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.