...and then I got on a bus full of old ladies.

And they all smell the same.
No matter what country you're in.

And this obviously means I survived my second night out in Copenhagen.
The three of us [from now on feel free to assume from this I mean Samantha, Callie and myself] ventured into the very cold city of Vaelrose (don't quote me on the spelling. just because I'm posting this to the internet doesn't mean I'm gonna take the time to look it up. I've been up since 6am.)
We met up with a gentlemen friends Eric and Lars and enjoyed a beer at a quaint restaurant that was set to close in 15 minutes.
We followed up that beer with another beer at the pub down the street.
We head back to good old Billy Booze for another good time, Eric in tow. Lars decided to return home to his host family. Probably to save his dignity the same way I'm pretty sure mine disappeared a few hours later.
We wait outside in line and talk to a friendly and loud couple, the woman is from Finland and her boyfriend is from Spain.
We head in, check our coats, and it's back to Jagermeister and Red Bull for Callie and I.
A very short man repeatedly hits my ass and some very tall men seem to consistently be surrounding us was we're dancing.
....more drinks are purchased.
...more drinks are purchased.
......
.....
.....
and then at around 5:00am we exit the club.
This is normal for Danish culture, Mom.
It's snowing outside and the city is beautiful.
Samantha decides that on our trek back to the train station she is going to make a snow angel on the sidewalk.
I may or may not have encouraged this decision.
We get to the train station and because I don't know what zone I live in, it is decided that I will head home on my train by myself and Samantha and Callie will head towards their respective train stops.
After some frustrated confusion on my end, I finally embark sleep on my journey home.
I wake up just in time to get off the train and start walking home.
And holla to yo God, whoever it may be because I made it home safe and sound.
Where I proceed to nom on the pantry snacks all curled up in bed.
Did I mention that the sun is rising and it is now approximately 7am?
And I sleep.
And it is good.

Sunday is spent in recuperation for all parties involved, including my host sister, who'd been at a party of her own that Saturday night.
After I shower the smell of Danish men and cigarette smoke out of my hair, I watch the European handball final with my host family.
After much screaming of the word 'fuck' and some tense last minutes, DENMARK WINS!
If you combine soccer and basketball you'd have handball, and I am now proudly residing in the gold-winning country of Europe.

Monday morning, 6am comes around way too quickly, and I am suddenly back on the train and headed into the city for a studious day of academia.
After a chilly day of knowledge, I get home in time for dinner.
And as the parents are gone, Piam at yoga and Bjørn acting has a handyman to his friend, Nicolai decides to make a....kind of pasta for dinner.
It could be described as an exceptionally cheesy carbonara made with ham instead of bacon.
I nommed.
Our dinner conversation when Piam comes includes Jersey Shore and Denmark's sale of stamps at Christmas time to pay for fat camp for unfortunate obese children.
And after watching the Danish Big Brother, I wash the lingering smell of my Saturday night out of my hair and pass out.
And again, the sleep is glorious,

Today was a very hungry Tuesday full of many noms.
And then I got on my bus full of ladies, came home, and kept nomming.
I have a nomming problem.
Now I've got doodling to attend to and homework to ignore [that's what train rides are for].
And mother, father, please be proud. I, your responsible daughter am refraining from going out this fine Danish evening because I have a make-up class at 8:30 tomorrow morning because I decided I didn't want to! This must be what acting maturity feels like.

5:10pm Denmark
11:10am USA

People think I'm Danish- it must be my Scandinavian good looks.

True story.

It was decided that as it is our first weekend in Denmark, we needed to go out last night. 

After our classes ended, Samantha and I headed to the nearest Netto [your local grocery store] for some liquid courage party in a bottle cheap booze. 

I aim for the classiest cheapest liquor I can acquire and decide to be be adventurous and purchase something called 'Små Gule.' 

All you have to do is ask the working cashier to retrieve the bottle from behind the counter, but I like to make life more awkward from my side of the language barrier and manage to ask a woman working how we go about this in a sentence that is far from complete...and seemingly incoherent. 

'Err, ermm how do we, uh, get, that? Those bottles? From there?'

Confused looks. 

'Like...to buy? Liquor?'

I am about as smooth as a porcupines ass. [my knowledge on the anatomy of a porcupine is minimal, so for all I know a porcupine's ass is actually quite smooth. but that isn't the point here.]

I purchase my Danish liquor and examine it. 

It's brown. 

A brown vodka. 

I go with it because, hey! I'm supposed to be immersing myself! 

I head to the train with my newly purchased alcohol stowed safely next to my textbooks. 

There are train delays all over the place and the more Danish announcements there are, the more I feel the rising need to hop on the next train that comes through. 

So I do. 

I go one stop. 

The train stops. 

And a kindly Danish woman informs me that this train isn't going any further, so I exit. 

And after attempting to stare at the screen with what I hoped was a look of understanding concentration, I find my train to Helsingor. 

Once home I spend time with my host sister, Louise, and her friend..whose name I don't think I could spell properly here. 

We snack. 

We play the game I purchased. 

They inform me that the liquor I bought is pre-mixed and licorice, so I don't get to mix it. But I get to take shots of it, or drink it as is. 

We put in a movie. [it's nice to know that girls all over the world do the same things when they are vegging at home.] 

I fall asleep. No, that term is too mild for the hardcore passing out I did for two hours. 

We eat absolutely delicious pizza and I then attempt, in my full and sleepy state, to get ready for a night out. 

Cuz jet lag ain't got nothing on our party pants. 

Now you have to understand, I have a 45 minute train home from the city, and because the bus system makes no sense, I then would walk home whenever I made it back. So I needed to dress not only for the bar scene, but for the wintry walk home. 

A complicated, and almost impossible process. 

And I don't even like getting dressed normally. 

I drink some of my special vodka and finally get myself together.

My host brother, Nicolai, kindly offers to drive me to the train station. 

I somehow miss my first train because it's on a different track. 

Get on the second train. 

City time. 

We are looking for Billy Booze. 

A cheap bar/dancing scene that we've heard about. 

We find another bar we've been to, get directions (awkwardly) from several different Danish men and begin the journey. 

We find it! And enter, despite my lack of ID that actually proves my age. All I have is my travel pass and school ID. 

We check our coats and order drinks. Jagermeister and RedBull. 

We wander to look for a table, find none, and hang out on the dance floor for the entire night. 

The nice thing about dancing here is there are very few guys who try to dance with you by grinding their crotch into your ass. 

We dance just the three of us (did I mention that I wasn't by myself? I was with Samantha and Callie) and take in the almost entirely Danish scene that we were surrounded by. 

We dance, we drink, we laugh. 

The taller gentlemen like to comment on Callie's height and they think she speaks Spanish.

Drunk Danes think I speak Danish- at least I don't look that American. 

Samantha uses her height to push her to the bar to order drinks and to get our coats when we leave. 

We were chased by a Colombian in a suit and tie. 

Ass grabs were regular.

And to walk past you the Danes tend to put their hands on your waist, which is an adjustment to make after our American lifestyles where people would rather not move than touch a stranger.

Our first night in the city and we dared to enter into purely Danish territory. 

And we liked it. 

Bring it on Copenhagen, we can party with the best of them. 

Sort of. 

We won't try to keep up with your drinking, but the dancing and the staying out late we can participate in. 

2:46pm Denmark.
8:46am USA. 

I love going home...and it isn't because of the Danish food.

Not that I am disliking everything I eat, but it takes time to get used to open faced sandwiches and broccoli salads.

Living with a host family is a bit of a gamble.
You're allowing an institution, in my case DIS, to decide what kind of family would be willing to put up with you for 4 months.
And when you're applying you can't mention the things that make your own family want to trade you in for an exchange student...
You can't tell them ahead of time that you snore really loudly, because that would rule out any light sleepers.
You don't tell them how there are many days that watching television on the sofa underneath of a warm blanket is exponentially more appealing then leading an active lifestyle in the real world, because nobody wants to host a student that is unbelievably lazy.
You might not mention that you tend to be a little kind of very unbelievably messy, because it is something that you can force yourself to change, and what family wants another mess to worry about?
You don't mention that your knowledge of politics, international affairs, and controversial topics is pathetically minimal...well really just because that's embarrassing. A liberal arts student should be knowledgeable beyond the campus gossip and the length of Kim Kardashian's marriage (which, in all honesty, is equally, if not more, embarrassing).
You simply can't sell yourself that way.
So you write painstakingly charming tidbits about yourself.
But you can't be too charming either, because then it crosses the line into dating profile. And that runs the risk of no host family, or single-father-looking-for-love host family.

And despite all of these not-so-hypothetical situations, you find yourself placed with a family.
And you find yourself happy as a-girl-who-learned-that-she-can-eat-double-cheeseburgers-occasionally-without-angry-intestines

Bjørn, Piam, Nicolai, and Louise are my Danish family.
They are always talking.
They enjoy each other's company.
And they love to love life.
And I think they are wonderful.
With Danish names like that, who wouldn't be fantastic?

They love to speak English and are subsequently excited about playing 'In a Pickle' (an American game that revolves around the size of nouns) with me. [I assume their excitement from Piam's running into my bedroom while I unpacked to excitedly ask me about a pile of words she didn't understand exactly]. 

My subpar gift giving skills actually did me right. 

Dinners include foods I'm not used to and lively bantering conversations.
We laughed when Nicolai tried to call Piam using Siri and it informed that she 'didn't know who his mother was.'
We laughed at Piam's enthusiastic description of her distaste for her boss.
We laughed when I, in my jet lagged state struggled to successfully articulate the differences between 'ball' 'bald' 'bold' and 'bowl.'
We laughed when Bjørn tried to tell me that the Danish word for 'sledding' is 'sledding'. He told me this in Danish.

I'm learning to understand Danish without actually understanding Danish.
I'm excited about family dinners aplenty and game nights that end in a lot of English translations.
And I just count my lucky stars that I didn't write all of those hypothetically true tidbits about myself in my housing application.

11:20pm Denmark
5:20pm USA

Public transportation- adapt or die

So it's not QUITE that serious, but seriously, I need to figure this out.

There was an absolutely fantabulous website that allows to me apply my home address, the address of wherever I'm going, and the time I want to get there and the site tells me what time to get to the bus, which train to take, and how much walking I will have to do.
This is a serious lifesaver...
...until I read the time wrong....
I recalled that I had to be at the bus station at 9:27am (which isn't even an option), and I decided to jog my memory this morning at 9am only to discover that the bus I wanted leaves at 9:12am...
Now I am far from a quick moving morning person, so the following information should impress you: I went from a hot mess in pajamas not wearing make up to a hot mess completely dressed in make up in approximately 11 minutes...
...I made it to the bus stop at 9:14am.
The next bus is set to arrive at 9:32am, and if I have done my math right [which I have, because my success in Calc I represents mathematical confidence, my failure in Calc II only represents my lack of extreme mathematical confidence] I should still arrive at the train station in time to hop on the 9:43am train to Kopenhaven H.
At the train station I nearly walk in front of a moving train- luckily the Danes are not ones to inquire after your safety and ask you if you're okay so I successfully avoid the awkward conversation of "Just being a silly American who is obviously a bit unaware of her surroundings and willing to risk life and limb just to get on the damn train to Copenhagen."
In the station the train tells me it is going to a far off and magical sounding land that I shan't repeat here for that would ruin it's majestic power, and I can't remember it, and even if I could remember it I would never be able to spell it...so my first instinct is to not board.
Then a screen tells me it is indeed going to Kopenhaven H.
I trust the screen, hop on the train, and pray a little bit.

I WAS RIGHT.
It's a very satisfying feeling.

I get off the train and realize that I once again have no idea where I am going.
I spy a girl wearing a DIS [my study abroad institution's initials] and stalk follow her until I creep up to catch up with her at a red light.
Arrive at the orientation and FINALLY meet up with fellow Denmark traveler, Samantha ( http://copenhagenorbust.wordpress.com/ ).
We sit conspicuously by ourselves and talk as if it has been years since our last meeting.
The Royal Danish Musicians Orchestra  (or something like that) play for us in between speakers- my favorite piece being Yellow Submarine. [I would give the artists credit, but if you seriously do not recognize the song then you need to look it up and crawl out from under the rock you inhabit anyways. Hellloooo classic pop culture.]
Samantha and I decide to try and find our institution's buildings without a map.
We find a variety of shops and cafes instead.
After spending some Kroner [and a yet to be determined amount of US dollars] on some lunch, we decide to break out the map.
After breaking out the map we still manage to walk in a very large rectangle around the buildings that we seek so hard to find.

We eventually stumble upon the elusive buildings and attend a workshop entitled "How not to meet Danes."
Apparently, Danes are like the ketchup in a class bottle...you have to beat on them in order to gain their friendship...or something like that.

We stroll aimlessly and enjoy a latte while we wait for our other fellow traveler, Callie, to finish with her day's scheduled fun.

LOUD REUNION IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET.
I can feel the quiet eyes of the quiet Danes judging us.

We proceed to wander aimlessly and happen upon a lonely Irish pub that desperately seeks our loving attention.
We enjoy our first LEGAL pub beers and talk for a small chunk of forever+some.
We compare host families and discuss our enjoyment of the average height of the attractive male Dane [taller than I] and the ability of an accent, even when you're in their country, to charm you silly. (we also discuss RC gossip and our Christmas break adventures, but I would never dare to divulge that information.)

And this is where my second fight for public transportation begins.
After some misguided and nippy walking, we find our train station.
It closes at 8pm for construction.
We find a bus to the next nearest station.
Take a train one more station south.
Desperately read screen after screen in an attempt to find Helsingor as a destination on any train.
Find my train across the street.
Part ways with Samantha and Callie as they are headed in a different northern-ish direction.
Wait for my train.
Wait for my train.
My toes go numb.
I see a train that says it is going to Helsingor!
I huff up that escalator and cross to the other platform and fling myself onto the firmly stopped train as fast as my frozen little sausage toes will allow.
My wonderful, beautiful, and fantastically understanding host mother meets me at the train station because there are no more buses after a certain time (I need to look into this).

As I miraculously find my way home, and Samantha finds her way home, Callie finds her way to a bus stop an hours walk from her house, where the bus driver tells her she must get off.
But not to worry, my avid readers, it is not necessary to be swept up in the anxiety of her travels!
Her host mother is with her or on her way to retrieve her this very minute!

You see I wasted no time in blogging today's events.
It is an excellent way to wind down from an adventurous first day in Copenhagen.
Well, that and watching a British reality television show about flamboyant and feisty dancers.

1:45am Denmark
7:45pm United States.

I CAN SEE SWEDEN FROM MY HOUSE. and other news.

So I can't EXACTLY see Sweden, but if I trek a few blocks into town, then it's right there. "6 kilometers across the sea."
But lemme start from the beginning of my travels...

I finish packing my obscene amount of life into two large suitcases, a small carry on, and a backpack around 1:30am on Saturday morning.
My phone attempts to wake me up at 9am.
I wake up at 9:30am.
Leave the house for the airport at 12:30pm.
Return to house at 12:33pm for my computer charger.
Arrive at the international departure terminal for Delta.

I think parents are bred with the innate ability to hug you just right when you're holding it together that makes you want to break down and have that emotional goodbye.

Commence awkward goodbye. [i.e. hug the brother as quickly as is socially acceptable without seeming unfeeling and when dad prolongs the hug chuckle awkwardly, avoid eye contact, and waddle off with vast amounts of luggage.]

Pay for my second 40lb bag of luggage. 

The kindly check-in lady briefly mentions her own sisters horrific time studying abroad, assures me my experience will be much better. 

Attempt to let a woman using the Delta-Sky-High-my-money's-better-than-your-money security line step in front of me as she is supposed to have the right of way, Madame Security sees this as me trying to do her job and acts offended. "I've been working here 5 whole years. I know what I'm doing." 

Acquire good karma for TRYING to do the right thing. 

To the in airport express tram  snack station  gate!

Meet a delightful 3 year old girl who speaks Italian because of her mother, Greek because of her father, and English because neither parent can speak their spouse's language. 

Attempt to take a picture of an elderly Asian man sleeping with his mouth wide open. Fail to achieve picture of anything other than his shirt because I do not want to be THAT girl in the airport. 

I am now sky high. 

I watch a lil "Moneyball." Brilliant. 

A little "Friends with Benefits." Hysterically sexy. 

The entire "Hangover II." Disappointing. 

And start "What's Your Number?" And wish I'd had more time to finish it. 

I do not sleep. 

We land. 

The time is now 11pm USA, 5am Amsterdam. 

And I get my passport stamped bitches! 

I give mad props to foreign exchange students who go to a country where they absolutely cannot speak the language. 

The Amsterdam airport confused me and every sign was in English and....whatever guttural language it is that the speak in the land of weed and the red light district. disclaimer: I am now on my 24th hour of no sleep and by no means aim to offend the inhabitants of Amsterdam by being culturally unaware of what their language is. I blame my upbringing. Or the American public school system. 

I engage in my first LANGUAGE BARRIER BATTTLLLLEEEE [to be read as the announcer of a game show. thus the unnecessarily elongation of 'battle']. A custodian at the airport asks me to move in (I think?) two different languages. Asks me if I speak English, and then asks the "pretty girl to please move for the reasons of security"....and then he changes the lightbulb that was above my head. 

A brief trip to the clouds where I watch the sunrise out the window across the aisle. 

Welcome to Denmark! 

I exit the airport which looks eerily like a mall with planes sitting outside of the windows and enter baggage claim, where I, a novice at traveling alone, realize after staring at the luggage carts for 5 minutes that the carts are free for the using! 

To the bus! 

To the hotel! 

Paperwork. 

Baby orientation. 

MEET MY HOST FAMILY! 

I am jet lagged, and I was hungry, and coming down the stairs and having them introduce themselves with huge grins on their faces and hugs from each of them puts an absolute grin on my face that I'm sure makes me look semi-psychotic from the exhaustion and the fact that I can't stop smiling. 

I am going to like living here. 

They give my a brief tour of the city by car and there is not ONE moment of awkward silence. 

And coming from a family at home that doesn't stop talking and then there is my family at school where there are at least 3 conversations going on at once on top of each other at all times-- the lack of silence is appreciated. 

Denmark is seriously beautiful. 

If Michigan looked like this when it was gray and snowy, then people might stop diagnosing themselves with seasonal depression. 

I gawk at the enormously beautiful houses on the water. 

I gawk at the Queen's palace. 

And then I pretty much just stare out the window with an open-mouthed grin while I'm fed facts about every place we pass. 

And now, it is naptime. 

I did warn my family that I snore, for those of you concerned, but I am not sure if they took me seriously. 

3:05pm Denmark. 

9:05am USA. 

Watching a man on t.v. kiss his newly taxidermied dog made me realize some things...

...I need to get off of my sofa and onto the plane to Denmark.

Also that it is my most sincere wish that even if I do become a crazy old lady with a collection of deceased pets that are kept forever alive via taxidermy...my family NOT allow a film crew into my house.  I am never to be filmed in my giant floral nightgown, eating a frozen tv dinner, and talking to my most beloved stuffed cat, NutterButter.
Or if the number of felines in my humble abode exceeds 3.
Or if I've acquired a large collection of clown dolls, all of whom I've given a name and a life story.
And even if I eat myself to a state that I am unable to leave my bed without the assistance of a large construction crane, I beg of thee, my family, please do not turn me into a television phenomena.

These are things that plague me as I lay here watching the epitome of American television in various forms. I can only hope that European television is fairing better.

....I seriously, seriously need to get off of my sofa and onto the plane to Denmark.

My body reeks of treachery and betrayal.

But despite its best attempts to keep me in the States for the semester, me and my angry, angry gallbladder are attempting to get our shit together to get on that plane to Denmark next Saturday.
And let me tell you, appeasing the angry intestine with a low fat diet is leaving me hungry.

I was sitting here, pondering the list of things I need to do and was inspired by my fellow traveler's blog and couldn't think of a better way to procrastinate than to start my own.

SO.

I'm going to make some promises to those poor souls that make the decision to read my ramblings.
I promise to give you the truth. Regardless of the personal embarrassment or potential parental disappointment in my decision-making skills*.
I promise to try and keep this as interesting as possible. But you are reading this at your own risk, so please note my use of the word TRY.
And I promise to update this blog diligently. The updates will be like healthy bowel movements, regular.


*Mom, I promise YOU that my stupid decisions will still be smart** and safe.
**Smart in the grand scheme of things, not necessarily by your parental standards.