Free For A Day

So, erm...I've been gone for a little while...





First of all, let me apologize for my ridiculously lengthy absence whilst attempting to explain why I haven't updated in nearly three weeks, and why I won't be updating again for some time.

My camera is broken.





It seems that while Denmark's natural beauty and charm make it impossibly difficult not to photograph, my own natural affinity for having the camera out in damn near any situation will inevitably bring untold misery crashing down onto my head. Two Fridays ago, Borislava and her roommates hosted what I consider thus far to be the most ballerific party of the term, and, as one of the most prolific photographers on campus, I felt up to the challenge of capturing the moment. This feeling was a mistake. No sooner had I gotten comfortable with shooting the European College Student in its favorite environment than my camera, lens still extended, went slipping from my dry, obstacle-free, completely-steady hands to fall less than two feet onto the unforgiving wooden floor. I'm guessing it was as close as a camera can get to falling boner-first, and the effect was similar in that while it worked for the next thirty seconds, it hasn't worked again since.

I am devastated.





This isn't the first time I've lost control of a camera and seen it crash to the ground. I dealt with a similarly nightmarish situation last year, in Copenhagen, when my errant sister decided it might be a good idea to smack me in face, mid-photograph. Remember that brick-sized Canon that I used to carry? It fell nearly six feet onto bumpy asphalt, also with the lens extended, and gave me the scare of my life when it wouldn't turn back on (I then gave Lise the talking-to of her life). The difference between that fuck-up and the most recent fuck-up was that fifteen minutes later, seemingly by the grace of the Divine Lord, it switched back on, and works perfectly to this day. I'm guessing my karma must have been floating somewhere between that of Hitler and George W. Bush, because all my Nikon wanted to do fifteen minutes later was spit a white-hot "LENS ERROR (!)" into my pleading eyes. Things aren't looking good.

I'm not sure about repairs, either. The impression I've been given from various inquiries into costs ("Is it expen-" "Yes.") leaves me with the feeling that camera shops can't wait for your camera to break. I'm willing to pay to have my baby back, but I hate to think of someone profitting from my suffering. That's not how I roll, and that isn't how I'd expect someone else to view my situation. Cameras are very special, powerful tools of storytelling, and being attached to mine as much as I am makes it difficult, almost unbearable to imagine a world without it. I can't break the bank for this, though. I'm going downtown to see what they want for repairs at a store recommended to me by Henrik and Benedicte. I'm honestly a bit scared.





But enough of the moping. I could go on and on about how difficult times have been since the Fall, or how frustrating it's been to sit up at night trying to figure out the ins and outs of CSS design, but instead all I want to do is tell you about Tuesday afternoon. This blog is about our joyous romp through the Frilandsmuseet, our zany adventures in Holte, and my time with Peter's glorious SLR.

The Frilandsmuseet is situated (I guess) north of Lyngby, just past the end of a relatively easy hill (erm...guys, I have actual thighs now. It's kinda odd.), and it is one of the chillest places on Earth. I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that life would be a lot easier if people were simply required, by their governments or their parents or whoever wears the pants, to visit Denmark during the end of summer. It's simply one of the most beautiful, calming places you can find yourself in. Take the Frilands for example: it's just an "open-air" museum that exhibits farms from different centuries, lifted from their original locations and painstakingly preserved on gorgeous real estate that manages to remain beautiful while at the same time maintaining that marvelous sense of "oh, this must have been what it was like before lawncare." We didn't even get to see all of it, but what we did see was painted gold for us by a slowly sinking sun.





I felt the urge to take photographs. My index finger itched with longing. Peter obliged me with his hypersexual Nikon single-lens reflex, and the sensation was akin to having your Honda transform into a cruise missile. I really, really, really want one of these. So bad.

So bad.

Frilands was only scheduled to remain open for another forty-five minutes when we arrived, but we were operating at maximum efficiency, and a good hundred-something pictures were taken while the sheep went about their business (sheep, people), and I believe it to have been a fantastic run. Sophie even flexed nuts long enough to step into a field of various stinging plants and spiny thistles for the obligatory Ralph Lauren shot. Lise's famous pose now has a companion.





Then we went to Holte. Holte is beautiful.

I was already amazed by how the pleasant greens of Gentofte and quaint Lyngby could put me at ease, but this was really something else. You know the wallpaper that served as the default background for Windows XP? That hill didn't have anything on Holte. I was so overcome that I simply diverted from our bike path, parked my bike, and stared, in awe, at the way it stretched, far enough for the distance to haze a bit, to the shores of the lake beyond. I wanted to sit on the hill with the crew and just live. This would not do, though; we had a lake to visit.





Alas, it seems a trip to the lake, while free to visitors, is not without its price. The hill itself ends rather abruptly, and a small, narrow path meanders down its front, terminating at its base and giving way to trees, sand, and then the lake. We moved single-file down the path, each of us taking care not to become overconfident in our braking abilities...and then Simon decided to try turning right at what I'm guessing had to be twenty miles per hour. The pictures tell the rest of the story, I'm afraid. A good man done wrong by nature.





Oh, but the lake was worth the admission fee. We of Florida, with our Coke-brown brackish ponds, are not used to seeing water that looks like it had just poured forth from the Heavens, nor are we used to it being surrounded by glorious shades of green and red (Autumn is coming, and it's going to be surreal), with the sun glinting off of its surface and the breeze coaxing small waves from its depths. This is what we found at the end of Simon's Fall (that's what we're calling the path, guys). Damn.





My being able to write this blog solely as a result of someone else's generosity is a sober reminder of how carelessness can exact a heavy toll on one's livelihood. I don't know when I'll be able to write again, but rest assured that I haven't forgotten about my commitment. I will write again.

There's nothing else to say. I'll let the pictures talk from here.

Me And My Inner Circle, All We Do Is Ball...

I'm late. At this point, I think the less I promise, the more I'll deliver. As usual, I was very much pre-occupied this week, what with school ramming Hypertext Markup Language down my throat, and my friends ramming Fun up the other end (okay, so the idea of ramming things up my ass sounds a bit off-putting to everyone but Cosmin, but for the sake of poetic license, let us assume that my backside is, in fact, a staging ground for all kinds of Fun). Oh, and this is another one of "those posts." Clear your internets and prepare yourself for instant nostalgia.




I would describe this weekend as one of "Great Justice," more specifically "Great Social Justice," because the last three days have, essentially, been one long, awesome party. Not that the last two weeks haven't been exactly the same sort of deal; mine is a run-on story of college studies punctuated with balls-out college partying, though you will all be happy to know that your boy continues to remain judge-like in his sobriety (though I did pass by some serious hookahs the other day; my mouth watered and my synapses fired off like nukes; clearly, some semblance of my former passion remains). However, while I'm not an alcoholic, I am a sucker for good food, and the last week has seen me eating enough good food to cement me in the history books as World's Biggest Would-Be Fat-Ass Were It Not For The Genes. Damn.





It started on the 2nd, with my dad's birthday (65 and he still bikes up hills that make me sweat. What on Earth?). I hit the train station with Henrik and we high-tailed it into downtown Copenhagen, to the Eastern bits, where you can find women who will barter with you for access to their naughty bits, and the stores proudly display truly...off-putting devices which are clearly designed to soothe deep-seated (heh) aches and pains. I was also made aware of the best spots to feed my heroin addiction, should the need arise, and I think I smelled several different kinds of green on my way to...





...Indus. Indus. You see, while East Copenhagen might be a great place to catch "dat AIDS" or take that last great ride before dying in a pool of your own H-laced fluids, it is also home to the greatest Pakistani restaurant on God's green Earth. Indus is as easy to eat as Krispy Kreme, it's that good. We met up with Benedicte and proceeded inside, wherein my father sat in wait with his cousin, Elsebet, her son, Ferdinand, and her husband, Ted (who continues the long-standing Danish tradition of simply refusing to look or act his age; he is 80-something, but looks 60, and is smarter than the proverbial whip). My own cousin, Karoline, was also there, along with Klaus, my uncle (whom some of you may remember from the Facebook album(s) of my 2007 vacation; he's the one smoking a pipe right next to the "No-Smoking" sign), and we would be joined by Andreas before the festivities came to a close. In addition, the Lehn-Jensens were in attendance, and I was overjoyed, having not seen them in nearly two weeks.





Indus is not all-you-can-eat in the traditional sense, but you will eat as much as you can. It is borderline-sinful to eat as much as I did. I consumed, in no particular order: three foot-wide chapatis, two half-inch thick nans (whooooooo the garlic on them nans? Don't take your first date to Indus), four helpings of chicken and lentils, three helpings of beef curry (note: a "helping" is equivalent to anywhere from two to four ladels' worth), five helpings of some of the best-prepared long grain anywhere, and three tall glasses of Sprite (Note to Indus: I know this isn't America, and I know you guys have a lot going on, but I don't think it could take even the most inept, paraplegic double-amputee twenty minutes to get a man his Sprite! Utter failure.). Dessert was offered, but I was actually on the verge of death by the time I finished my last chapati, so I held off until I got home, where I had a granola bar to finish things off like a real G who does real things. Happy birthday, Dad. Thanks again for the wonderful introduction to my new home.











So the big days were Friday and Saturday, and the camera got quite a workout. Friday was abuzz with anticipation, as the school cafeteria would be home to Bar 44's first official party that evening, but the day actually passed rather lazily. When class got out, I went with Dan, and Andra, and Ras to Lyngby, where I was honored to be present for each Romanian's first Danish ice cream (whether they will show respect for Danish custom has yet to be seen, though at 22 Kr for a two-scoop cone, it may well be within the realm of possibility). I, myself, hold to the belief that there is no stronger combination than Paradis's "kokos" and "kafe med chokolade," which produces the most wonderfully soothing flavor, a sort of "gourmet coffee meets tropical paradise" that generally requires iPod accompaniment (I find "Digital Love" to work particularly well with ice cream, though it could just be the ounce of endorphins that my brain is busy processing) and a cool breeze in order to work to its full potential ("full potential" in this case meaning that I sit in the same spot for a good half-hour, eating a massive serving of ice cream whilst watching Danes go about their day, and wondering how or why I could be so fortunate).












We stopped by the canal, all steeped in romantic whimsy with its arching trees and mellow ducks (though it's not quite so romantic when you've got Dan and Ras trying to throw Andra into the water; I'll help next time), and sat for a little bit, talking about things by now long-forgotten and replaced with pretty photographs of my friends. From there, we trekked over to Fakta for groceries (let it be known that bitchy store managers don't need to worry; I'm not photographing your over-priced goods, and I'd appreciate it if you'd kiss my ass next time, instead of hurting my ears with your terrible English) and, finding that some groceries could not be procured, proceeded to the Storcenter, and to Fotex, which reminded me a whole lot of Albertson's for some reason (I have yet to find a supermarket that treats me as well as Publix does, but you can't just go around saying that you make shopping "a pleasure" unless you mean it oh-so-seriously). I stopped by Inspiration to buy measuring spoons, and ran into Thalia and her mom (be sure you join us next time we all get dinner!), who gave me some pleasing chat before I realized that I'd lost track of my Bromanians. (Side note to Inspiration: no measuring spoons? Are you kidding? You're a kitchenware store with the balls to charge 99 Kr for a small measuring cup, and your [admittedly gorgeous] staff haven't heard of measuring spoons? Damn. I bet IKEA have got measuring spoons...)






I met with the three of them [again] at Lyngby Station, and we parted ways; they went home by bus, and I biked back home with my "stash zone" laiden with all manner of necessities, including some tasty-looking chicken cutlets which I intended to fry and enjoy before the party. As far as that whole deal goes, I have learned much from the previous foray into hardcore chicken-preparation; the batter itself turned out very well, though it did require some extra flour and corn starch as compared to the online recipe. It turns out that my batter needs a bit more seasoning; extra salt is not enough, so next time I think I'm going to have to get a smidge more creative with it. Anyone who has suggestions for mouth-watering combinations would do well to let me know about that goodness; I am in great need. That said, the food put me in the mood for dancing, which was a good thing...





...since there was plenty of dancing to be done at the party. I arrived a bit late, I'll admit, but the floor was barren to begin with. It wasn't until that accursed Flo Rida song made itself a part of our evening that the space between "Boring" and "Party" became canyonesque. I will admit that "Low," despite being a totally shite song in its own right, has a sort of terrifying power over the human body. You cannot NOT dance to it. If you don't, then your nervous system must be missing the part that controls Fun. Or you're a gimp. However, there were no gimps in attendance, so this cannot be used as an excuse. DANCE TO FLO RIDA, OR DIE.





There were exceptions to the Win, to be sure. The DJ's playlist was a bit like chocolate pudding that someone had secretly stuffed with bits of actual human shit: no sooner had we gotten deep into the good music when suddenly *POW* "Mambo #5." Seriously? "Mambo #5?" Do you know when I was last offered "Mambo #5" as a dance number? I was 13, and I was at a bar mitzvah. Now, call me crazy, but the passing of nine years is supposed to herald a change in taste, particularly if you're a DJ and your job is to provide us with an excuse to shake it. Apparently, says Pusha, this is "what Danish people always play." Apparently, says Duncan, Denmark's DJ industry "needs razed to the ground." My request for Daft Punk was answered with a nod of the head, but along comes 3 a.m., and still no "Aerodynamic." 75 Kr for the privilege of dancing to Lou Bega and Cindy Lauper? Not so great. Then again, I also got to lean back, and there were lazors, all of which were charged! Plus I got to take photos until my camera ran out of juice, and all my people were in attendance (Dan, next time you had best move your feet), which was pretty great, especially because many of them danced in a manner most gangster. Thumps up and hats off to all of you; look for yourselves on the Facebook album.








Friday, however, was damn near sidelined by Saturday. While the morning and afternoon were extremely low-key (nothing but guitar and falafel for me), Saturday evening ranks as one of the most epic culinary excursions of my entire life.

"Where did you go, Duncan?"
Why, to Wagamama.







Since my 2005 trip to London, Wagamama has held the top spot on my list of Places That I Must Eat At If At All Possible. It is THE best Japanese restaurant I've ever been to, and currently competes with Indus for the Best Restaurant in Denmark title. It is a chain, but bitching about Wagamama being a chain is like bitching about Tiffany & Co. being a chain. One visit is proof enough that some chains have no weak links. I had been fiending for a trip to the Tivoli location since I set foot on the soil of my homeland, and I decided to invite anyone who had proven themselves outgoing enough to do something as simple as, say, sending me a friend request over the Facebook (hint: if you're not on the Facebook by now, or if you haven't yet made that oh-so-simple connection with the American Guy, now's the time, since this is how I spread ideas for fantastic evening gatherings like the one I'm about to describe). Out of eighteen original confirmations, a good ten of you showed up, and that is awesome beyond measure.








Andra and I departed from Lyngby, and we would have made it downtown with plenty of time to spare were it not for the crotchety ingrate of a ticket man, who insisted that, since I hadn't purchased the two extra zones needed for completion of the journey, I get off the train, buy two more zones, and hop back on the next one. I could have ripped his eyes out when he walked over to the train door and opened it for me, as if I were unable to do it myself, but Andra was there to keep me civil, so we obliged and went looking for a ticket machine, only to discover that the only operational machine wasn't accepting coins (seriously). Of course, the Lord saw fit to send us an angel in the form of a nice Danish lady who gladly purchased my zones without complaint, and sent us on our way. Big win. I endured Andra's moans of "this isn't Central, we should have gotten off at Central, etc." and before long we were walking with Niki and Stine to Tivoli, where we met up with Slovak Ras, who had been at the embassy, and Danish Peter, who had apparently flown there from his lair, using his leathery, batlike wings. Go figure.








So there's one big issue with Wagamama: if you want dinner, you had best be prepared to wait. The six of us arrived to a full lobby, and the warning of a "twenty-minute or so" wait. This was, of course, a Goddamned lie, and that was before our other friends showed up. Simon, Sophie, Maia, Marisa and Nadine showed came strolling through the doors like total ballers (very justified, mind you), raising our total to eleven, which was apparently the magic "Wagamama Is Going To Make You Wait Two Fucking Hours For Your Table" number. Good thing we had what, three cameras between us? Yeah, we were snapping photos left and right of each other's pretty asses, talking about various good things, and wondering when we were going to get our table (you should have seen the injustice; party after party passing us, eating less than eight feet away from us, ordering more food and drink, and causing our blood to boil out of our eyes), when this cacophony outside (which is actually Tivoli, since Wagamama and Tivoli are fused like two beautiful women who can't be without one another) completely diverted our attention, as well as damn near everyone else's.

"What is that?"
"Oh hey...it's a parade."
"But those are soldiers. They have guns and stuff."
"Meh."

And that's how Duncan missed an opportunity to photograph the Royal Family.












Buddha Belly, Wolfgang Puck, Indus, the Aoba...there are a few restaurants in my universe that produce food so good that I could honestly hand over my wallet at the door, unconcerned with whatever dreadful ravaging awaited my bank account. Unlike the other four, however, Wagamama actually requires such a mindset, because it's very, very easy to spend a few-hundred Kroner in a single sitting. Take, for example, my meal: two lime, apple and mint juices (one during dinner, one after dessert which I actually drained); one order of salmon ramen (there are no words to describe #23 except "Real"); and one chocolate fudge cake with ice cream next to it. Oh my Lord that cake was good; see that pattern drawn into the plate? That was my TONGUE. I would have eaten the plate itself were I not afraid of the gastronomic repercussions.







Not a cheap meal by anyone's standards (about $45 U.S.), but was the food worth it? A two hour wait? A hefty tag? Absolutely, and that's without factoring in the awesome people who were there to share my abundant joy. I don't think a single one of us went unsatisfied, and I am anxious to repeat the experience. Thank you so very much, all of you.






It was, of course, raining when we left the restaurant, but it quickly subsided in lieu of a pleasant evening's walk to the central station, and an equally pleasant train ride back to Lyngby, where we reconvened with our colleagues, who were knee-deep in [even more] party. I honestly couldn't be arsed to do much of anything, but I did perk up when Simon produced the Flaming Staff of Photographic Bliss. I love fire in the dark.













Thus concluded one of the best weekends ever. I would say "Who's down for next month," but Simon and I were talking today about just how magnificent the experience really was, and I'm honestly not sure if I can wait thirty days for that much goodness.

Two Saturdays from now, anyone?