I can believe it's been over a week since I left Florida. What I can't believe is how much has happened in seven days, so to keep this post from becoming a mumble-jumble of insanity-laced recollection, I'm just going to go over things from the moment they started; even that's going to be a chore. But I have to start somewhere, so I'll start with...
...Friday.
Friday was one of the most trying days I can remember. I had believed, in my naivete, that saying goodbye to my friends would be easier than last time, but I was wrong, and it was difficult. I gave my mother a kiss, then I was presenting my passport, thereafter my boarding pass, and then I was trying to get comfortable in a seat that wasn't made to be comfortable, still feeling like I might have done myself a disservice.
This feeling persisted until Washington D.C., which I don't remember for anything other than its remarkable trove of Obama gear, and the Clearance section, with its far-more-useful McCain gear (imagine how much fun your children, or grandchildren, will have with a McCain-Palin shirt). The flight to London was actually really, really pleasant; I had elected on venerable, old-skool in-flight entertainment, and had brought my favorite pulp of all time: Tales of the Bounty Hunters. You can neither judge nor denounce Tales of the Bounty Hunters. Or Tales From Jabba's Canteen, for that matter. Let's just agree that the Star Wars "Tales From" series sits as a giant in the realm of science fiction. In addition to the good book, I managed to see Rock-N-Rolla, and I can always deal with some Ritchie. I even managed to get some sleep. I was in London for a brilliant sunrise and some Wagamama (yes, they have a Wagamama in Heathrow now, and it's brill). What a great start to...
...Saturday.
Then it was back onto the plane for a short, smooth ride to Copenhagen. It turned out that I wasn't the only American college student on the plane either, though my new friend, Nicole, is attending the University of Copenhagen, where they teach students about real things. We passed our flight talking to some sort of delightful old English gentleman whose son had, for some reason, seen fit to marry a Dane (it's a funny thing, these Britons and their tendency to take Danes as spouses; quite unsettling, really). Landing meant walking the hallowed wooden floors of Kastrup to a simple baggage pickup, followed by a leisurely train ride into the heart of Copenhagen.
Except that today's baggage pickup would be the most emotionally-charged baggage pickup ever.
"Doesn't look like your stuff's coming."
"You know what? I think you're right."
Bottom line: someone from the endless supply of useless cretins who currently staff the United Airlines baggage transfer department thought it prudent to just, you know, not load my stuff onto the next plane. I did a quick run-down in my head of the things that I no longer had, which I tentatively titled "Stuff That I Might Lose Forever," but I only got as far as "all of my hoodies" before The Fear ensued. I wasn't dressed for Denmark: I had cotton long-sleeve on, and a hoodie over that, a pair of jeans with thermals underneath, one pair of wool gloves (not enough without a second pair underneath), and some now-loose boxer-briefs. Oh, and one pair of socks (I usually wear two in Danish weather; works wonders). I had been planning to open my suitcase, add a shirt, a scarf, a pair of gloves, and a pair of socks to my outfit. Instead, I now found myself facing 2-degree (Celsius, that is) weather with 20-degree clothes. Those of you with any knowledge of role-playing games will immediately deduce that I was in no way prepared for cold terrain, even if I rolled a 20.
I looked everywhere for my bags, gave up, and filed my claim with the luggage folks, who of course had "no information at this time" concerning the whereabouts of my precious goods. Dejected, I led Nicole and Brenna (her sister; bet you two wish you were still in California every time you step outside eh?), to the railway area. Trains were delayed, and it was turning into a Danish Day; when we were landing, the sun was shining, but by the time we got to the rails, some thirty, maybe forty minutes later, the sky was gray, the wind was fierce, and the mood was Fail. Nicole was good enough to lend me a scarf; I chose the girliest one possible. Of course, we were on the wrong side of the rails to get into Copenhagen, so we missed the first train (I thought about killing myself), and the second one took a bloody age to arrive, but when it finally did we greeted it as we might a donkey-borne Messiah. The ride into Copenhagen was as enjoyable as one would expect when one has nothing but his carry-on bags to keep him sane. I bid farewell to the ladies at Kobenhavn H and continued to Norreport, wherein I took the opportunity to disembark and visit Netto, one of my least favorite stores on God's green Earth. I had to prioritize, given how heavy everything was getting, so I chose milk, tomato sauce, and a toothbrush (my reasoning being that I cannot live without kakaolaedtmilk, someone always has pasta, and if I were to wake up on Sunday with stank breath, I would surely kill myself). I departed Netto with great speed, satisfied that I could survive the evening, but unsure whether my final card-clip would last until Gentofte. The last thing I wanted was a massive fine to go with my massively missing luggage.
I went from Norreport to Gentofte without any music, so stressed and exhausted was I from the day's events. The walk home from Gentofte Station only takes ten minutes, but it felt like two hours; when I managed to shuffle the last few feet through the door (with the alarm ringing in my ear), I collapsed on the floor and didn't move for a good thirty seconds, during which time the cat came plopping down the stairs, fat and ecstatic to see that her friend had returned. I did my best to be friendly, even as my eyes fluttered and my breathing came in short wheezes. I was finally home.
Saturday went pretty shit for the most part.
Still, I was determined that I should enjoy some part of my first few hours in Denmark, so I did what any masochist would do: I hopped on my bike and pedaled furiously to school (I do mean "furiously;" my rear tire had, of course, gone flat during my absence, because my bike just hates me. "But Duncan, where was your p-" MY PUMP WAS IN MY SUITCASE! FOR HELVEDE!). Thalia was the first familiar face I saw, so she gets special mention this time around. I entered the kitchen and immediately felt like things were going to be okay, which I guess speaks volumes about how much I missed everyone. I found much of the Squad hunched over the coffee table, trying to figure out a jigsaw puzzle which formed a picture of a bunch of Smarties, and quickly dispensed numerous pleasantries and all that well-to-do blah-blahbery before making a beeline to Simon's cupboard to search for any and all pasta that was not welded to the interior (he obliged me with a box of bowties; I had missed me some bowties). I ate four helpings of farfalle in an hour. Word to your mother. I sat and talked for a while with everyone (it was Slavka's birthday so there was cake and shots for all willing participants; props to Barbora for the cake), and then announced that I would be heading home to get some rest. This was a mistake. What I should have done was sneak out of the kitchen quietly, so as to avoid arousing suspicion that I did not want to party, because it turned out there was, of course, a piano room party in the works. So instead of going home and resting my aching body, I found myself lifting couches, carting speakers...and doing some good Hammer Time. Bed at midnight? More like bed at 5 o'clock in the morning.
No school does it like KNord, even on a...
...Sunday.
Sunday was a bit tricky, as well. I had forgotten to take my pasta home with me after that ridiculous party, and there was nothing of proper substance in the house, so I found myself eating hella toast all through the afternoon, which was spent waiting for my luggage to arrive; while United Airways may be made of Fail, British Airways stays on target, and I got the "Oh hi, we've found your bags and they're on their way, just stay home from 5 p.m. to 11 p.m., okay? Don't go anywhere at all, not even to buy essentials or for a breath of fresh air. Just sit still and don't leave, okay?" call somewhere in the early afternoon. When my bags finally did arrive, it was late in the evening, and I didn't even have the stamina to open them, but at least I had everything I needed...right?
Right. I went to school briefly, just to see how everyone was doing, but for the most part Sunday was spent freaking out over my bags, so there's not much to say. Thank God for toast, though. I slept like the dead into...
...Monday.
Monday I consider to be the first official day back, as it was on Monday that I was able to wake up at a decent hour, buy myself a decent amount of food, and do a decent amount of organizational whatnot to get myself situated again. I also had to make sure my portfolio was in order, since it was to be examined on Tuesday. I did manage, in my hurried stupidity, to hop on the wrong form of public transportation in the afternoon, thereby taking a lovely tour of suburban Lyngby with Alina, while my perishable foods slowly perished (though not all the way). Again, Monday wasn't so big, serving only as the entry point for...
...Tuesday.
Tuesday was when things started to pick up. I slept way, way in, until around noon, at which point I had to make some sort of...symphonic effort to get up and get ready for my portfolio exam with Ditlev. I thought I'd be late, but I was, apparently, a few minutes early, which is a pretty serious first for me. I passed. I wouldn't say that I was surprised, but it still felt nice. I like school again. Who remembers when I hated school? Raise your hands, everyone.
Of course...everyone passed. So maybe I should be concerned for myself. Maybe.
I made it home in time for THE INAUGURATION! 'Twas a moment of extremely excellent unity, as I exchanged exclamations of exultation with people halfway around the world. Truly, anyone who doubts that the times are changing need only watch that day's events unfold once more. It's a wonderful time to be an American; I remember when I first came to Denmark, last August, I was relieved to be away from the tumult and turmoil that was the American way of life, but now that "it's morning again in America" (OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!) I feel my spirits lifting at our future prospects as a nation. Barack Obama is the man we've been waiting for.
And those of you who kept saying stupid, trifling nonsense during the proceedings can get stuffed.
It was Dario's 25th birthday, so we hit up a swanky Danish restaurant for the evening's festivities. Your boy had himself a serious helping of weinerschnitzel, but he would have you know that you should not go to a Danish restaurant and ask for weinerschnitzel. This will be a costly mistake on your part, because I'll be damned if that wasn't one boring piece of work (note to people who cook: we fry something until it's golden-brown, not charcoal-black). Really amazing peas and potatoes, though, and everyone else's meal looked...and tasted...pretty great. Post-dinner, we raided Christiania and then went home for relaxation time (at, you know, 2 a.m.). That already feels like it all happened ages ago, and then came...
...Wednesday.
Wednesday was when I knew things were back into their groovy state. Wagamama was the place to be, and sure enough a whole lot of folks showed up for what was to be the final luncheon for the Spanish ladies, and Nadine. A good time was had by all; delicious courses, the usual dessert bonanza, and the familiar sensation of ultimate refreshment which can only be found whilst swigging down an Apple Mint & Lime Juice. Truly excellent, to be sure, but that was peanuts compared to the madness which ensued once we got to Sam's Bar, Copenhagen's premiere karaoke venue for the truly discerning chanteuse.
Sam's was virtually empty when we showed up (it can't be good for business when you've got "Watch Out For Pickpockets!" pasted all over the place), but that didn't stop us from putting the word down after ten excruciatingly insecure minutes ("You go." "Fuck off, you go!" "You brought us here!" "No, Nadia did!"). Boy oh boy, did we put the word down. Nadine and Nadia opened with "Don't Cha," and from there it was all gravy.
TURNS OUT BITCHES DON'T KNOW 'BOUT MY KARAOKE.
So it was that I established myself as Cover Artist of the Evening, tearing my way through everything from Michael Buble to Bubba Sparxxx (the children have since developed an astonishing fondness for "Ms. New Booty," which has become my anthem) and leaving no room for questions. Some old femmes twice my age were so moved by my myriad vocal skills that they bought me a Goddamn beer. I hate beer, but I love the wimmens.
Okay I'll stop bragging. Suffice to say that if a nigga wish to step, he best have his game shoes on.
But Wednesday was barely a flea on the ass of...
...Thursday.
Thursday was the kind of day that you can't have very often. I don't remember what happened during the day, but it doesn't matter, because it was what happened at night that put Thursday on the List of Things I'mma Remember For A While: we went to KULØR. Whooooooooa lawdy. I stood in line with my people for well over ten minutes, listening to the Americans around me talking to one another (it seems that I am now getting irked by Americans. I dunno...am I allowed to be disgusted by my own people? Our voices are loud and grating, dripping with smug!) and wondering whether it could get any colder out (it's seriously so cold in Denmark right now that I think I'll be infertile by the end of winter), before we were able to make our way inside, but once we were inside, things changed.
As a member of the Church of KNord, I have often contended that KNord students can party lesser mortals right into the ground, and our trip to KULØR only strengthened the pillars upon which my faith is founded. Sure, we can make a burn-up party out of our Goddamned kitchen. That's child's play. Oh, certainly, we held our ground at Sensation. Your great-grandfather can handle Sensation. But not everyone can turn a sparsely-populated dance floor into an impossibly-packed vortex of dime piece hos and drank-swillin' ballers just by choosing where to stand. From 11-something until 3-something, we took the club over. Turn your head to the dance floor, and who could you see standing tall over the gathered? KNord. Who got the asses shaking so hard that the floor shook, too? KNord. Who oversaw the proceedings from his sturdy outcropping, hands in the air with his clansmen to the left, right, and center? That would be Duncan, a.k.a. DooDoo, a.k.a. Dubba Sparxxx. By the time "Party Up" came on (and please believe me: "Party Up" came ON), it was hotter than the stove from wall to wall.
Suffice it to say we took the place over.
I made the mistake of not bringing earplugs. I won't make the same mistake again. My ears were ringing all the way into late...
...Friday.
Friday was spent recuperating from Thursday. As was...
...Saturday.
But at least I got Benedicte's bicycle fixed. Damn.
