better late at night. On the way home from the bar. Some of my various choices have included a bacon wrapped hotdog, 3 slices of pizza (don't judge me, there was a promotion), a chocolate croissant, and a lemon donut (it was pink, which is obviously why I ordered it, and was completely disgusting). Like I said, I sort of have a problem with drunk eating.

Gourmet Snacks

And so, I must say, Thank Heaven for 7/11. The place literally has everything, and it all looks so beautiful under the fluorescent lighting. Just don't let the pink donuts fool you.

Zoe Goes on Birthright

People tell me all the time that I am "exotic" looking. Personally, I think it is a nice way of asking if I am a minority. But it's not all bad-- my "unique look" (read: nice way of saying ugly) helps me blend in in many different cultures. In Egypt, the hotel staff spoke to me in Arabic until the Hookah I was smoking caused me to hallucinate and cry about being sold into Middle Eastern sex slavery (um. what?) and they realized I was American. In Providence, the man at East Side Pockets used to give me free Baklava because he thought I was Armenian (I never had the heart to correct him). Now, when I go to the bar, people often ask me what ethnicity I am. I tell them if they get it right, I will buy them a drink. In three years, I have yet to buy someone else a round. Or one for myself, for that matter. In the past week, I have been asked if I was Israeli, Spanish, Brazillian, Lebanese, Asian or Canadian... I am none of these things.

This is irrelevant, but I look tan exotic and skinny. 

This weekend, I decided to take a vacation to one of my many homelands: Istanbul, Turkey. I somehow convinced three of my friends to come with me by telling them we would be able to go to the beach. It was 40 degrees and rained the whole time. Finding flights was a nightmare, and we were pleasantly surprised when we got to the airport and found that Pegasus Airlines had an actual plane, not a fleet of flying horses. When we finally landed, there was a lot of confusion about where the hell we were. Europe? Asia? The Middle East? I actually still have no idea. Once we got through customs (which was identifiable only by the white 8 1/2 x 11  cardboard sign that said "VISAS $20" in black permanent marker), we were met by a driver holding a sign with my name on it. I have never felt so famous.

The next morning we woke up and went to the Grand Bazaar, where we quickly became very popular. The men were extremely aggressive, and kept shouting at us to ask if we were "Charlie's Angels, "The Spice Girls," or, my personal favorite, "Angels from Paradise." Is this what the rest of the world knows about American culture? The vendors also obviously all stopped me to ask if I was Turkish. The whole thing made us all pretty nervous, and we pretended we either didn't speak English or were from Canada, which apparently they are far less interested in than the USA. Later, we went to the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Of course I was dressed "inappropriately," and was asked to put on a head scarf, shoulder wrap and floor length skirt. Typical.

#worldsbestjew

Just some galz offending some Turkish people

After dinner, we went to a hookah bar near our hotel. This experience was better than the one I had in Egypt, but only slightly. The manager repeatedly offered us drinks with "special ingredients," and called us racist when we declined. Um no thank you Mustafa, I'm not really in the mood to get roofied tonight. But it's not because you're Turkish. One of the girls tried to explain to him that we were not racist because we came from the most diverse country in the world: the USA, which was extremely awkward because we told him we were from Canada. At this point, I tried to remedy the situation by convincing him I was Turkish-- and it worked. He brought out his guitar and serenaded us to "ONE" by U2, and offered us a free meal if we ever came back. It was time to get the hell out of there. On the way home, we bought Shwarma and were proposed to with a bouquet of Parsley by the cashier.

My parents arrived in Istanbul on Saturday morning, and I decided to blow off my 2 star vacation for their 5 star one. This also marked to commencement of the game: Where is Daddy? My dad has recently gotten realllly into photography, and often gets distracted and left behind for the sake of the cause. He also makes us pose every time he sees something remotely interesting, to the point where my face starts to hurt from smiling after an hour. The game was especially fun in the Grand Bazaar, which has 4,000 shops and 400,000 people. Eventually I ran away and drowned my frustration in Turkish Delights. At least we got some good pictures out of it. And some new jewelry.

Next, we will harvest your organs with a rusty butter knife.

On Sunday morning, I had a Turkish Bath in the hotel spa. Considering my shower in Copenhagen is literally on top of my toilet, this was a real treat. When I scheduled my appointment, I assumed it was going to be like a massage with some light exfoliation. Not at all. A Turkish woman literally took me into a room and gave me a bath. I laid down on a huge marble slab, wearing what might have been a loin cloth, and she poured huge buckets of water on my face and scrubbed me. The happy ending came when she washed my hair. With Pantene. The whole thing felt like a combination between a human sacrifice and a sexual assault.

Betweeen being repeatedly called beautiful, openly offered the date rape drug and getting borderline molested by a massage therapist, I guess my "unique" look really works in Turkey.


And just to clear up any confusion -- I am: Polish/Russian/Lithuanian/Irish/French Canadian/Native American. I think.

British Princes

I have to preface this story by saying it has always been my dream to ride on the back of a motorcycle with a European man-- I blame MK+A for giving me unrealistic expectations.

On Thursday night, it seemed that this dream was about to come true. As one of the 5 brunettes in Denmark, I am not exactly popular with the male population. They tend to be more into the blonde hair/blue eyed crowd (sound familiar, Georgetown??). But in London, apparently, I am a star. This could be attributed to the fact that abroad weight has put me up a cup size, but I'll take what I can get. 

Bitch.

On our third night in London, my class went to some trendy film festival, and about half way through I realized there was a very attractive man sitting behind me. He kept making comments about how ridiculous some of the films were, and me and my vodka/soda were giggling flirtatiously in response. At intermission, he asked if he could borrow a pen. He then proceeded to make the pen disappear. Along with a few coins. Magic tricks? This should have been the first red flag, but he was so, so beautiful. And that accent! To die for. As if this wasn't enough to send me spiraling, he is Greek, and based on my history I'm pretty sure Greek boys are the closest thing I have to "a type." After the films were over, he asked my friend T. and I to stay with him at the bar. We politely declined, saying it would be too expensive to take a cab back to the hotel after the tube closed at midnight. He then offered us a ride on his motorbike. It only took 8 words for him to become 400x more attractive. It was raining, but I wrote my phone number one a napkin and told him I was going to take him up on his offer the next afternoon.

Flash foward to 11am, and the man who I was convinced was going to be my new boyfriend texted me inviting me for drinks. At this point, I was sure I was going to have to drop out of school and move to London to start planning our wedding and working on my British accent. That night, we finally found him at a bar called O'Neals around 11:30 (I was an hour late because of a Frozen Yogurt stop). He was far less hot and far more clingy than I had remembered. And those magic tricks? He apparently performs them nearly every day. At children's birthday parties. Whoops! Needless to say, there was no coming back from that. No way in hell was I getting on the back of a motorcycle with someone who dresses as a clown for a living. I guess Lizzie McGuire, Mary Kate and Ashley and Amanda Bynes all have better luck with European men than I ever will. 

The night was not a total failure. After we left the bar in an attempt to ditch the clown, we found ourselves on the Tiger Tiger dance floor with the entire British marine corp. Tequila shots anyone?? 

Supporting the troops the best way I know how.

Oktoberfest.

Have you ever woken up on a Sunday morning and thought "what the hell happened to Friday and Saturday?" Have you ever looked at your cell phone for clues, only to find that drunk you was smart enough to delete all evidence so you wouldn't have to look at it when you blacked back in? Have you ever got on an airplane, still drunk, and realized that it took you to Frankfurt instead of Copenhagen? Welcome to the best weekend of my life.

After four full days of recovery, I am finally ready to talk about Oktoberfest.

We got kicked off of this ferris wheel.

On Thursday night, I was reunited with my two best friends in the lobby of the Munich Marriott. On her way to give me my "welcome" hug, one of them tripped and fell on her face. I have never been happier to see anyone in my life. We proceeded to the hotel bar, where we convinced a Swedish man that A was an A-list movie star and we were her hair and makeup team. We were off to a good start. He did not buy us drinks (as we were hoping he would), but he did invite A to have a home cooked meal in Sweden while she is there shooting her (imaginary) movie next week. Not a total failure.

We woke up early on Friday so we could get to the tents before 9. I use the term "woke up" lightly, as I don't think any of the 8 girls we had shoved in 3 beds slept for more than an hour.  Cozy. Before we got into the cabs, I thought it would be a good idea to go to the ATM. Unfortunately, I did not quite understand the conversion rates. Did YOU know 400 Euro isn't the same as $400? It's seriously confusing.

So like, Do you work out?

Our Fan Club

There is no way to fully describe how amazing Oktoberfest truly is. It is like Disneyland for alcoholic adults. We walked into the tent, and 2000 German men started cheering for us. We found a table and ordered beers. Our waitress, who was wearing traditional Bavarian dress, immediately hated us. Nevertheless, she came back carrying 10 ENORMOUS beer mugs (four of which were smuggled home in our carry ons)-- the lady had talent. She also pinched us, yelled at us and blew a whistle in our faces for dancing on the tables. Bitch.

After getting sufficiently drunk, C. and I decided to go on the rides. Beer and roller coasters? Why would that not be a good combination? After spending $40 to go on three rides, all of which made us sick, we went to go find Pretzels. The biggest, most amazing pretzels in the world. Then we went to find our friends, and took a nap on the table. Everything from that point on is a blacked out blur (it ruled!).

Vomz

Nomz

No one even looked twice.

All of a sudden, it was 10pm and A. and I realized we had been at Oktoberfest for 13 hours and had no idea where our friends were. Apparently, they had left after our nap-- 5 hours before we realized they were gone. One girl got COMPLETELY lost, ended up at the wrong hotel and sent $400 worth of text messages from C.'s phone. Another girl met a boy and spent the rest of the day on a date. They went on rides together and went out to a four course meal. The pictures are unreal. A. and I somehow made it home, which proved to be a challenge considering we had to walk up a large hill (which we had earlier taken a nap on-- we thought we were in The Sound of Music) and both kept falling and rolling down to the bottom. We got home, went to bed, woke up and did it all again.

Go big or Go Home. Cheerz Bitchez.

Day 2, we switched to lemonade beers. We all only blacked out once that day, not twice.

There is no way to fully describe how amazing the weekend was, mainly because I am trying to get a job after I graduate. If you are ever given the opportunity to go to Oktoberfest, take it. I plan to go back for my bachelorette party. I would also like to take this opportunity to say a sincere "thank you" to the Professional Business Fraternity in which I am a brother. Without the skills I learned during pledging, there is no chance in hell I would have survived this weekend. Or been able to successfully chug a beer with 10,000 German people cheering for me.

#fratstars

L'Shana Tovah!

Get at me boiz

Tonight, I cooked Rosh Hashanah dinner. Now that I am no longer dating a 6'7" aryan athlete, it seems like a good time to start preparing for Jewish wifedom.

Before I got to Copenhagen, the only thing I knew how to make in the kitchen was a mess.  I literally didn't know how to boil water or crack an egg. Now, because I can't afford to eat, I have had to learn. I must say, I have become quite the chef. Some of my specialties include pasta, peanut butter and jelly and steamed vegetables. Tonight, it was time to tackle noodle kugel.

I am not super Jewish. I haven't been to temple in three years and can barely recite a prayer. I did, however, have an AMAZING Bat Mitzvah that involved me coming down in a swing wearing a top hat singing "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend." It was Moulin Rouge themed-- I guess my dad didn't realize the movie is about a whorehouse. Basically, I'm only into the Jewish stuff for the food and the party. So when my friend Gayle suggested we throw a traditional Rosh Hashanah dinner, I was in.

We went to the market, and I was on a mission to find egg noodles and pecans. They had neither. We settled on Ramen noodles and raisins instead. Real chefs know how to improvise. Gayle made a chicken, simmus and Israeli Salad. And I made Asian kugel. It was a huge success: everyone (including our 30 year old Danish male roommates) sat around drinking wine and talking about their sexual histories. Pretty similar to Weiner family dinner.

After tonight, I am officially ready to get married. JDate here I come!

There is a Special Place in Hell for Fashion Bloggers.

When In Denmark, Do As The Vikings Do

Have you ever done something solely for the sake of the story? I have. I once made out with a boy wearing head to toe pink spandex suit, just so I could tell people I had done it. And because it was really, really funny. It is for these same reasons that I found myself spending the day at the Laejre Land of Legends.

;)

DIS offers all kinds of day trips for students to immerse themselves into Danish culture. I thought they were all super lame, until I found myself stuck at home alone on a Saturday afternoon while everyone I knew was rock climbing in Sweden or biking the coast of Denmark. It was time to reconsider. When I went to sign up, there was only one trip that still had space available. It was advertised as follows:

Be a Viking for a Day at Land of Legends Lejre! On the day you will be greeted by Vikings who will take you to the Viking Marketplace. During the day, you will be doing hands-on activites as well as 'jausting' with each other in different games. You will also get the opportunity to prepare bread and butter and 'Vikinge Gryde' (Viking Stew) with the Vikings. After you've gorged yourselves on Viking Stew, the Vikings will provide entertainment in the form of the telling of an old Viking tale. As an extra bonus, Lejre will be hosting the Nordic Championships in Role Playing the weekend of Sept. 17th/18th- so while you are being a viking for the day, chances are you will see trolls, wizards, goblins, knights and princesses running around the historical site!!! 

I can't wait to see you and
your whispering eye

My friend Katherine and I thought it would be absolutely hilarious to get a big group together (preferably of hot guys) and watch a LARPing tournament. Apparently, nobody else thought so. There ended up being 10 people on the trip. Even our close friends thought we were huge weirdos and refused to sign up. I think they might have been onto something.






The time came for our big day at Viking Land, and somehow I managed to get myself out of bed at 7:30 on Saturday morning. I was in rough shape, as evidenced by the fact that I thought it would be socially acceptable to wear sneakers, a bright orange fleece and a fur muff. Vogue would be proud.

We arrived at the Land of Legends at 9:30, only to discover that the park doesn't open until 11. The bus driver had to go to Sweden, so he kindly left us to entertain ourselves in the middle of an empty field. It was too cold to stand still, so we started walking around on the trails. Mind you, it was approximately 40 degrees and everything was soaking wet. Not ideal. If I managed to survive the "adventure" without contracting Limes disease, hypothermia or whatever pandemic the alien slugs here carry, it would be a miracle

Just enjoying the scenery--wtf am I wearing.

Finallllllyyyyyy it was time to enter *THE LAND OF LEGENDS*. We were greeted by a woman wearing "Viking" attire (where the hell were her horns?!) and led to the Viking  village. There were no trolls, wizards or goblins to be found. There were only three sad looking "vikings" sitting around a camp fire. Major let down. They split us into three teams, and we had to compete in various Viking tasks:

1. Making Fire

They handed us a piece of flint, a piece of iron and some "tinderflagen" and told us if we didn't get it to burn, we couldn't eat. I chipped two nails and gave up without having made so much as a spark. Some of he other kids conveniently brought lighters (hmm.....), so they won. And found the whole thing a lot funnier than I did

2. Sharpening a Spear

I held a piece of iron over a fire, then banged on it with a hammer. I have to say, it was really nice to see my education going to good use.

3. Churning Butter

Me. Churning butter. Seriously?

4. Shooting Arrows

I came closer to accidentally spearing a human than hitting the target. The humans were behind me.

By the end of the day, I was cold, wet, exhausted and miserable. The good news is, the cost the trip includes a season pass to Land of Legends. The season ended yesterday. By far the best $100 I have ever spent.

What I Expected

What I got.

Macro Sunday

In my opinion, you are never truly at home in a place until you have done a walk of shame. In this case, my inaugural stroll consisted of walking from my own couch to the ATM barefoot, in my clothes from last night to get money to pay a locksmith. It still counts. As I lay in my bed watching Snooki and Deena get lezbionic on the new Jersey Shore, having what the Harvard boys (namedrop) call "Macro Sunday," I can't help but feel like I have finally adjusted to life in Copenhagen. Here are some highlights from the last few days:

1. I ate something called a "sushi dog." It is sushi, in the shape of a hotdog. Talk about embracing Danish culture.

2. Friday night, I met and made out with a beeeeautiful Danish military man. As usual, I managed to make a complete fool of myself, and later found out he will be moving into the room next door to mine on Friday. We get to share a kitchen and a bathroom! Not awkward. Remember Derek and Meredith on episode 1 of Grey's Anatomy? Stay tuned for that development.

3. I went to my visiting family's house for dinner. This required taking two trains and a bus. Considering I am from the suburbs of Rhode Island and refuse to leave Georgetown for anything other than a basketball game, I am not exactly educated in public transportation. I thought I had it figured out, until train #1 broke down. Of course, all of the announcements were in Danish so I had no idea what was going on. I was playing solitaire on my blackberry, totally oblivious, until someone tapped me on the shoulder and indicated that I should look around. I was the only one on the train. I ended up stranded in rural Denmark for an hour, until my visiting dad came and picked me up. I accidentally called him by the wrong name. The whole night.

4. Saturday night, I came home from the bar (after casually eating everything in 7/11) only to find that I had lost my keys. Alison and I spent 45 minutes trying to kick down the door (sup Benson and Stabler), then realized that the scaffolding outside made it possible to scale the building and get to my window. I am TERRIFIED of heights, but somehow made it up two stories on the outside wall, only to realize the window was locked. Not one of our best laid plans.

5. Sunday morning, After calling a locksmith who did not speak english for 8+ hours, someone finally arrived to open my door. Not surprisingly, the bobby pin he was trying to finagle the deadbolt with proved to be unsuccessful, and he had to whip out a power drill. Two hours and $400 (surprise mom and dad!) later, I don't know whether I should be laughing or crying. Thank God my roommates made carrot cake.

Princess Meets Princess

It's my chance to shine--SWEET 16

Anyone who knows me knows that I am OBSESSED with Disney Princesses. Every birthday party, from the age of 2 to 20, has been Princess themed. Seriously -- for my 18th my mom decorated a bar on Thayer Street with cutouts of Cinderella and Belle. My former boyfriend was horribly embarrassed, but I was super into it. After all, I'll take any excuse to wear a crown.

I always really loved the Little Mermaid, but because of my "ethnically ambiguous" look I was always stuck dressing up as Jasmine. Looking back, she was kind of a badass -- she got to wear a belly shirt and walk around with a tiger. Not too shabby. Once, my friend Emily had a Jasmine-themed 4th birthday party. My mom's dressmaker made my costume and it was way better than everyone else's. I felt like a total rockstar all day, until the pony they hired kicked me in the face. I digress.

Apparently, most of the stories we all grew up on, including The Little Mermaid, are based on Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tales-- and we all know how the Danes feel about that guy. When I found out there was a statue of the Little Mermaid here in Copenhagen (it was one of the three things I knew about the city before I got here) I was DYING to go. A chance to see the real Ariel?!?! Sign me up.

So today, Lindsay and I ventured to Osterport to see the Little Mermaid statue. It was actually really cool, and we got a pair of nice Asian tourists to take our picture. When I got home, I thought it would be a good idea to read the Hans Christian version of the story. Big mistake. Apparently, Disney got extremely creative in their interpretation of the story.

Disney's Version:

1. Beautiful Ginger Mermaid Princess falls in love with a human prince. 
2. Beautiful Ginger Mermaid Princess gives her voice to the evil Ursula in exchange for a pair of legs
3. Beautiful Ginger Mermaid Princess uses new legs to attempt to seduce human prince (now you get why I love her)
4. Evil Ursula steals her man
5. Human prince spears Evil Ursula and she dies. Strangely reminiscent of the time I tried to eat Octopus at Nobu. 
6. Beautiful Ginger Mermaid Princess and Human Prince are married by a priest with a boner and live happily ever after

Hans Christian Andersen's Version:

1. Mermaid falls in love with a prince and gives Urusla her voice in exchange for a pair of legs (like in the movie)
2. Instead of giving her a set of sexy new legs, Ursula splits Mermaids's tail in half and she bleeds. Everywhere. (not like in the movie)
3. Mermaid goes to land to find the Prince. When she does, he laughs at her bloody tail and commands her to dance for him. 
4. Mermaid finds out that the prince is set to marry another woman, and if he does Mermaid will die.
5. The prince marries the other woman.
6. Mermaid is told she can can only survive if she kills the Prince. 
7. Instead of killing the d-bag in his sleep, Mermaid decides to believe in true love, hoping it will save her (#notbetchy)
8. Mermaid's plan fails
9. Mermaid dissolves into sea foam and has to do 300 years of good deeds

...Not exactly the happy ending I had in mind. Turns out, HCA was a pretty sick dude. He had an abusive alcoholic for a mother, and his childhood traumas are made pretty evident in his work. Ever notice how Disney characters never have two parents? Cinderella, Bambi, Dumbo... the list goes on. Thanks a lot, Hans. If only Nemo's mom had survived, maybe the poor kid wouldn't have gotten lost*

Dad? Daaaaad?

*side note -- Hans Christian Andersen did not write Finding Nemo. If you thought,

 even for a second, that he did... you're an idiot.

Sometimes when I ask for directions, I pretend to be British. 

I just found a Facebook message from an Italian boy I met at a bar asking me on a date. From three weeks ago. I think it's a little late to say yes.




--I did it anyway. 

Western Denmark: Europe's #1 Party Destination

This past weekend, I spent some time in the glamorous Western Denmark with my Communications class. The area isn't on anyone's list of "the top places to visit in Europe," but I was actually pleasantly surprised by the way the trip turned out.

Look mom I'm on TV!

Thursday morning, I dragged my overstuffed suitcase onto a coach bus around the crack of dawn, and settled in for a 4 hour ride. We apparently went over the third biggest bridge in the world, but I was asleep and missed it. Typical. When we arrived in Odense, we went to a media museum where we were asked to produce our own News segment. I obviously wanted to be the host (because I am an attention whore), but forgot to raise my hand and was stuck doing an interview about Sensation White. As if I know anything about raves, other than how to get kicked out of them. Still, I got to be on camera, so I loved it. I also felt really smart namedropping DJ Winterfresh, as someone who I hoped to see play Sensation. (Seriously, that was the only DJ I could think of.) Everyone was really impressed.

No Autographs, Please.

That night, we went to dinner where I ate Weinerschnitzel (thats my
name!) and drank beer and felt super European. Then we went to a Jazz concert, where I realized that I will never be intellectual enough to appreciate Jazz music. And that the only people who are intellectual enough to appreciate Jazz music are at least 83.

Friday we woke up and went to a PR firm called E-Mergency Creative. The head "Graphic Surgeon" lectured us for two hours, and offered useful advice on how to stand out in the business world, such as "tell your employers you think they are fucking crazy" and "when you e-mail a resume, use the subject line to make the recipient think you are sending them porn." Thanks Brian, I will keep those tips in mind next Spring when I am re-applying for Vogue. Maybe I will be able to get Anna Wintour's personal e-mail? In his defense, he did offer us red wine that we could drink out of blood bags. It was 9am, but still greatly appreciated.

We then went on a "Hans Christian Andersen Walking Tour." It was the first of the three I am scheduled to go on this semester. They really love Hans Christian Andersen in this country, and enjoy showing off every place he ever set foot. Here are some things I learned on my tour:

• Hans Christian Andersen wrote 300+ Fairy Tales 
• Hans Christian Andersen invented the internet
• Hans Christian Andersen was the first man on the moon
• Hans Christian Andersen is a direct descendent of God and Aphrodite

Don't get me wrong, I love The Little Mermaid just as much as the next aspiring princess, but these people are completely obsessed. It's weird.

Handsy Christian Andersen

After posing for pictures with 6 (six!!) different HCA statues, we got on the bus and went to the European Film College. The school was in the middle of nowhere, and there were 120 18-25 year olds running around in costumes filming movies. It reminded me a little bit of rehab. I kind of loved it. We all went out to a traditional Danish dinner where our teacher treated us to our first (3) rounds, then headed back to the hostel to get drunk and watch Danish TV.

Zo Vision

Saturday morning, we woke up and went paintballing. That sucked. To make up for the trauma we endured, our teacher treated us to a wine tasting at a local vineyard. The wine was not very good, but we obviously drank it anyway. All of it. Then we went out to a beautiful lunch on the water, where we were offered delicious food and *hot* waiters. This guy really wanted to get back on our good sides.

Finally, we drove to the Aros Museum in Arhus. The exhibits were all interactive, and seemed even cooler because we were all drunk from the wine tasting.

Considering the last field trip I went on was to the aquarium in 7th grade, I am pretty sure that getting drunk and shooting guns with my teacher are the most fun, least educational school sponsored activities I have ever taken part in. Look out London, here we come.


Countdown to London: 18 days

First Half Naked Boy I've Seen in a While