"Uhm...what is the nice word for 'slut'?" Or, Kicking Off the New Year in Hamburg...

I spent the first half the of the four-hour train ride to Hamburg trying to sleep away the hurt. Hurt from pouring rosé, chardonnay, beer, screwdrivers, champagne, and licorice shots on a delightful but dainty bed of fish and salad; hurt from going to bed past sunrise and waking up before high noon (long story short if you didn't read the last post). In days past I might follow such traipsing with a morning brew (coffee or otherwise), or my classic hangover cure: a blue Gatorade (I like to pretend I'm ingesting a glacier) and an egg/bacon/cheddar/cream cheese galaxy bagel, followed promptly by going back to bed. I have even followed such traipsing with a midterm or final.

But that was in the past.

That day, the day I traveled to Hamburg, was January 1st. I had just turned 27. And 27 meant going into hibernation to allow for my old, decrepit body to make attempts to repair itself. Except that I had made train and homestay arrangements to make my way into a brand new country.

It's funny. The summer after college I had no idea what to do with my life. Among applying for a(n ungodly) number of other positions, I made a profile on a website for international au pairs. I was in contact for a long time with a German family who interviewed me several times over Skype. They had liked me quite a bit but were in a state of conflict because a family friend had just recommended their au pair whose services were no longer needed, given their children's ages. To this day, I can remember stepping out of the Las Vegas hotel room I was sharing with my best friends, sitting on the painfully patterned carpet of the hallway, and rereading the short but loaded e-mail I had opened within the riotous room. The family had decided to go with the sure bet. Who could blame them. But I had already envisioned it, and had grown attached to that vision: living with three blonde-haired, blue-eyed kiddos; taking language classes at the university; weekend and holiday trips to surrounding areas. It wasn't just that I had lost out on a job opportunity; at the time, I really felt as though an entire life had been taken away. It was a life I had really wanted and, given the stalemate of job prospects, it was one I really needed.

But that was in the past.

That day, the day I traveled to Hamburg, was January 1st. On January 4th I would be meeting my host family in Hadsten, back in Denmark. On January 5th I would start teaching at the local school.

So that's what's funny: how things work out anyway. I cannot say what would have happened had I gotten the au pair job in Germany, but I can say with absolute certainty that I am incredibly thankful and beyond content with what came from not getting the job: a year in Park City, Utah; a three-month trip to my home country and the countries surrounding that sparked what is likely a lifelong love affair with travel; other various short, but invaluable employment positions and trips abroad; almost two years working with children with autism as a behavior therapist; and, of course, the life-altering friendships maintained and created during the years in between.

It was my work as a behavior therapist that ultimately led me to pursue a career in teaching. The teaching credential and Master's program I am in now is the reason I am in Europe this month, for an international student-teacher exchange. And, go figure, the exchange means living with three blonde-haired, blue-eyed kiddos; not taking, but teaching, (English) language classes; weekend and holiday trips to surrounding areas. So, everything in due time.

I finally woke from my New Year's Eve stupor to find a lovely young woman sitting next to me on the train. I motioned to ask if I could get out to use the restroom and, as I tried to squeeze between her and the table on the way back to my seat, I caught the cord of her head phones and pulled her phone off the table. "I'm sorry," I offered apologetically.

"No, it's no problem. It's just good they weren't on," she joked.

Local scribblings...the best words money can't buy. 

After we had gotten resettled in our seats, I asked her where she was heading. She was going to Hamburg. She had come up to Denmark to spend time in her boyfriend's family's vacation home. But, after four days trying to study for her upcoming exams with a house full of people during the holidays, she finally had to admit it wasn't working. She decided to head home a couple days early to have some quiet time to work. I was happy to hear that she was going to get off at the same stop; I had no idea where we were going, so I was thankful for the surefire indicator.

But it got better. My new German train friend, Tuula (a Finnish name), had lived in Hamburg her entire life and offered to write down some tips. Like a true student, she titled the page in my journal and even divided the tips into daytime and nighttime activities.

After a lull in the conversation and some quiet to stare out the window of the moving train, Tuula sat up quickly. Something had just occurred to her.

"Oh! You must got to the Reeperbahn."

"OK. What's the Reeperbahn?" I said, open to the idea but unsure of what the idea even was.

"Uhm...what is the nice word for 'slut'?"

The question caught me off guard. I looked upward and outward, trying to conjure a polite word from my memory bank. "Uhm...prostitute?" I suggested, unconvinced that that was very "nice."

"Yes! Prostitute. I'm a Hamburger so I don't really find it all that shocking, but some tourists..."

I'd stopped listening. I had heard of the city's infamous Red Light District. It's not that I was disinterested; I was just too amused that she'd referred to herself as a Hamburger. (Hey, I said I was getting older, but never claimed to be more mature.)

As the train pulled into the city, she pointed out the window, indicating areas to explore. When we arrived at the train station, she went as far as to take us to the exact platform we needed to catch the next railway to our home stay, and even showed us exactly how to buy a multi-person day pass for the subway (a good thing, since all of the machine screen prompts were written in German).

As we rode the subway to the home stay, Marisa commented on how lucky we were to meet Tuula. "Yeah, absolutely," I replied, altogether grateful and relieved at how easy Tuula had made it for us to find our way "home," and how generous she was with her advice. But, despite my absolute agreement that it was a fortuitous meeting (especially since Tuula had related her surprise that we were going to stay with a German family, citing that many Germans are generally more closed off and reserved), my response was only half-hearted. Because in that moment, I was reflecting on how many lucky breaks I've encountered during travel. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I am not at all unique in my good fortune. While I don't mean to dismiss how favorable my travels have been, what I am starting to wrap my head around is that the world is just altogether generous and kind. People want to reach out. People want to help, to connect, to make any small contribution to making others' lives more positive. While I never want to take a helping hand for granted, I also need to recognize it as basic human nature. I shouldn't be surprised by kindness, because it is absolutely, wholeheartedly out there. Sure, I often luck out in my travels, but it's also simply that the world is inviting and the people in it are good.

We checked into our home stay, a quaint five bedroom home run by a sweet old Syrian woman. She spoke very little English (German is her second language), but was very helpful nonetheless. Her bedroom was on the first floor, along with the kitchen and a bathroom. The second floor had one bathroom and four rooms, all rented to international travelers and labeled "Piano" (our room), "Boogie," "Blues," and another I can't recall now.

I had never used a "real" (traditional) key before. It made me rather happy.

After getting settled and getting ready, Marisa and I headed back into the city. Tuula had recommended a bar called 20 Up for a celebratory birthday drink. It was on the 20th floor of a fancy hotel and was where she always went on her birthday. I figured that was fitting. We arrived to loud bumping music cascading out of the speakers, men doused with too much cologne and women with too little clothing on, given the outside temperature. But, as Tuula had raved, the view of the city was incredible. Or at least what you could peek of it through the hordes of swanky patrons. Neither Marisa nor I were ready for anything even resembling an alcoholic beverage, given the Molotov cocktail I had mixed for myself on NYE, so we opted to order frilly virgin drinks from the bar menu. Right before Marisa went to order, I changed my mind. The beautiful thing about getting older is that you begin to realize that you don't have to do things just because you're "supposed" to. If I had been home in Santa Barbara, I would never have chosen such a flashy venue. And just because I was there now, didn't mean I had to pay $12 for a juice drink. Who says you have to order a cocktail on your birthday? I wanted dessert. 

Tuula's first suggestion might have been a bust, but the view really was grand (just not the atmosphere I was looking for). Her daytime suggestions, however, were money. The next day was perfect. 

First, we had brunch at Cafe May -- a charming little breakfast spot that offered coffee drinks and pastries to order. But we were there for the all-you-can-eat brunch. Best 5 euro you could spend. In addition to typical brunch staples, there was a wide selection of fresh cheese, none of which were less than amazing, as well as all the just-out-of-the-oven rolls you could dream of. 

Then it was off to Tuula's "biggest recommendation," the city ferry. She had even sent us a schedule by e-mail when she got home. Tuula had advised that a commercial ferry would cost 25 euro but that a public transport ferry was only 3 euro, and free with the day pass for the railways. Thank goodness for that tip; more money for silly souvenirs. 

The harbor.

Love on land for all to "sea."

After taking in the city for an hour-or so on the ferry, we hopped off to explore the fish market. Unfortunately, we missed it by a couple hours, but there was plenty more to see. Marisa and I walked by the water back to the harbor and marveled at our new locale, dubbed Germany's "Gateway to the World."

Hamburg had no shortage of fantastic street art.

Home(less) for the holidays, But you have to applaud the effort and attitude.

My favorite building in Hamburg, designed to look like a wave.

We got a bit turned around when making our way to the next destination, the Speicherstadt, or the largest warehouse district in the world, located in the city port. But getting lost led to stumbling upon an artist's studio. A while back I finally decided what souvenir I would look for in my travels 'round the world: a bookmark -- something inexpensive, conveniently light, and easily found or made, often from postcards. The female artist printed postcards of her pieces, which were far more subtle and beautiful than the ones in the tourist shops. It was a great find.

"Take it at any time. I won't even look. I'm a photographer, so I know what you're doing." I had asked to take a photo of her working; she seemed to know exactly what I was looking for. 

I wanted every single one of her pieces.
In the end, I left with two postcards, featuring layers of words and sights from Hamburg.

There was plenty to see at the Speicherstadt, including a dungeon from the 1800s and the largest model railway exhibition in the world. Marisa and I opted to go to the Speicherstadt Museum, an authentic warehouse dating back to 1888, where imported goods and tools display the work carried out by warehouse staff (storekeepers). Hamburg is Germany's biggest port and is the second-busiest in Europe. I learned about the historical goings-on of the very important port, as well as a lot about the coffee and tea imports. 

The numbered boxes to the left helped determine quality for coffee grounds. Grounds were poured in at the top and would move through smaller and small sifting holes as they made their way to the bottom.  Large "foreign bodies" would get caught in each  layer, resulting in the very finest coffee at the end. 

Relatively speaking, tea is not a big commodity in Germany. Still, 70% of the tea
consumed in Germany goes through the port in Hamburg. 

When I turned one of the corners of the museum, I walked past an unassuming stack of crates. One of the crates has a small window cut into it. There are no signs or markings over the crates, so I almost kept walking without bothering to pause. At the last moment, I decided to look inside. For no observable reason, there is a miniature room nestled in the crate. I'm not sure why it's there, but it made me inexplicably happy. Maybe that's the point. Who doesn't love a little reasonless whimsy?

Ahh! The curtains!

Mini knots, a seashell headboard...I die.

Little keys, little stein, little telephone...happy happy.

After a full day of sightseeing, we found our way to the Hofbräuhaus. I had heard really enthusiastic urgings to go there from friends who had been to the one in Munich -- stories of two stories of beer clinking patrons and lederhosen-clad waitresses carrying four steins in each hand. The one in Hamburg is considerably less grand. But the food was good.

Prost!

The best wurst that could happen.

Wish no one had to "put on the red light."

After walking around the city a while and stopping into a cafe for fresh mint tea, apple strudel and ice cream, and journal writing (read: my heaven), we headed to the infamous Reeperbahn. I'm not quite sure what I was expecting to find, but I left the boulevard feeling low. Sure, the sex shops were funny to meander in. And the pastries of nipples and lady parts were entertaining. But seeing the fresh-faced and pretty, impossibly young girls standing en masse on the street corners, freezing in their down jackets and moon boots, in want and waiting, just made me sad.

OK, Willy Warmers are kinda hilarious.

Vodka and nipple pastries. A winning combination.

The next day, we had one morning left in Hamburg before returning to Denmark, so we bid our matronly home stay hostess goodbye. But not before putting a pin on for Santa Barbara on the world map for guests (the U.S. is sorely underrepresented).

One small pin for Santa Barbara, a giant leap across the pond for me!

Before we left, we ate breakfast at the Mutterland Deli, a solid recommendation by my friend Brenda. It is easily the cutest cafe I've ever been to. I really had to fight myself from buying all of the pastries and knick-knacks. 

We even had time to squeeze in a quick jaunt to Alster Lake. 

Then it was back to where we started, the Hamburg train station. 

I love that the train stations here always feature a bright flower shop atop the stairs,
especially on these cold gray days. 

I'm off to bed but will leave with a quote my friend Matt recently posted. Matt and his wife, Alicia, both dear friends from my Deer Valley days, have always been really supportive of my writing, and of my endeavors in general. Since Hamburg is a bustling port town, I really loved coming across these words:

"A ship is safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are for.”

How fitting for my current travels, and life in general. Cheers (or "prost") to that. 

I'll write again soon. Hope you're all well.

xo Jan 

"Jan, we have a problem." Or, New Year's Eve in Aarhus...

"Jan, we have a problem."

I slowed my pace. As I looked up and over at Sara, the hood of my jacket shifted then slid, exposing my cheek to the chill of Denmark in December. Actually, it was technically January now. (Sara is an Aarhus local; I became friends with her when she came to Santa Barbara in September for a two-month international student-teacher exchange, which is what I am participating in now.) 

"Yes?" I asked, without really wanting to know the answer. It was almost five in the morning. I'd been drinking for the past eleven hours. I was in no state to face "a problem."

"...the bars close at six."

Germans have their beer houses, Irishmen their whiskey. And I had heard all about the wild nights in Spain and Italy from friends who had studied abroad in college. But I had no idea how hard the Danes party. I chose quite the evening to find out. 

Marisa and I had debated for weeks where to spend New Year's Eve. Munich and Berlin were south, Copenhagen was east. We had our Eurail passes delivered to Sara's in Aarhus so that we could leave our decision open until we arrived in Denmark. I normally don't mind long or multiple travel days, but I was learning that multiple long travels days were far from appealing. After a 30 hour travel day to Aarhus, I was in no rush to leave. 

We decided to ditch the hypnotic lure of ringing in the new year in a novel international city. After an evening of catching up with Sara, and finding out that her friends had extended an invitation to their New Year's Eve dinner, the attraction to the bright lights of a big city suddenly felt hollow. Or maybe it was the jet lag. But why party with strangers when you could spend it with friends, and friends of friends? 

In any case, I couldn't be happier with the decision. 

For one, I woke up to this. The snow had stuck for our first morning in Denmark (January 30th). Waking up for the first time in a new city can be really disorienting. Sometimes you're awoken by bustling street traffic, or in the silent dead of night because of the time change. Sometimes you feel the unfamiliar ceilings closing in, or the budget mosquito nets swinging open. But this was serene. This was lovely. 

View from Sara's apartment.

After a deliciously slow morning (and lots of coffee to remedy the 9-hour time change), we spent the day exploring Aarhus. My favorite part was the rooftop of the Aarhus Art Museum, called "Your Rainbow Panorama." And it is just that -- a walkway with a 360 view of the city through all of the colors of the spectrum of light. The underlying concept is based on Dante's Divine Comedy. You are encouraged to explore how your senses change as you move from warm to cool, and vice versa. It's also meant to act as a visual compass for the city -- when viewed from a distance, the work presents different colors that inform your location. 

Me and Marisa. In the distance is Sara's apartment and the church she was baptized in.

Excuse me while I kiss the sky. This is our most wonderful Danish friend/hostess extraordinaire, Sara.

Sara and Marisa taking in the blue. I mean, view.

View from the inside.

View from the outside.

We closed our rounds in the city by stopping into a shopping center for the next day's essentials. Read: drinks and decorations. And cake. Can't forget the cake. We stopped into a bakery and (willingly) paid far too much money for the traditional Danish pastry eaten at midnight, kransekage. Kransekage is made of marzipan, and it is magic. Well worth the dough (ha?). It can be sold as a stack of rings adorned with Danish flags (often the chosen shape for weddings), but the bakery had just one kransekage left, in the shape of a heart with loose mini cakes in the center. We were lucky to be left with the one. Given that all of the seven dinner guests were female, the heart was kind of fitting.

That night Sara made Marisa and me our first homemade Danish dish, frikadeller, or Danish meatballs. She served them with a red cabbage and clementine salad, potatoes, and "brown sauce" (gravy). It was one of those meals where I willingly took seconds (OK, thirds) knowing full well I would hate myself afterwards. It was well worth the post-dinner resentment.

My mouth waters just thinking about this meal.

We spent the next day preparing for the evening. First, a trip to the grocery store to get everything we hadn't bothered to get the day before...all of the ingredients for our contribution to dinner. As I mentioned, Sara, Marisa, and I were going to join Sara's friend, Nana, and three of her friends, Line, Anna, and Sidsel. An all-girls dinner party. The menu took a little more thought since some of the guests were gluten-free, lactose free, and/or pescetarian, but we managed. In fact, dinner was really delicious. And fish is traditionally served on New Year's anyway, so it worked out. 

The table was already set and decorated when we arrived but we were tasked with adding even more flair to the room. I had never had a sit down dinner for New Year's Eve before. My family usually throws a big party for my little sister's birthday (New Year's Eve) and my birthday (New Year's Day) combined. We have trays of food and treats set out and guests spend the entire evening picking and eating throughout. So this was different, but I was all the more excited for it. 

But first, in Danish tradition, we watched the Queen of Denmark deliver the annual speech at 6 PM. It was, of course, in Danish, so I didn't catch much but I did note that she spoke of welcoming all Syrian refugees. We gathered around the ottoman and ate our gorgeous appetizers -- heart shaped rye bread topped with salmon, roe, and a yogurt based sauce, among other things I forget. 

Then it was onto dinner. We had a perfectly cooked halibut topped with chopped, roasted peanuts and a banana based sauce. We also had cheese and three different salads: a green salad, a potato salad, and a quinoa salad. Dessert was a gluten-free brownie and lactose-free ice cream. The best part? The food was so light (while still somehow tasting delectably rich) that I didn't feel bloated or bogged down. More room for celebratory drinking. 

Sweet.

We spent the rest of the evening playing drinking games, exchanging stories about Danish and American culture, and laughing. A lot. Aside from spending it with my family, it was the perfect way to spend New Year's Eve. I was incredibly thankful for how easy it was to meet their company. The girls all had such different personalities -- one was an artist, another had gotten one Master's in Venice and was getting another in Beijing (after a hiatus in Nepal); one was a mother to two young boys and another was studying gemology and working as a product demonstrator at a toy store -- but everyone was immensely agreeable and fun. I spent whole minutes in laughter. I learned two new drinking games, "Hi, Jack" and "Whoosh, Smash, Bush" that I look forward to teaching my friends back home. 

Line spends her work day wearing tutus. She is the most adorable adult I've ever met. 

Before long it was close to midnight. Another Danish tradition is to watch "The 90th Birthday" (also known as "Dinner for One") broadcast on TV about 15 minutes to midnight. It's a short black-and-white comedy sketch from the 1960s. I had heard of it before from my boyfriend in college whose family watched it every year. I thought then that maybe it was unique to his family, or maybe to Germans, but apparently it is a cult classic in many parts of the world, including Denmark. The Danes love it; everyone I spoke to has watched it every year since they can remember, and never tire of it. We turned it into a drinking game. 

Right before midnight we all climbed onto a chair, couch, or other surface and "jumped into the New Year" when the clock struck twelve. That may be my favorite new tradition. 

Then it was onto champagne and kransekagre. And (at least) 45 straight minutes of fireworks. It seems the Danes love their fireworks. Rather than an establishment like a theme park or local agency putting on one spectacle, many Danish families buy their own arsenal of fireworks and set them off all over the city. The night sky screamed with bright proclamations of excitement, amusement, and wonder. 

Marzipan and magic. 

My mama says that the way you spend your New Year's is the way you spend your year. In that case, 2015 is utter awe, joy, and promise. 

I stood outside a while to watch the fireworks,
until the chill came over me. One last cheers to 2014.

We couldn't leave the apartment without another typical Danish practice, shots of thick licorice liquor. I forget the name. Or maybe I never remembered. Then it was off to the bars downtown. First up, an Irish bar. My eyes are feeling heavy so I'll skip over those events. I doubt I'd tell them accurately anyhow. Then we walked over to a German bar called Heidi's, known for dancing. It was at that point that Sara flagged me down to share "the problem."

After a night of gleeful revelry (and a customary belligerent meal of, go figure, a burger and fries), we caught the 6:30 AM bus home. By 7:15 AM I wiped off (what was left of) my red lipstick and mascara, drank as many glasses of water as I could keep down, and crawled into bed. Five hours later I squeezed my eyes tighter, as if that would make my alarm (or the need for it) go away. I had a train to catch.

I dragged my feet to the bathroom, weighed down heavy with self-pity and loathing. I felt every drop of wine, beer, screwdriver, champagne, licorice shot...ugh.

That all melted away when I walked by the living room to see sweet Sara standing in the middle of Danish flags and blowing up a red balloon. She had gone to bed later than me and woken up earlier. She decorated for my birthday. (Danes really love their flag -- my host mom tells me they put it up any chance they get -- birthdays, neighbor's birthdays, weddings, holidays, even funerals)

Birthday celebration for 3.
Also, Happy International Hangover Day!

While I made my best attempt to pack a weekend bag, Sara whipped up the birthday omelet I had reluctantly requested the day before. When I had asked her once if there were any traditional Danish birthday practices, she answered, "Only that you get whatever you want."

Sara is a saint. Saved my life with this omelet. 

Somehow, someway my sorry behind made it on the 2:30 PM train with 12 minutes to spare. It was off to Hamburg, Germany to spend a few days exploring before the start of teaching.

But that's a whole 'nother story.

Thanks for reading this one.

Happy New Year to you and yours. Thanks again for the birthday wishes. Seven days in, 27 looks good yet.

xo Jan

layovers + lollygagging

Copenhagen, Denmark
55.6761° N, 12.5683° E

I've been on the move for 27 hours. I'm currently sitting at the airport in Copenhagen, waiting on my last flight of three today. Final destination: Aarhus.

If today is at all reflective of the next 5 weeks, I'm in for quite the trip.

The day started with my typical morning routine, albeit at 4 AM: a 9-minute snooze following the alarm, a long wall to wall stretch (the yoga teachers in Santa Barbara often cue this as “ocean to mountain." I smile to myself each time.), stumbling in the dark to find pants, and a groggy stroll to the kitchen for a cup of warm water and lemon. The routine ended, however, after a shower and a bowl of oatmeal. After that my dear old dad threw my luggage into the car and we were off to LAX.

“Did I just hear you say you were going to Denmark?”

I had just left the check-out counter and was walking toward security, fumbling with getting my passport and passes back safely into my bag. I looked up at the unfamiliar, but friendly voice. It took me a moment to respond, as paused to think to myself, “Did I just say I was going to Denmark?” Reality hadn't set in yet.

“Uhm, yeah. I think so. I mean, yes. I am.”

He was an American journalist who had just recently come home from several months covering the Syria conflict from Turkey.

“I'd love to write full time. I've toyed around with the idea but was never brave enough to take the plunge. So now I teach writing. You know what they say, 'Those who can't do, teach,'” I joked. (I'm not sure why I said that -- I actually really hate the claim. But strangers often spur word vomit.)

“No! No. We uhh need uhh good educators out there,” he offered quickly. I'd forgotten: self-mockery often doesn't sit well with strangers -- there isn't enough context to cushion the deprecation as humor. Politeness abounds. I assured him I was kidding and we chatted about past travels all through the security line, until we were separated by the guard. I waved goodbye, proceeded through security, and found a seat near my gate.

A few minutes later, the journalist plopped his things down next to me. Turns out, he was on my flight. Actually, he was on standby. He told me about Syria, about covering gun laws back home in Oakland. I told him about Cuba, about student teaching in Santa Barbara.

“Wait, what's your name?” Formalities often get lost in such flurried meetings.

They called my boarding group over the loudspeaker and I bid him goodbye again, neither of us sure he'd get a seat. A few minutes later, as I was debating whether to catch a quick nap or read the new book my brother had gotten me for Christmas, I got a thumbs up from the aisle. We entered into a witty exchange of text messages between the front and back of the aircraft until we were told to put our devices away.

After the flight he invited me to breakfast, remembering that I had a 9-hour layover. I told him about my elaborate plans to meet up with friends so we rainchecked for a drink later that day. I'm not sure how my friends, who I hadn't seen since July and August, would have felt about me bringing a stranger from the airport to breakfast. Maybe they wouldn't have been all that surprised.

Casey, who had driven up from Los Gatos, was waiting for me when I stepped outside. We did the skip-run-hug you see in the movies, though the best thing about our cinematic friendship is that it's real. From there we drove to meet Jordan, another great friend from the college dorm days.

Millionaire's Bacon

Jordan took us to his favorite breakfast spot, an Asian-fusion restaurant called Sweet Maple. My sunrise flight was good for something, since he marveled that we were actually there early enough to get a seat straightaway; normally, he related, by the time he and his friends stumbled there for weekend brunch, the wait could be at two-and-a-half hours. It was easy to see (err taste) why: everything was lovely and delicious. Since Sweet Maple is “Home of Millionaire's Bacon,” we couldn't get away without a side order of the house specialty. I didn't give into the hype until I had my first bite. Best. Bacon. Ever. Ever ever ever. It was like a flat-iron steak, supposedly marinated in syrups and spices for four hours. Whatever they're cooking process, it was grand. At that point I'd already been up for a quarter of a day and needed a caffeine fix. I opted for a Misugaru latte, only because I'd never heard of it before. Misugaru is a Korean multi-grain mix. Jordan described my latte as “frothy shredded wheat.” Spot on. Sweet Maple uses a lot of basil in unexpected places, and it is delightful. One of these days I'm going to try making their huevos rancheros using basil instead of cilantro.

Next up was a visit to the Marin Headlands. We walked down a dirt path, through a tunnel, and over a bridge to a sweet old lighthouse.

They're the two best friends that anyone could have.

Then we played some bocci ball at a water-front bar in Sausalito (aptly named Bocci Bar). 

We closed the day at Brickyard at the Marina, where our (often elusive) friend Trey met up with us. One stellar breakfast, too many photos exploring, half a game of bocci, and several drinks later, Casey had me back at the airport with two hours to spare. It was easily the best layover ever.

Despite a full two hours, I barely caught the plane to Copenhagen because of a small mix up. The check-in agent had told me which seats the airline had put on hold for a weight cushion, so I snagged an empty 4-seat row to myself at takeoff. I made a first-class bed for free.

Ironically, the first person I spoke to upon landing in Copenhagen was not Danish. I had gone to exchange my USD to Danish Kroner and, after I had asked the teller a few questions about currency, I politely asked if she was American since I hadn't picked up on any accent. She laughed and said she had grown up in Florida. When I asked her what brought her to Denmark, she looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and replied, "The only thing that makes you move halfway across the ocean." Suddenly my grad-school shenanigans didn't seem so crazy; a boy may have prompted me to go back to a school next to the ocean, but I hadn't gone so far as to cross one. Still, there's a reason she didn't need to elaborate. It's universal. Feeling lucky after my last layover full of fun, I told her I had four hours before my last flight and asked if there was anywhere to go right outside the airport. It was a 12-minute Metro ride to the city center. Even better.

Marisa, my travel buddy since SFO and fellow English student-teacher, and I were itching to explore. We went into Copenhagen, warmed up with an espresso while we people watched, walked around a bit the city a bit, and were back at the airport with time to spare. So now I'm here.

The plane is boarding soon so I'll leave you with three things I learned during my short time in "The City of Spires":

1. Babies are even more adorable when bundled.
2. Everyone bikes in Copenhagen. Even when it's snowing. 

Not the beach cruisers I'm used to.

3. Graffiti has similar aesthetic/angst throughout the world (or at least the parts I've seen). On the way back to the airport I pointed out the "Fuck Metro!" scratching on the subway rail to Marisa. "Ironic, isn't it, since you'd have to be utilizing the Metro to have written that?" An elderly man with a white beard and colorful scarf leaned over to peer at what I had gestured to. He scrunched his brow and frowned. Then he smiled. And then he launched into a full on giggle. He giggled so long that I started giggling. Then Marisa giggled. Just moments earlier I was marveling at some of the subway signs, written in Danish, that I could not even pick one word out of with confidence. The domino effect reminded me that, sometimes, you don't need a common language to share a moment. 

If only the author of "Fuck Metro!" knew his angry decree resulted in a warm moment between strangers. 

Gotta go make that flight - I've come too far to stop short. I'll write again soon. 

Sending love and best wishes for the New Year, 

Jan

Copenhagen is adorable. Definitely coming back. 

packing + playlists + panic attacks

"I left the baggage home, I brought my luggage in.”

I finished packing a whole ten hours before my 7 AM flight. A personal record, qualified only by the fact that eight of those ten hours should be spent sleeping. I haven’t slept much since starting grad school in July, and I figure that writing a pre-travel blog post might prompt me to do some writing while I’m actually abroad, so I’m up doing that instead, on a platform I haven’t touched since...the drop-down menu to the right says 2012.

In just a few short hours I’m headed to Aarhus, Denmark to participate in a teacher-exchange program. But not before a nine-hour layover in San Francisco. Thank goodness for wonderful friends in and around the city who are willing to wake up early on a Sunday for some fun(day) before the long flight to Copenhagen.


My brother caught me mid-packing in the photo to the right. I sometimes hate (the amount of time spent on) packing, but there is something really amusing about the whole process. What’s amusing is the notion of painting the unknown -- planning, collecting, and stowing the things you may need, or want, for some prescribed window of time in a novel location. Sure, decisions are informed by practical and logical considerations -- weather, for example, or length of stay. But I really only have whimsical imaginings to guide me.

You may, for instance, ask, “A swimsuit?” Yes, temperatures in Denmark average 32 degrees in January. But packing one is more mindset or mentality than function and practicality. It’s symbolic. It's the potential to have use for one. I likely won’t need it but I like the idea of leaving the door open.

“Teacher” or “professional” attire is in the duffle to the right. Romping ‘round Europe gear is in the pack to the left. And every eager student has a sweet backpack.

The book Santa Comes to California is a gift for my host family. They have a 6, an 8, and a 10-year old; two boys and one girl. I hope they like stories. 

Akin to the swimsuit, the little black dress is for New Year’s Eve, maybe. Then I turn 27 at the stroke of midnight. For the first time in my life, I’ve no clue where I’ll be on my birthday (Germany, perhaps?), or with whom I’ll be with (a fellow English-teacher travel buddy, to start). So maybe the LBD is silly. Then again, maybe it isn’t.

There ain’t no rest for the weary (or the wicked), but maybe for the bleary-eyed. My eyes are going cross-eyed from staring at words as they form on the computer screen.

Oh, but also, the quote above is from one of my favorite songs to pack to, “Up in the Air” by Dumbfounded. Another pre-travel favorite is Fashawn’s “Samsonite Man.”

For the sobering holy-moly-this-is-happening moments, when I needed a little more quiet, I put “Make it Rain” by Ed Sheeran (featured on Sons of Anarchy) on repeat. There’s also something oddly calming about “Hanging Tree.”

But I wrote this post to "Riptide" because I’m so excited I could howl at the sliver of a moon. 

I’m not quite sure what the next month in Denmark will bring, but I hope to share more as it unfolds. Feel free to drop me a line, or an address if you’d like a postcard. Wishing you all celebrations and annual starts that are joyous and safe. I will follow suit on my travels.

If nothing else, the last thing my grandma said to me this evening was, “Keep your clothes and take your vitamins.” Thanks, Lolai.

See you all in the New Year,

Jan