The Flying Mermaid

Benoit: Nice brunch, but don't trust the online menu!

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 12 May 2008 12:00:00 +0000

MerMom and I had a very nice Mother's Day brunch at Benoit, the new Alain Ducasse bistrot in New York. The highlight was definitely the chocolate souffle for dessert, which we had along with celebratory glasses of champagne.

The menu, however, was a bit of a surprise. When they called to confirm our OpenTable reservation, I asked specifically whether they'd have a special menu for Mother's day. No, they replied, they'd serve their regular menu. Online, they have a 2-course brunch for $32 (choose one appetizer and main course). Under main courses, they have grilled salmon, Le Steak with two eggs (and choice of frites), as well as the usual breakfast items. That was great, because I know that MerMom always chooses lunch items for brunch. Well, when we got there, the prix fixe was $42, and "Main courses" were nowhere to be found on the menu. The only lunch-like main course option was elbow pasta. Brunch menu was all they had -- no ordering off the lunch menu either. Under normal circumstances, deviations from the online menus are forgivable (as restaurants don't update their web sites very frequently) but this one opened just a few short weeks ago, so they really should have had their act together.

Despite this, the souffle made up for it. Wow. I can't really complain about chocolate souffle with vanilla ice cream and champagne. Mmmm. And it was a charming setting.

Bottom line: three seashells for the food (they redeemed themselves with the souffle, but I'm still a bit miffed about the menu. I really wanted frites); three octopi for the online menu deception.

Is this view worth paying extra for?

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 12 May 2008 02:19:00 +0000

For our Mother's Day trip to New York, MerMom and I booked a room at Le Parker Meridien in New York. Since it was a special occasion, MerMom called a few days later and asked whether we could upgrade to a park view room -- and was told, sure, for an extra $50. That sounds great, she said, and confirmed and paid for the upgrade.

We checked in late Friday night, tired after being stuck in traffic the entire length of Connecticut on the BoltBus. At the desk, the (somewhat rude) clerk said that no, we certainly did not have a park view room, saying that the (now $50 more expensive) rate was for a standard room, and it was too low a rate for him to give us a park view. Well, MerMom of course had an email confirmation of the booking history (including the name of the manager she spoke with, and the original and revised rates). After checking with someone in the back, the clerk reluctantly gave us the keys to a room on the park side, but made sure to tell us that we were most certainly paying too little, as "everyone else" was paying at least $150 more for that room! (We'd booked directly from their own web site, by the way, and took advantage of a AAA rate, which took about 10% off).

Well, we were exhausted at that point, and we went right to the room and fell asleep. When we woke up the next morning, we opened the curtains and saw the above view (which I think falls into the category of what HotelChatter would call an "anti-view"). Talk about a $50 upgrade -- we paid extra for this? We called down to the front desk, and were lucky to reach Omar, who was a thousand times more helpful than his counterparts the night before. Omar appreciated the problem with the construction site view, and told us that we basically had two options. Rooms with 2 double beds that actually had a park view were hard to come by. So we could have a king bed with a (real) park view, above the construction, or we could compromise and have a suite with a city view. We chose the suite, and it was certainly a better night. Our suite had a king bed and a sitting room (with pull-out couch -- though not a very comfortable one), a large marble walk-in shower, and a strange rotating TV in the middle that swiveled so that it could be watched either in the bedroom or the sitting room. (A large swivel unit was needed, since the TV was an old-school tube model, not a flat-panel.) Rooms featured a large safe (not quite the Dick Cheney "man-sized" safe, but it would easily fit, say, a medium-sized dog).

Hotel amenities were good, but not quite up to their billing. The fitness center, which they claim had won awards for the best NYC hotel fitness center, was admittedly quite large, but the cardio machines and free weights were showing their age. The indoor rooftop pool, however, with views of the city and the park, was great. The on-site restaurant Seppi's was a perfect and relaxing spot for a late dinner when we arrived. Cartoons in the elevator were a nice touch, and the amusing signs (such as "Fughettaboutit" instead of "do not disturb") managed to pull off being irreverent yet not too annoying.

Overall, especially in the suite, it was a nice stay. However, it's not quite the luxury hotel it seems to think it is (and the attitude of some of the front desk people certainly needs an adjustment -- but Omar was great). Overall: three seashells.

Bolt from Boston to NYC!

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 12 May 2008 02:00:00 +0000

As promised, here's a review of my trip on BoltBus from Boston to New York (and back) with MerMom this past weekend. The bottom line is that it's definitely worth the $30 round-trip each that we paid for the tickets.

We bought tickets online a few weeks ago, not early enough to get the promised $1 fares, but still a low $15 each way per person. That's compared with about $225 round trip for the plane, $200 each for Amtrak, and $180 each for the LimoLiner (which MerMom took during her last trip to New York). It's competitive with the other bus lines.

First, the pros: the buses were nice and clean, even the bathroom (which was airplane-quality). The drivers both ways were quite pleasant. The boarding process was very orderly (they board by letter, A-C, depending on when you bought your ticket: we had "B" and had no problem getting seats together). There was free Wifi on the bus. The stop at 34th Street and 8th Avenue in New York was convenient, and avoiding the Port Authority Bus Terminal was a big plus. (There was no problem getting a taxi at a nearby hotel upon arrival). One tip from a fellow traveler (which I haven't yet verified) is that if you join the BoltBus rewards program, you might get a higher boarding zone.

The cons: well, it's still a bus, and gets stuck in traffic. It took nearly 6 hours to get to New York on Friday evening in the rain, including a rest stop in Connecticut (the driver told us that the trip back took 7!) With no rest stop on the way back, it took 4 hours and 45 minutes. Also, the wifi went out on the way back, and the driver wasn't able to reset it.

I'd say that the guaranteed seating, and avoiding the Port Authority Bus Terminal, beats the regular Greyhound bus hands down. However, I couldn't quite shake the realization that in my six hours on the bus, I could have flown across the entire country. On the plus side, we did save $360 -- enough for a very nice hotel in New York City. More on that later!

Internet abroad: solutions and suggestions

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Wendy Perrin's blog yesterday had a great post on the difficulties of connecting to the internet while on the road. In my opinion, things are getting much better in the world of wireless and wired connections from hotels. Lately, I haven't had a problem actually connecting to such networks (provided, however, I'm willing to pay the sometimes extortionate rate!) There are some hiccups occasionally -- in Madrid recently, though the hotel we stayed at (Room Mate Mario) had free wifi, we had to sit on the floor of the room near the door to get the best connection. The connection in the breakfast room, however, was perfect. With the internet becoming increasingly a resource for travel planning and non-work purposes, I've felt an increasing need for connectivity even on leisure trips. For example, what time does the museum open? What restaurants have availability at 7 pm tonight? When is the movie showing? Are there any pizza places near the train station? What's the weather forecast? All easy questions for google, and also easy to forget how we figured these things out before the internet. (Does anyone else remember dialing the weather on the telephone?) Thus, even on leisure trips, when you're staying in places that aren't traditional full-service hotels, such as vacation houses, bed-and-breakfasts, and city apartments, internet access can be a challenge.

Like Wendy, I'm particularly interested in international connections. Every summer, MerMan and I spend a few weeks with his parents in Sweden, who don't have internet access or even a computer at home. For the past several years, we've been using Budget Dialup -- which, though inexpensive, isn't an ideal solution because it's slow and ties up the phone line. I'd certainly be willing to pay for quality, unlimited international wireless access.

BoltBus to New York: Coming Soon

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 18:59:00 +0000

A new competitor to Greyhound and the Chinatown buses starts running tomorrow on the Boston-New York route. Read more from the Boston Globe here. BoltBus, a new cooperation between Greyhound and Peter Pan, features fares as low as $1, free wifi, more leg room, and guaranteed seating. BudgetTravel reviewed the earlier launch of BoltBus from DC to New York, and the verdict was generally positive, despite wifi issues.

MerMom and I booked our Mother's Day trip from Boston to NYC on BoltBus a few weeks ago, and were able to get $10 tickets one way and $15 on the way back. (Not bad, compared with the usual prices for the major competitors, but not the advertised $1). Stay tuned for a Mermaid review. MerMom will be comparing it to LimoLiner, which she took on her last trip to New York. LimoLiner is $89 each way, so I'll be interested in whether "bus luxury" is worth the difference. My last trip to NY was on Greyhound, and I'm particularly excited about the guaranteed seating, which will avoid the long Sunday afternoon queue at the Port Authority.

Benoit NY: Reservation for Mother's Day!

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 01:46:00 +0000

Alain Ducasse's new casual bistro in New York, Benoit, was set to open yesterday, as the blog Eater and others pointed out. What perfect timing -- MerMom and I have planned a trip to New York for Mother's Day weekend, and we've decided that Benoit would be a great brunch spot before we head back Sunday afternoon. It's convenient to our hotel, too, as we're staying at Le Parker Meridien in Midtown. Stay tuned for a review soon. If anyone has any early reviews of Benoit, please leave a comment!

NYT discovers hotel...two years after Mermaid!

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 23:52:00 +0000

The New York Times yesterday wrote about the Mövenpick Hotel in Berlin, nearly two and a half years after MerMan and I stayed there for a pre-Christmas weekend in 2005. (The story was also featured on HotelChatter. They were right about the hotel being a great deal in an up-and-coming neighborhood and convenient to public transport and Potsdamer Platz. In December 2005, MerMan and I got a great package deal during a conference and Christmas market weekend in Berlin: 610 euro for four nights, including breakfast every day, drinks every night, free access to the fitness center, a Berlin public transport card, and one four-course dinner including wine. It's a modern, clean hotel in a convenient location (despite the NYT deeming the neighborhood not so trendy, it's near several friendly and reasonably-priced local restaurants). The bathrooms, separated from the rooms by frosted glass, are beautiful, but I'd suggest sharing a room only with someone you know well, as they're not so private. (Especially if you get one of those rooms with a bathtub smack-dab in the center of the room....) We loved the Christmas market scene in Berlin (despite the weather, which was cold and snowy). A great way to warm up is a mug of Glühwein, hot mulled wine -- you pay extra for the mug, and can either keep it or go back for refills!

Democratic Primary Travel Guide: Montana

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 00:19:00 +0000

With the Democratic primary battle showing no end in sight, it might be time to start making your plans for one of the next primary states: Montana (June 2). June is a great time to visit one of Montana's great sights -- Glacier National Park-- as the main road through the park, Going-to-the-sun Road, usually is clear of snow by late May or early June. MerMan and I visited Glacier in late August, 2007 and spent a week sightseeing and day hiking in the park. We chose to stay in the small ski town of Whitefish, about a half hour away from the park's west entrance. We stayed the whole week at the Good Medicine Lodge, a bed-and-breakfast run by Woody and Betsy, a retired couple from DC who now make their home in Whitefish. What a wonderful place (five seashells!) -- great breakfasts, Montana-sized cookies every afternoon, and a friendly atmosphere. It's a short walk to downtown Whitefish from there, with its many food options -- but some nights, completely wiped out after hiking, we only made it as far as across the street -- to McGarry's Roadhouse for Montana-sized steaks and martinis. (Everything in Montana, it seems, is Montana-sized.) A highlight of of our outdoor activities was hiking the portion of the highline trail between Logan Pass, along the Garden Wall, past Granite Park Chalet (where those who planned farther in advance than we could stay overnight!), and back out to Going-to-the-sun road, a total of around 13 miles one-way (we took the frequent and free hiker shuttle from our car in the morning to Logan Pass, so a one-way hike was doable). But that hike didn't get us close to any actual glaciers (though we saw plenty from far away). We decided to go all the way across the park (about a four-hour drive) and stay for one night in the Many Glacier Hotel, one of the national park lodges on the east side of the park, so we'd have enough time to hike to an actual glacier the next day. Well, the short boat ride and hike to Grinnell Glacier was well worth the trip, and worth doing soon, as the glaciers are quickly melting as a result of global climate change. The Many Glacier Hotel, though, left lots to be desired -- far from the romantic ideal of a wilderness lodge, it was old, run-down, and overpriced. The food was atrocious (five octopi). Between the rubbery chicken for dinner and the gummy pancakes for breakfast, I'm not sure what was worse. (I didn't even think it was possible to ruin pancakes!) Another attraction in the area which may be worth a drive, if you're in the neighborhood, is the National Bison Range, in Moiese, Montana. We only saw bison from very far away (your mileage may vary, depending on whether the bison are near the road or not), but we did see lots of other wildlife like antelope. And, of course, we ate bison burgers at the roadside diner near the entrance!Democrats will find a lot to like about Glacier and its surroundings, including an outdoorsy concern about the environment. However, in order to really appreciate the Montana-sized steaks, you need the appetite of a Republican fat cat (or, a ravenous hiker!)

Democratic Primary Travel Guide: Philadelphia

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 01:42:00 +0000

With the Pennsylvania presidential primary election coming up on April 22, here are some recommendations for places to stay and things to do in Philadelphia. Merman and I were last in Philly in October 2007, where we ate cheesesteak and saw some touristy sights.

We stayed at the Courtyard Philadelphia Downtown, which was a great choice. It's right in the center of the city next to City Hall, and housed in a historic building. We stayed in a huge corner room for only $150 per night. The only minus was the lack of a coffee shop in the lobby, but a Dunkin' Donuts was only a few doors away.

At the risk of offending a regional delicacy, we were underwhelmed by our cheesesteaks. After a lot of online research about the best possible cheesesteak experience, we chose Cosmi's, which was rated "5 clogged arteries" (the best in the city) by Philadelphia magazine. Despite rave reviews online, it was hardly worth the trip into South Philly: it was gummy and overly greasy. We were similarly underwhelmed by the Dutch Eating Place at the Reading Terminal Market: a Chicken Pot Pie was heavy on white bread and low on actual chicken content.

We were hoping to try Buddakan, but unfortunately it was closed for a private party. Our backup option for dinner that night, though, was Alma de Cuba, and it was wonderful (though less Cuban than we expected). The cocktails (specialty capirinhas and mojitos) were a highlight.

As for touristy pursuits, the Liberty Bell is a must-see, but other interesting sights include the U.S. Mint (which is free and has a great gift shop!), the National Constitution Center, Independence Hall, and the Philadelphia Art Museum, where you can run up the steps and take a picture next to the Rocky statue.

The mermaid bottom line runs a bit counter to conventional wisdom: avoid the cheesesteak, but stay for the culture. Four seashells for the activities; one octopus for the cheesesteak.

What? I can't hear you!

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 22:13:00 +0000

Tom Sietsema, the restaurant critic in the Washington Post, today writes about how he's getting old. No, seriously, he complains that Washington DC restaurants are too loud for a normal conversation. I have to agree with him that loud restaurants are indeed annoying (loud bars even more so). But I was at three of the restaurants he cited -- Zaytinya, Hook and Brasserie Beck -- just last weekend. Granted, I was at Zaytinya for lunch, and Brasserie Beck for an early brunch, but neither of them seemed particularly loud. However, I was at Hook for a Saturday dinner (along with MerMom). The restaurant was completely full, and we stayed for about 2 hours. By the time we left, the bar area was hopping (and the crowd quite possibly would have violated fire laws in a more stringent city). We sat at the front of the restaurant, by the windows, and didn't have any problem with the noise level. (The communal table, by the bar, was probably the noisiest area). It certainly wasn't a quiet, whisper-filled romantic dining room, but I didn't find it outside the normal noise range. What annoys me more than conversation din in general, though, is loud music (and the loud TVs mentioned in the article) -- which prompt everyone to talk louder and are more difficult to tune out.

Why didn't I try the olive oil ice cream?

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 17:57:00 +0000

After coming back from a weekend in Washington DC, I was struck by the dramatic improvement in the city's restaurant scene (especially downtown!) since I last lived there almost a decade ago. I'll post a few more reviews in the next few days, but here's one to get things started....

It's hard not to work up an appetite fighting international terrorism....and after a morning doing just that at Operation Spy at the International Spy Museum, MerMom and I were searching for lunch options. We spotted Zaytinya from a block away and it looked promising. Boy, was it ever!

Zaytinya specializes in eastern Mediterranean small plates, and is one of Jose Andres' restaurants in Washington (another, Jaleo, is one of my longtime favorites). It's a modern, high-ceilinged blue-and-white space that looks like a Mediterranean island. It's large and has a substantial bar area too. We found six small plates to be more than enough for lunch, especially with the hot puffed bread and olive oil that our servers kept refilling. We started with baba ghannouge (which was a little light on the eggplant but very good) and a romaine salad. Spanakopita was excellent, shaped like a mini egg roll and with a good balance of spinach, cheese and dough. Arni souvlaki (lamb skewers) were perfectly cooked and very tender.

We made an effort to make room for dessert: homemade ice creams, in a choice of unique flavors. One option was olive oil -- which I regret not trying, especially when I learned that Zaytinya means olive oil in Turkish. I had coffee (a bit grainy and dry, but very coffee-tasting), walnut (also a little dry), and honey (the best of the lot, if a bit sweet).

I'll have to go back on my next trip to DC to try the olive oil ice cream and the Eastern Mediterranean wine list. Mermaid rating: four seashells (out of a possible five).

Spying on a new hotel...

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 02:51:00 +0000

“Mer-mom” and I have just come back from a two-night stay at the new and much-talked-about Donovan House hotel in Washington DC. See HotelChatter for details.

Though I’ve stayed in relatively new hotels before, this was my first time staying on the very first night. I’m pleased to say that we are now experienced hotel-testers (and are willing to offer our services to the highest bidder!) Pictures of the hotel are posted here.

Upon arriving at the hotel on Friday (March 28), almost the whole staff was standing on the sidewalk waiting for guests to arrive – and seemed quite excited when anyone showed up. Everything in the hotel is decked out in shades of dark plum, black, white and beige. A plum-colored leather banquette lines one wall, and metal rods suspend swing-like seating from the ceiling. There’s a huge cherry blossom arrangement in front of the elevators (shiny, white cabins which pipe in an eclectic assortment of music, from Latin pop to 90s hits).

Our first (of three…long story…) rooms was a handicapped-accessible room with two double beds – which was missing the much-talked-about cocoon shower, and lacked a closet (in favor of a waist-high half-rod tucked in a corner). Though it was a perfectly nice room, the lack of the special shower and any closet space prompted us to ask whether it was possible to be moved to another (non-accessible) room. The (ever-cheerful, still-learning) staff was happy to accommodate the request, and we were moved up a few floors to a normal room. This actually did have the cocoon shower, which was basically a normal shower that was at the end of a spiral-shaped entrance-way. We’d hoped that the “spiral shower” concept actually applied to the water, but alas, the water only comes down from a rain-shower head above.

We spent Friday night in this room. The hotel was quiet and we heard little street noise, despite seeing a road crew dig up the street outside all night. However, there’s a gap between the top of the curtains that lets in a good deal of ambient light, so the room never gets completely dark (which may be a problem for some). The real surprise came in the morning – when we woke up early, turned on the cocoon shower, and were greeted with cold water. And more cold water.

Trudging down to the lobby (where the free continental breakfast was being set up: pod coffee machines, muffins, apples), we were told that this was a hotel-wide problem, and that the road crew outside the previous night had been trying to fix it. But would we like to be upgraded to a suite as compensation for the cold awakening? Of course we would! We moved down the hall to a gorgeous two room king suite, with two big-screen TVs, one bathroom exactly like the regular room plus an additional half bathroom, and a sitting room with a large plum-colored leather couch. It was a gorgeous (and huge) room, and we were very pleased! After a day of sightseeing, we returned to the room and found the hot water had been fixed, and I had my first warm cocoon shower. We spent Saturday night in the suite, and despite a few additional hiccups (the room phone wasn’t working, for example – we had to call the front desk from a cell!) it was a very pleasant stay. We also tried the small fitness center (four or five treadmills, three ellipticals, a bike, a weight set and a bench). The rooftop pool bar, we were told, would open before the summer, and a restaurant is in the works.

Throughout, the staff, though obviously new and still learning the ropes (the doorman still didn’t have the DC cab fare system down, and the acting concierge wasn’t quite sure how to locate the hotel on a map of the city), was charming and eager-to-please. Their true star was Carmen from housekeeping, though, who should be running the whole hotel chain – who responded to every small request and suggestion with a great attitude and made us feel like part of the hotel family. We’ll definitely be back – especially if they have future weekend deals!

**Edited to add: Mermaid rating: Four seashells (out of five)**

Welcome to my new blog!

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 00:09:00 +0000

Welcome to my new blog, and especially to readers of earlier series: "Life and Times of Ø" and "Adventures." Like the previous two series, this will be a chronicle of my travel adventures near and far. Please come along for the ride!

"Life and Times" and "Adventures" are in the process of being converted to blog post format, and will be archived on this blog. Stay tuned!

Paris-Dakar Rally

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 02 Jan 2006 02:29:00 +0000

My travel plan for the month of December started out innocently enough. The annual conference of parties for the Montreal Protocol, in Dakar, was the week before Christmas, and I was scheduled to write for the Earth Negotiations Bulletin from there. As Mer-man and I planned to be in Sweden for the holidays, I thought, why not combine the two trips? I’d already crossed the Atlantic eight times thus far in 2005, and avoiding one more crossing seemed like a very good move. What I hadn’t counted on was the snow. What started as a carefully-planned itinerary thus ended up approaching a cross between the Paris-Dakar Rally and the Amazing Race.

After weeks of searching, I finally found a ticket that was inexpensive enough to satisfy the auditors, and also allowed me to fly back in late December on the same flight as Mer-man and my mother ("Mer-Mom"), who would meet me in Copenhagen on the way to southern Sweden. The plan was for my mother and me to spend a few days in Stockholm after Christmas, and fly home from there, while Mer-Man would stay a few more days with his parents in Skåne and fly home from Copenhagen. Unfortunately, this involved my booking two separate airline tickets – one from Boston to Paris (via New York) on American Airlines, returning from Stockholm via London, and another from Paris to Dakar and back to Paris on Air France. I also had a one-way ticket from Paris to Copenhagen in the middle. This would have worked out perfectly – except for the huge snowstorm that hit the northeast U.S. the very day I was to leave. Though I managed to get myself switched onto a flight to Paris via London instead – the New York flight was cancelled early on, and Logan was closed for four hours – I arrived in Paris seven hours late, and just minutes after the Dakar flight closed its doors. After standing in line to see the, as always, charming and accommodating [irony intended] Air France ticket office representative, he informed me that perhaps they could accommodate me on the next available seat to Dakar, which would be sometime in January. Thus scolded, I turned to the next available option – an Alitalia flight to Dakar via Milan, which left in just over an hour. “Run,” the ticket man offered helpfully, “Terminal 2B.” And thus I sprinted, just under 17 kg of wheeled baggage in tow, through the underground corridor, emerging at the Alitalia ticket office slightly out of breath, where I informed the slightly confused agent that I needed to buy a ticket on the next flight to Dakar. After saying it probably wasn’t possible, she clicked a few buttons on her computer and printed out a ticket for me nonetheless, directing me to run (again) to the check-in counter. Luckily, my training program had prepared me for this (the distance between terminals at CDG is nothing compared to the distance between Denmark and Sweden, which I’ll tackle in 6 short months), and I made it to the flight, and landed in Dakar in the early AM only a few hours behind schedule. Thus, I’d managed to hit Boston, London, Paris, Milan and Dakar in just under 24 hours.

Like almost all international meetings, most of my time in Dakar was spent in 18-hour days in a dark, over-air-conditioned conference center. Saving the ozone layer is a tiring proposition. However, it also has its rewards – towards the end of the meeting, an evening reception hosted by the government of Senegal featured a concert by the famous Senegalese singer Youssou N’Dour. This, undoubtedly, was the highlight of the trip.

As the meeting ended, I returned to Paris via Alitalia, as my Air France ticket had of course been cancelled when I failed to show up on time for the first flight. Alas, the plane from Milan was scheduled too late to catch my originally-planned flight onwards to Copenhagen. I’d have to reschedule for the next day, and spend the night in Paris. Oh well, it was a perfect excuse to hit the Christmas sales! At least my travel problems were solved – that is, until Alitalia lost my luggage….

Billgrimage

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Thu, 01 Sep 2005 01:14:00 +0000

In the past several years, I’ve journeyed across the world, over four different continents, and visited more than 20 countries. However, despite thousands of flight miles, my list of travel destinations was missing a critical locale – the real Amurrica (as George Bush would say). Of the U.S. states I’d visited, totaling only 18, the list included only 5 of the so-called “red” states which voted for Bush in 2004 (namely, Virginia, Arizona, North Carolina, Arizona, and Florida). In my travels, I’d been asked more times than I can count to explain – how do I put this delicately? – how people could step behind a plastic striped curtain on an otherwise pleasant Tuesday in November, and lose all sense of sanity. Unfortunately, I have had to plead ignorance – living in one of the bluest neighborhoods in the bluest cities in the bluest state in the Union. I’ve thought a lot in the last year about the causes, and what the solution might be to the current American political dilemma. Is it time for a new Purple Party? Massive red-state colonization? Hillary?

To shed light on these questions, I needed to consult an expert. Who better to explain red America than one of the great Democratic political leaders of our time…who also happened to go by the name Bubba? That’s right, it was time for a Billgrimage. I would visit the Bill Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock, Arkansas for inspiration.

The red state trip began to take shape. But before the Billgrimage could commence, I needed to make a trip to the heart of the beast – the Department of Homeland Security. My traveling companion needed to get his documents in order before crossing the border into Red America.

Nearly a year ago, on the morning of Election Day 2004, "Mer-man" and I submitted the paperwork that would attempt to convince the Department of Homeland Security of a few key facts: that I am a U.S. citizen; that our marriage bore no resemblance to any movie involving Gerard Depardieu; and that Mer-man was neither a terrorist nor insane. This, however, involved six different forms, fingerprints, certificates, tax returns, and a do-it-yourself course in immigration law. Our interrogation was scheduled for August 2. After preparing a second set of documentation (more certificates, tax returns, and wedding photos), we made our way to the JFK Federal Building in Boston, where we spent an hour waiting in a roped off lobby area that bore a striking resemblance to a livestock holding pen. After such a buildup, the interview itself was rather anticlimactic. After asking us whether we were indeed married to each other, and if Mer-man was a spy or a terrorist (high-tech crime prevention measures), he was issued a green card and we were on our way.

The very next day, we left for the Billgrimage. We would begin our trip by flying to St. Louis – where we would see a concert – then drive south to Little Rock, visit the library, and stay a few days in the town where Bill grew up, Hot Springs. And, to round out the authentic Billgrimage experience, we would stop in Memphis to visit Elvis.

Just two and a half hours on American Airlines from Boston, we landed in another world. After two nights in St. Louis, we made our way from the Gateway Arch across the Arkansas border. As we drove our rented (fittingly, red) Dodge Neon down the highway, we began to contemplate some differences. Maybe it was the billboards advertising the Bible Factory Outlet (apparently, a popular chain). Perhaps it was the sign at the gas station reminding us to buy our liquor now – “Next 5 counties dry!” – or the high speed car chase that whizzed by about 10 meters away. Or, the numerous anti-abortion messages – billboards across the highway from a picture of a smiling baby, asking “Who’s my daddy?” and advertising DNA testing. Six long hours later, we saw the giant double-wide trailer that is the Bill Clinton Presidential Library and Museum rising, a vision from the side of the highway. (I am going to refrain from commenting on the somewhat-unintended segue from DNA testing to the former President. Insert your own joke here.) After a brief movie about Bill Clinton’s life, I got the opportunity to relive 1992-2000 through a multimedia presentation of policy initiatives, peek into the “Oval Office,” and spend some quality time in the “cabinet room” sitting in Madeline Albright’s chair. (Having seen the real rooms back in 1996, I can vouch for their authenticity.)

It was then time to drive even deeper into the Arkansas heartland – to Hot Springs, boyhood home of Bill. We stayed at an authentic working ranch, had a historic hot spring bath, and joined Ashes and Freckles (see the pictures!) on a “Steak and Ride” – where we rode to the top of a hill, ate steak, and rode back down. We visited Memphis, and Elvis Week – where we saw three Elvii, ate dry ribs, and toured Graceland and the National Civil Rights Museum. Adding to our state total, we ate lunch in Mississippi. And Mer-man learned to embrace his inner Southern woman while quaffing mint juleps in the lobby of the Peabody hotel.

Our time in Red America was coming to an end, as we began our journey up the interstate headed back to St. Louis, and our flight home. On our way back, we stopped for lunch in New Madrid, MO, eating a wonderful burger called the “Redneck Rib-I” at a diner called “The Grill,” where we were the only non-locals. Before leaving New Madrid, we decided to fill up the gas tank and buy some batteries to charge the iPod for the remainder of the drive. As I walked into the station and asked if they had AAA batteries, I was greeted by a quizzical look from the woman behind the counter. “You have a funny accent,” she observed. “Where are you from?” Now, the last time I was asked a question like this was from a man at a supermarket cheese counter in Linköping, Sweden, who, upon my asking (in Swedish) for a certain kind of cheese, responded (also in Swedish), “So, where in America are you from?” He, at least, had the country right. Alas, I realized it was time to rejoin Blue America.

What's in a name?

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 01 Aug 2005 01:26:00 +0000

I recently celebrated the passing of one year under my new pseudonym (also known as my first wedding anniversary). I certainly didn’t imagine a year ago that I would be standing in a town that, save for one extra letter, bore my new name.

Choosing to acquire a new moniker was a multifaceted decision. First, I felt that it was important to stay one step ahead of the people who breathe on the other end of my phone line. My passport was full anyway, and I needed another one. I was already googleable. The Science Citation Index pulled up no results for my first initial, middle initial, and last name. My former name had an unfortunate resemblance in pronunciation to a Swedish word that means "yucky." And, having never had a middle name, I liked the sound of a three-name combination (think Hillary Rodham Clinton). Despite the annoying need to remind English speakers of the pronunciation of my new name, it has so far been a smooth transition.

And so, in the middle of July, after four weeks in as many countries, I found myself in the seaside village in Germany that was virtually named after me. It was the culmination of a whirlwind trip around Europe, that began in Romania, continued through Sweden and northern Denmark, and finally crossed the Baltic to Germany. Along the way were celebrated a wedding, a confirmation, and two birthdays.

The trip began in late June with a trip over the Atlantic, and, despite two airlines, three planes, and two airports, Mer-man and I managed to arrive in Bucharest with all luggage in tow. We had certainly picked an interesting week to visit, as the country was experiencing a major railway strike as well as planning a currency changeover in the next week.

After attending a beautiful and fun wedding, and touring Bucharest, we struck out on our own for Transylvania, where we visited the towns of Sighisoara (birthplace of Vlad Tepes, allegedly Dracula) and Brasov. We learned that the train strike was only active from 11 am to 5 pm, and managed to book tickets accordingly (although, on the way back, this involved locating a mysterious travel agency by following directions given entirely in Romanian. Thankfully, there are enough similarities between Romanian and other Romance languages that I managed some degree of limited communication by saying random French words and pointing.) We sampled Romanian food and wine, walked through old medieval streets, and took advantage of one of the few places we would visit this summer that our dollars would actually be worth anything.

Although we found the exchange rate relatively favorable, it was clear that in the eyes of Romanians, we were not carrying hard currency. Euro was the denomination of choice – so much so that even the taxis that tried to rip us off wanted euro, not dollars, and looked at us in disbelief when told we had only dollars or Romanian lei. European Union flags graced the facades of every government building, and even the Bucharest “cow parade” got into the act, trumpeting the hoped-for 2007 accession. The European Union “fast lane” was already in place at immigration. Although there was much optimism about what EU membership might mean for Romania, it was clear that there is much to be done before accession becomes a reality.

After leaving Romania (luckily, just before all credit cards, ATMs and banks would stop working for three days due to the money changeover!), we headed to Sweden, where we spent several days resting, touring, and eating. I spent some time running alongside friendly cows near Mer-man's hometown in Skåne, and followed in Kurt Wallander’s footsteps in Ystad. After a few days, we drove across the bridge to Denmark, and on to Skagen, where we spent a week among sand dunes and late-night sunsets. We spent a lot of quality time in our rental car – as in that area of Denmark, driving right up onto the beach and “tailgating” is the custom. A lesson to future sand-drivers is not to park too close to the water – we did, and we got stuck. Thankfully, we were helped out by a Danish family who knew what to do (even the 6-year-olds helped push!). I even got a chance to hone my shaky yet improving skills driving a stick shift [Reminder to self: 4^th gear is not appropriate for roundabouts…] Stopping over on the drive back, we visited Odense, birthplace of Hans Christian Andersen, and spent the night in an actual castle. We traveled nearly 1500 km. (With the weak dollar coupled with normally high gas prices, 11 DKK per liter equals over $7 per gallon; thus, I now have little sympathy for Americans’ whining about high gas prices.)

Back in Sweden just long enough for a load of laundry, we turned quickly around and took a ferry to Rügen, in Germany. We visited the second UNESCO World Heritage Site of our trip, the historic centre of Stralsund (the first was Sighisoara), walked by the sea, took lots of pictures in our namesake town, and tried to blend in with thousands of German tourists. On the way back, trunk loaded with our permitted quantities of duty-free booze, we shared a ferry with trucks loaded with the products of modern-day commerce – as well as some more interesting cargo: “eels on wheels”.

Alas, the eels did not accompany us back across the Atlantic, as we flew back to Boston laden with Swedish delicacies, Danish steak knives, Romanian brandy, and a poster from my namesake town.

The Last Hurrah

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Sat, 01 Sep 2001 01:12:00 +0000

The chilly autumn air has come to Denmark, and I can’t quite believe that I’ve been here a year. Today is my last day in Copenhagen, and tomorrow, along with way too many suitcases, I will head back to Boston.

I have spent the last two months enjoying that most European of traditions, the summer holiday. For those of you in the United States who do not know what that is (hint: many of you live in New York), it does not involve work. It lasts more than one week. My extended holiday involved six countries – Denmark, Sweden, Norway, France, Spain, and Austria – and I had a wonderful time in all.

In Denmark, no one works in July. The entire country is on holiday. I am not exaggerating; for example, I made the mistake of trying to get a suit dry cleaned in mid-July. I went to five different dry cleaners before I found one that was open. I spent the hottest week of July in Sweden, exploring the countryside and jumping into ice-cold Swedish lakes, and basically thoroughly enjoying the summer. I also played tour guide around Copenhagen for three visitors, and I am happy to report that I have now memorized the narration for the Copenhagen canal boat tour. (Only the English and Danish, though, not the French and German, so I don’t think they’ll let me be an official tour guide yet.) I went on a pilgrimage to Legoland, where I saw Lego Mt. Rushmore, the Lego Statue of Liberty, Lego Copenhagen, and even the Lego Göta Canal (I’d seen the real canal in Sweden the week before). I also visited more castles than I can count – including the Danish royal family’s summer residence, Fredensborg Slot (Slot means castle in Danish). I went to Fredensborg Slot with a visiting American friend, and we arrived just in time for the start of a guided tour. The only way to visit this castle was by guided tour, but the tour starting then was in Danish – the English tour wouldn’t start for another 90 minutes. We made the decision that we’d join the Danish tour, and I’d attempt to translate. Well, I understood most of what was going on, but every time I’d try to communicate a key tidbit, I’d miss the next piece. It was interesting, but because it was the Danish tour, it assumed a lot of basic knowledge about the royal family that I didn’t have – like the who’s who of random royal cousins.

Like most things I’ve experienced recently in the Danish language, I remember it a bit hazily – like I took the entire tour while under sedation. (I can assure you that I was not – and I have only visited the ‘free town’ of Christiania once, purely for its tourist value and not to patronize the merchants on ‘Pusher Street.’) I have realized that this lack of full remembrance is because I only understood about 80% to begin with. This probably means that my Danish has become a little better – of course, just in time to leave. (My spoken Danish, alas, still prompts responses like, ‘You’re American, right?’)

My linguistic ability was further challenged by my travels this past month. I spent a week driving around the south of France with friends, starting from Bourdeaux and heading south towards Basque country. We even crossed over into Spain for a day. We swam in the Atlantic, saw a really huge sand dune, and visited Bourdeaux wine cellars. I got sunburned, of course, and had a fantastic time. Of course, I managed to speak Danish to the French (Danish always seemed to come out in reply to questions I understood in French), which confused people greatly, but I had three fluent French speakers along to help me out.

After my week in France, I headed to Vienna, where I had a wonderful, relaxing time visiting museums, touring the city, walking around city parks, and relaxing near the banks of the Danube. I spent just over a week there, and my sunburn turned to tan (well, almost) in the gorgeous summer weather. I spent time looking at art and architecture, reading, and chatting – three of my favorite activities.

So, last week, fully refreshed and thoroughly relaxed, I returned to Copenhagen and began to pack. I made it back here just a few days before a big event -- last Saturday was a big day in Scandinavia, because it was the day of the Norwegian royal wedding, which was covered from beginning to end on Danish television. Since I can now read the Danish tabloids nearly perfectly, I found out all the details of who was there, with whom, what they were wearing, what they ate, and what the latest rumors were about now-Princess Mette-Marit’s wild past. (The Norwegian tabloids had some great pictures of the festivities, and I could read most of their articles too.) I am now a fountain of useless information on Scandinavian royalty.

So, I’m just about finished packing. I’ve made friends in the local post office, sent four boxes of books and documents on the slow boat to Boston, and tomorrow, I’ll try to convince Air France to let me on the plane with suitcases the size of Montana. All in all, it’s been a great year. I’ll miss the pastry, the 3 am midsummer twilight, the trendy night spots in Nørrebro, sitting in the afternoon sun at the sidewalk cafes in Nyhavn, biking up the coast to the beach, the funny Danish and Swedish TV commercials, yoghurt in a milk carton, good mobile phone coverage, the weirdly bilingual Viking haunted house at Tivoli, eating lunch in the gardens at Rosenborg castle, the letters ø, å, and æ, speeding over the bridge to Sweden in the occasionally-functioning Øresund train, Danish modern design, two-tone police and fire sirens, Diet Coke in glass bottles, MTV-Nordic, signs that say ‘slutspurt,’ Tuesday morning breakfast meetings at the European Environment Agency, and biking past the Little Mermaid on the way home on warm spring afternoons. On the other hand, I’m looking forward to English language bookstores, Dunkin Donuts, foliage trips to New Hampshire, C-SPAN, fall afternoons by the Charles River, MSNBC, Cape Cod beaches, wrap sandwiches, reading morning newspapers online at midnight (not 6 am), good libraries, Oreos, subscribing to the New Yorker, good Chinese food, foreign films (with English subtitles), and cold, crisp, sunny winter mornings. See you in Boston.

The Longest Day

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Thu, 05 Jul 2001 01:12:00 +0000

It is close to 2 am here in Denmark right now, and the horizon is beginning to show signs of dawn. Needless to say, this makes it very difficult to sleep, and is very conducive to partying – especially after a long, cold, dark winter. Someone said to me a few weeks ago that one should never leave Denmark between May and September – because if summer comes, it tends to come in those months. Well, I am happy to report that it is indeed summer here – the weather is sunny and even occasionally somewhat warm (warm in Scandinavia being about 70 F/20 C). I am just about getting used to the fact that in Copenhagen summer requires both sunscreen and fleece.

Just over a week ago, the Danes celebrated the longest day in the year with a day, and night, of celebrating. Although the 21st of June was actually the longest day in the year, Denmark celebrated on the 23rd, a Saturday night, in honor of Saint Hans. I do not know who Saint Hans was, except that he has a square named after him in Copenhagen, and that he may well be the patron saint of parties. Apparently, part of the Saint Hans’ day festivities include burning bonfires (something to do with getting rid of witches – still acceptable in a country which has not yet discovered political correctness), partying in the parks, and staying up until dawn (not difficult, since it got light out at 3 am).

I, of course, went to one of these parties, to celebrate not only the longest day in the year but also my last day at the European Environment Agency. We danced until dawn (i.e. 3 am), and then, at 4, when it was daylight again, took a trip up the coast to the beach to watch the sunrise. A few hardy souls braved the temperature and went swimming -- Scandinavian style -- at 4:30 in the morning in the frigid water. (They shall remain anonymous. Again, there are photos, and I am willing to negotiate....) To round out the interesting cultural experience, we also witnessed another swimmer, and were accompanied on the beach by a Danish couple who, well, really should have picked a more secluded spot for their outing. Needless to say, if any of this had occurred at, say, Revere Beach, I suspect the police may have become involved. However, this is Denmark, and quite routine.

After the swimming outing, we went for hot chocolate (yes, it was that cold out) and Danish pastry at the just-opening bakery. I got home at 6 am, to find the party in my kollegium still going on, with last year’s Danish Eurovision song contest song playing at ear-splitting volume. And, during the entire weekend, hordes of screaming Danish teenagers were being driven around the city in the backs of trucks, wearing sailor caps. I think this had something to do with passing exams, but I am not sure.

Last weekend, I had another classic Scandinavian experience when I took the overnight ferry from Copenhagen to Oslo, Norway for a brief visit. It was quite a nice boat trip, with a beautiful fjord, lots of Japanese tourists, and a big Scandinavian buffet dinner with seven different kinds of herring. Oslo was a fun city (though it rained one of the two days, and again, fleece was necessary). One of the highlights of the trip was visiting the Munch museum (he of ‘Scream’ fame) – which, due to dark and morbid content, I would not recommend visiting during the winter.

I’m now back in Copenhagen, celebrating the 4^th of July for my second time outside the U.S. (The first was a traitorous trip from Washington to London a few years ago) – and I have officially marked the occasion by watching bad American TV shows with Danish subtitles, playing the 1812 overture on CD, and setting my computer’s spellchecker back to U.S. English – at least for a few days.

The Swedish Chef

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 28 May 2001 01:11:00 +0000

This past Thursday, Denmark celebrated yet another holiday in the month of May. (I think there are about seven.) This one was Kristi Himmelfartsdag. Known in other countries (more delicately) as Ascension Thursday, the Danish name means, roughly, Christ-goes-to-heaven-day. Personally, I think this is much more useful than “Ascension,” as it provides much more information about the holiday, despite being yet another Danish term that proves mildly amusing to English speakers. (A common one is the term “Slutspurt,” which occasionally appears in big block letters in store windows. It roughly translates as “final sale.” More confusing is the occasional elevator light proclaiming “I Fart,” indicating the approach of the lift. But I digress.) The European Environment Agency also had Friday off, as a “bridge” day to a long weekend. I have deemed this “It’s-a-long-way-up-day.”

Alas, I spent Kristi Himmelfartsdag in Sweden, where it was called Kristi Himmelsfärdsdag. I took the train to Stockholm, and it was my first trip across the Øresund, over the 14-km bridge connecting Denmark and Sweden. I took the six-hour train ride to Stockholm for the signing of the Stockholm Convention on Persistent Organic Pollutants. This was a big event complete with ministers from over 100 countries officially signing the treaty. With the negotiating virtually over and the formal proceedings consisting of a country roll call and the same speeches 100 times in six different languages, the meeting was basically an excuse for a party. And party we did – the official Swedish government dinner was quite an event, even by the standards of a series of treaty negotiations that had more than its share of over-the-top galas. At the third negotiating session, the government of Switzerland (which hopes that the secretariat of the Stockholm convention will eventually be in Geneva) held a lavish reception, complete with more kinds of cheese than I thought existed. They were outdone, however, by the city of Bonn, Germany, in the fourth negotiations, with a huge bash in the art museum, with plates of food, local dignitaries, and even waltzes. (The city of Bonn has also put in a bid to host the secretariat.) Not to be topped, at the fifth negotiation, the government of South Africa hosted a multimedia extravaganza for delegates in Johannesberg, where delegates at a formal banquet dined on ostrich and were treated to a video presentation of South Africa, African dancing, and blues singing. (Note to those who were present: I may or may not still have some interesting photos of senior U.S. government officials dancing at the event. I am willing to negotiate. Call me.) The Swedish dinner took place in the Vasa Museum, which is a museum dedicated to a 17^th century ship raised almost intact after having been preserved for over 300 years at the bottom of Stockholm harbor. The story of how it got there is quite interesting. It seems that the King (King Gustav II Adolf) wanted to build the biggest warship ever built, and ordered a 62 meter long monstrosity with two levels of cannons and elaborate decorations and detail at the top. Unfortunately, all the firepower at the top of the ship was not balanced by sufficient ballast at the bottom. On its maiden voyage in 1628, a small gust of wind blew the top-heavy ship over, and it sunk to the bottom of the harbor, where it stayed (preserved nearly perfectly) until the late1950s. The delegates to the conference, dining on reindeer in the shadow of the massive hulk of the ship, seemed to view its history as a warning of the perils of following the direction of political leadership (who always want something bigger and better, like the king and his cannons) without paying attention to how it will be done. The disaster, the museum guides pointed out, was viewed as an act of God, since it was impossible to blame the king. Alas, the delegates replied, it was the engineer who lost his head!

During my trip to Stockholm, I also got a chance to practice my Swedish – a language that written, seems remarkably similar to Danish, but spoken, sounds like -- well, like the Swedish chef from the Muppets. The two countries, despite similar language and culture, have a not-so-friendly rivalry that lasts, oh, since the dawn of recorded history. I won’t recount it here, but it involves a lot of wars and beheadings and Christians and Frederiks versus Gustavs. Today, there are fewer beheadings, but the rivalry remains. At the Swedish government reception, the Swedish environment minister recounted an old joke about European integration, where the punch line involved the Dane and the Norwegian ganging up on the Swede and pushing him out of the plane. (It wasn’t that funny. I’ll spare you.) On my tour of Stockholm City Hall, the guide was quick to point out a sculpture which depicted a figure representing Sweden as “good” and Denmark as “evil.” On the Danish side, the city of Copenhagen is overrun on summer weekends with partying Swedes seeking to avoid their country’s high taxes and government restrictions on alcohol – and Danish schoolchildren all know the saying, “Keep Copenhagen Clean – take a Swede to the ferry.” And it was a Swede who observed to me last week, “Danish isn’t a language, it’s a mating call” – noting that its sounds bear a remarkable resemblance to ostriches grunting.

The Naked Eye

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 21 May 2001 01:10:00 +0000

Spring has finally arrived here in Copenhagen. To the Danes, this seems to mean only one thing: time to sunbathe naked in the park.

It all began just about a month ago, on the first relatively warm and sunny weekend. I say relatively warm, because only those who had just been through the Copenhagen winter would consider it remotely warm. I decided to cycle up the coast north of Copenhagen, a trail that runs past spectacular scenery, harbors, and beaches. I stopped for lunch at one of the beaches about an hour north of Copenhagen, and walked around looking for a place to eat my sandwich. And there, on the beach in the midst of a few people out walking their dogs or cycling, was a group of naked women sunbathing. Now, I completely understand that countries are culturally distinct, and that nudity on beaches is common here in Denmark where it might provoke arrest, say, at Revere Beach. This is not my point. My point is that, though it was the first “warm” day, it was still quite cold. (To put it in perspective, I was wearing a wool sweater, fleece jacket, and gloves while I ate my sandwich, and I was still a bit chilly.) There were even a few people swimming in the ocean that day. I have thus come to the conclusion that Danes either possess no nerve endings, no judgment, or neither.

A Dane told me a few weeks ago never to leave Copenhagen between May and September – because if summer comes, it tends to come in those months. I think that summer came and went last week. It began to get quite warm (at least, warm enough to go out without a coat during the day, and for over 90 percent of Danes to consider nudity). This culminated last weekend, which was one of the many spring holidays here in Denmark, and the occasion of this year’s Eurovision song contest, held in Denmark’s main football stadium, about 100 meters from where I live. Friday, May 11 was “Great Prayer Day,” which, as far as I can tell, was a random holiday invented after the country turned Protestant, in compensation for losing the Catholic holidays. (The European Environment Agency also closed on Wednesday, May 9 for Schuman Day, after the man who invented the EU.) For those of you who have not heard of the Eurovision Song Contest, it is an annual contest that started nearly 50 years ago celebrating cheesy pop music from every European country, from whence came ABBA and its ilk. Every country submits a cheesy song (cheesiness seems to be a critical criterion in selection, judging from this year’s entrants), and then they have a big festival in the country that won last year, and select a new winner. The procedure by which the winner is chosen rivals the EU’s qualified majority voting system in its complexity. During the TV broadcast, all of the songs are performed. Then, viewers get five minutes to dial a telephone number in their home country and vote for the group they think is the best – they cannot, however, vote for their own country. The top vote-getter from each country gets twelve points, the second ten, the third eight, and on down to one. Once all countries are counted, the winner is the country with the most points, and only the top fifteen can compete next year (the others must endure a one-year period of national embarrassment). This year, in a close race, Estonia took the top prize, narrowly-edging out Denmark’s bid to recapture the title. The excitement over the contest here in Copenhagen, which was virtually taken over by Eurovision-fever, even prompted the city to allow shops in the center to open on Sunday. In my opinion, the best part of the whole thing was watching the English version of the event on the BBC, whose announcer spent the entire evening making fun of the situation.

Alas, this weekend was freezing and windy. Summer, it appears, is now over. However, the days are getting longer and longer. Tonight it didn’t get dark out until about 11 pm, and the sun rises somewhere around 4:30 am. This can be a problem. Though I can usually sleep through anything, especially in the mornings (jackhammers, tree-cutting machines, parties, etc.), something about the Scandinavian morning sun wakes me up at 5 am. Because I am not a morning person, this is a problem – especially on the days when I have gone to sleep just after three. After a few very tired days, I managed to solve this problem by putting my British Airways eyeshades to good use.

My Danish is rapidly improving – I am now in “Level 3” Danish classes. (Upon passing me in Level 2, my teacher said, “Well, it isn’t pretty, but it’s right.” A ringing endorsement.) We learn interesting phrases in Level 3 like “I usually eat three pieces of white bread with cheese and three pieces of white bread with marmalade in the morning.” These, as you can tell, are quite useful. I can now tell time in Danish, which is no small feat, considering that you must say, for example, “7:35” as “5 minutes over half eight.” I have learned enough Danish to watch a bit of Danish television, and I can now understand most of the words they say on the news (I cannot yet put them together into a coherent story, though). I have become a big fan of the Danish equivalent of the game show “Greed” (here, it is “Gri$k”), which I can understand completely, not only because the questions are usually easy but also because they write out the questions on the screen.

I attempted to apply my Danish skills a few weeks ago while ordering take-out food from The Taco Shop, a surprisingly good Mexican place with three branches in Copenhagen. The Taco Shop, owned by an American, is one of the deceptively Anglophone places so common here. While the menu titles are in English (e.g. Super Taco; Today’s Special); a closer look reveals that the description of the item reads “kylling eller oksekød, salat, tomat, løg....” I managed to place my order in Danish, and the woman behind the counter returned with a question, and I told her, in Danish, that I wanted my food to go. To which she replied, in English, “No, um, what kind of salsa would you like with that?”

Ich bin ein Berliner

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 02 Apr 2001 01:07:00 +0000

My hopes of a thoroughly modern travel experience evaporated almost as soon as I reached the airport last Friday. On the spur of the moment, I had decided to spend the weekend in Berlin – several friends of mine were headed there, and I had never been there before, and that seemed enough of a reason. I was particularly proud of myself for having successfully bought airline tickets in Copenhagen for the first time without having to go across town to the SAS airline office. This is because I managed to convince SAS that joining the 21^st century was in their interest, and that I really did want an e-ticket, despite their doubts about this newfangled technology. So, I arrived at the airport ready to be a traveler of the internet generation – and found myself in the 1960s. The nifty-looking self-service check-in machine didn’t find my reservation, I stood in a long line, and the ticket agent was so flummoxed by my e-ticket that she had to call for assistance. And I had not yet even seen the plane.

My plane flight from Copenhagen to Berlin would have been eerily familiar to those of you who have seen the 1966 Hitchcock film ‘Torn Curtain.’ In the film, Paul Newman plays a scientist at a conference in Copenhagen, who travels to East Berlin, allegedly to defect, and in search of missile secrets. His fiancée, played by Julie Andrews, follows him on the plane, and when they exit down the stairs to the tarmac on arrival, they are greeted by a throng of reporters publicizing the defection of such a famed scientist. While there was no throng of reporters greeting me on my arrival in Berlin, disembarking from the eleven-row propeller plane onto the tarmac of an airport which appeared to have a grand total of four gates was strangely reminiscent of the film. Even Hitchcock, however, could not get away with naming an airline “Cimber Air.” (I do not think this translates very well.)

Despite a day of rain and a day of snow, I had a wonderful weekend in Berlin, and I am happy to report that I am finally cured of my irrational fear of the German language. (As many of you know, this fear stemmed from being yelled at in German a few too many times, the majority of instances occurring while flying Lufthansa. ) As more than one German speaker has informed me, German and written Danish are quite close – and my limited Danish served me well in minor tourist communication. (This was a big difference from Copenhagen, where people start talking to you in English if they hear any hint of an accent in Danish, and automatically repeat their sentences in English if you look even slightly confused. This is one of the things that makes learning the Danish language difficult!) So, in several situations, when an English word didn’t seem to be getting anywhere, I took a blind stab at communication in German by trying the word in Danish – which seemed to work quite well. (In fact, my American companions were initially quite surprised that I seemed to know and/or understand quite a few German words – while all the while I was actually hearing and speaking what sounded like Danish.) Among those words that I found particular success with were kartoffel (potato), svinekød (pork), and kuglepen (ballpoint pen). I cannot claim this was all truly voluntary, however; in some circumstances, I was merely aware that I should be saying something in a language other than English, and Danish just came out. And this worked better in Germany than it did in Brussels, for obvious reasons.

I cannot comment, however, on the burning issue of whether, in his famous speech in Berlin, John F. Kennedy actually said “I am a Berliner” or, as rumor has it, “I am a jelly donut.” I can say that I was thrilled to have found a Dunkin’ Donuts in Berlin, and I brought back a box of Munchkins to share with the office, where many people had never even heard of Dunkin’ Donuts, never mind Munchkins. Needless to say, there is no Dunkin’ Donuts in Copenhagen. The donut shop in Berlin only had three kinds of Munchkins – jelly, cream-filled, and chocolate (none of my favorite, toasted coconut) – but I am not complaining.

I did some sightseeing in Berlin – among other things, I saw the remains of the Berlin Wall; Potsdamer Platz (the biggest construction site this side of the Big Dig); and Checkpoint Charlie. I also spent some time with Americans again. I managed to have an hour-long conversation with Fulbright students studying in Sweden, with them speaking Swedish and me speaking Danish. (It was actually more like Swenglish/Denglish). The most telling moment of our internationalism, however, came when I was giving one of my friends my mobile phone number. One of the other students leaned over, and whispered, in a hushed and conspiratorial tone, “We’re all Americans here. You can say ‘cell phone.’”

Six-foot-four and full of mussels

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Sat, 24 Mar 2001 02:06:00 +0000

In the past ten days, I have learned more than I ever wanted to know about the structure and functions of European Union institutions. I have been in Brussels, at a conference hosted by the Fulbright program in Belgium and Luxembourg entitled ‘Introduction to the EU and NATO.’ In six days, we managed to visit the Commission, the Council, and the Parliament in Brussels; the Court of Justice and the Court of Auditors in Luxembourg; the College of Europe in Brugge; and NATO. It was quite a busy week – highlights included mini-euro chocolate coins during our coffee break at the Commission, lawyers in wigs at the Court of Justice, and, of course, it’s hard to be more exciting than the Court of Auditors. I also can now explain, with some degree of authority, arcane EU concepts such as ‘qualified majority voting’ and the ‘codecision process.’ (These are even more difficult to grasp than, say, the electoral college, or even the infield fly rule. And they change every few years.)

Despite the fact that the sun shone for only two hours out of the ten days I spent in Brussels, I very much enjoyed my trip. Putting together a group of a few dozen American students, who live in every major European capital, and letting us loose on the city of Brussels, led to very interesting outcomes such as consumption of dangerously large quantities of mussels, multilingual karaoke, and a massive game of ‘Red Rover’ on the Grand Place. I am not sure the neighborhood eatery near our hotel will ever recover from its invasion, not once but twice, of a group of 18 twentysomething Americans ordering buckets of mussels and bowls of fries. We nicknamed the restaurant the “bowling alley,” since its décor of wood paneling and big-screen TV seemed to evoke bowling alley vibes in many of us. (This was the type of place, were it in Massachusetts, that would feature Keno quite prominently.) Though the atmosphere would likely be less amusing in groups smaller than 18, they did serve the best mussels I ate all week. While I was in Brussels, I also got the chance to find my way to a number of different buildings of the European Commission for meetings, including one which was in what appeared to be the Belgian equivalent of Silver Spring, Maryland.

The most frustrating part of my time in Brussels, however, came during my early morning pilgrimages to the ‘EasyEverything’ internet shop. For those of you who have not had the privilege of patronizing the multinational monopoly that is ‘EasyEverything,’ it is a chain of inexpensive, large, orange, 24-hour internet cafes that have sprung up in many major cities across the globe. They are owned, I believe, by the same conglomerate that owns ‘EasyJet,’ the low-cost European Val-U-Jet clone. Based on my experience with the reliability of computers in ‘EasyEverything,’ I can say without hesitation that I will never, ever fly EasyJet. It is hard to express the degree of irony which the name ‘EasyEverything’ evokes. (We argued all week whether ‘SleazyEverything’ or ‘EasyNothing’ was a more fitting alternate name.) Between the Belgian keyboard (which is even worse, if you can imagine, than the French keyboard), the absence of any disk drives, and the lack of Microsoft Word, I am not sure how it could call itself an internet shop – and that was before their servers ate ten megabytes of files I’d downloaded – twice. Between the technical limitations (EasyEverything, plus a laptop without a working modem) and the time pressure (working around the seminar sessions, basically between 12-2 am and 5-7 am, with several deadlines to meet), it’s a miracle I got anything done at all!

Even though I was in Brussels, I couldn’t quite escape Denmark. In the Musees des Beaux-Arts, which I visited on my last day in Brussels, I passed by a large school group, which was talking about a painting. Suddenly, I realized that I was understanding a little bit of what the teacher was saying – and they weren’t speaking English, or French either. Alas, it was a group of 60 Danish high schoolers, apparently on some sort of field trip. Despite my excitement over being able to understand a few scattered Danish words, my time in Brussels caused a great deal of linguistic confusion. Though I made my best efforts to remember my very limited French, I managed to speak more Danish that week than I ever do in Denmark. My first attempt to order in French seemed on the surface successful, until I realized that I had linked all the different items with ‘og’ instead of ‘et’. And under no circumstances is ‘tak’ an acceptable response to ‘voila.’

The Handyman's Accomplice

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Mon, 26 Feb 2001 02:05:00 +0000

Today’s Danish lesson: ‘Måske forstår jeg dansk om fjorten dage’ -- ’Perhaps I will understand Danish in two weeks.’ I am doubtful.

Last week, however, I learned an extremely useful Danish phrase: Jeg arbejder på en fabrik i Vanløse. This means, ‘I work in a factory in Vanløse’ (which is a suburb of Copenhagen). I do not find many occasions to use this phrase; however, I might be able to use the other phrase we have learned – Jeg er kemiker (I am a chemist). Well, it’s close enough. In any event, should I ever decide to work in a factory, I will be well prepared with Danish vocabulary. My favorite word in Danish that we have learned so far, however, is altmuligmand – handyman. One of the students in my class was utterly confused when he heard the meaning of this word, as he was convinced that another word meant ‘handyman.’ We found out later that he had mixed up the word for handyman with the word for ‘accomplice,’ which is håndlanger.

Yesterday was the Danish holiday of Fastelavn. Over the past few days, I have been able to gather together several facts about this holiday, which no one I ask seems to be able to explain satisfactorily. As far as I can tell, it is the Danish pre-Lent celebration, somewhat like Carnival or Mardi Gras. It somehow involves kids dressing up and some sort of trick-or-treat like tradition. And then there’s this thing with a suspended barrel that people beat with a stick and break open. Apparently, historically, the barrel used to be filled with cats. Now the barrel is usually filled with candy. This has a song associated with it, but it is all in Danish, of course; something about getting rid of evil spirits. The candy concept, however, seems somewhat piñata-like. (It has taken me a week to piece together this much of the story. One complicating factor is that no one I’ve talked to has ever heard of Mardi Gras or a piñata.) But once I figured out that the holiday was Fastelavn (faste meaning fast) and not festelavn (fest meaning party), things started coming together.

On my floor in the dorm, Fastelavn was an excuse for a party. As usual, we cooked a large, elaborate dinner; this dinner had a Mediterranean theme. I was in charge of the salads and the yogurt sauce for the meatballs. The salad was easy. However, the recipe for the yogurt sauce was, of course, in Danish. I am happy to report that my Danish has progressed to the point that I could understand the sentence that read ‘Let the yogurt mixture simmer for 5 minutes or until the sauce has begun to….’ Then there was a word that I did not know. What complicated things slightly was that no one else in the kitchen knew how to translate that term (clearly, some sort of technical cooking term) into English. The best someone could come up with was: “Well, it’s sort of like ‘separate,’ but not really.” Things turned out all right, however, since I took the strategy of calling over a Danish speaker every couple of minutes and asking them if the sauce had begun to… whatever. Eventually it did.

I am getting to know the neighborhood around my Danish class very well. My class is in Nørrebro, which is a popular and very diverse area, full of interesting shops and restaurants. The little grocery store next to my class (where we buy chocolate during breaks) sells items labeled in English and Arabic. I have become a regular at the new Thai take-out place; today, they even gave me a big bag of shrimp chips (the ones that taste like Styrofoam) to go with my standard nummer toogtyve (number 22). I even had a conversation in somewhat stilted Danish. (Well, it was more like Denglish, but I tried.) And on my way home, I am consistently amused when passing the hair salon called – I am not making this up – “Fungus.”

Meanwhile, I spend my days muttering random Danish sentences to myself, in an attempt to memorize words before the next class, and collecting ideas for a Danish screenplay entitled Altmuligmandens Håndlanger (The Handyman’s Accomplice). Måske forstår jeg dansk næste måned (next month). …

All the President's Men

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Fri, 09 Feb 2001 02:04:00 +0000

Just a week ago, I was getting my daily fix of CNN, when suddenly the channel changed. Occasionally, because my television is possessed, it decides to change its channel to a randomly selected Danish station. This does not happen, as would be the obvious explanation, because I have unknowingly sat on the remote control. My television (which mysteriously came with my room) appears as if it was manufactured well before the idea of the remote control had emerged in the television establishment. However, it is a ‘colour’ model (as it proudly proclaims on the front), and seems to work, except on the random and infrequent occasions when the channel changes itself.

Usually, this is my cue to walk up to the television and change the channel back. (I do not ask questions about this phenomenon, or about anything having to do with television. It seems my television has not been properly “registered” with the authorities. Whoops.) On this occasion, however, the random channel change was fortuitous. Just as I was about to stand up, I caught sight of President Jed Bartlet walking through the halls of the White House.

For those of you who do not know President Bartlet (aka Martin Sheen), he is the President on The West Wing, which just so happens to be the only television show in America that is worth watching. Now, it is in Denmark. My glimpse of President Bartlet was an ad for the series, which has just begun to be shown here. Now, there are a few differences between the U.S. and the Danish versions. Instead of being called “The West Wing,” in Denmark the show is called “Præsidentens mænd” (President’s Men). Whereas in the U.S. it is shown on Wednesdays on NBC at 9 pm, in Denmark it is on Tuesdays at 9 on TVDanmark 2. And though the U.S. show is well into its second season, the Denmark version started at the beginning only a few short weeks ago. Last week, Præsidentens mænd showed the episode called “Mr. Willis of Ohio,” in which a congressman casts a critical vote on the census. Of course, the American version doesn’t have Danish subtitles, either!

I am now able to read more and more of the Danish subtitles, because, at long last, I started Danish classes last week. I have joined the “intensive” language school, which is somewhat like Danish boot camp. We attend class three evenings a week, for three hours each time. For each lesson, we must memorize fifteen Danish sentences, and be able to recite them and write them correctly. Failure is not an option – we are tested every day, and failing the daily test twice out of nine classes means that you must repeat the level. We must memorize sentences like “Jeg hedder Jens Jensen” (my name is Jens Jensen). For some reason, no one seems to care that no one in the class is named Jens Jensen. As far as the class is concerned, everyone’s name is Jens, everyone’s sister’s name is Eva, and everyone’s brother’s name is Jørgen. I also know how to say “I have a question” (Jeg har et spørgsmål), but the only question I know so far is “When do we get to lesson 3?”

My Danish class is populated by a very interesting and fun cast of characters. The only other American is a consultant who graduated a few years ago from Berkeley and moved to Denmark because she married a Dane. She speaks no Danish whatsoever, can’t communicate very well with her in-laws, and had to ask the teacher to explain how to pronounce her new last name. There are people in the class from Estonia, Kenya, Morocco, Portugal, and Spain, and many other countries. One guy from Argentina works here in Denmark cooking eggs (just eggs); another is British but has lived in several different countries including Hong Kong and South Africa. The eighteen people in the class speak dozens of languages – though the class is conducted in English, and everyone speaks at least basic English, the instructions are often whispered along a chain through Arabic, then French, then Spanish, so everyone understands completely what’s going on. And the in-class conversations are conducted in an unpredictable mix of languages. The Iraqi mathematician, for example, began chatting in Russian with the Estonian when it was revealed that the former did his PhD studies during eight years in Moscow. The general consensus so far, however, is that Danish will be the most difficult language to learn. Despite my utterly embarrassing lack of another language, I am nonetheless able to serve some purpose by answering questions about English. As one member of the class noted, he knew right away that I was American because, and I quote, “You talk like TV.”

I am making some progress, though – for example, I can often read the subtitles and predict the next line on a television show. Mr. Willis of Ohio? Mr. Willis of Ohio votes ja.

Dancing in the Dark

noreply@blogger.com (lmermaid) — Tue, 19 Dec 2000 02:04:00 +0000

Today the sun rose. This may not seem an extraordinary event to you, but to me, in Denmark, in January, this was cause for celebration. I have been back in Denmark for seven days after a month-long trip to the U.S., and this is the first time I have seen the sun. Thus begins my political exile from George W. Bush’s America, as my (ostensibly coincidental) departure had me safely out of U.S. airspace twelve hours before he took the oath of office.

My return to Denmark also concluded a month of extended travel, which brought me to three continents and ten time zones in thirty days. It all began with my journey to Johannesburg, South Africa in early December to witness the completion of negotiations for a global convention on persistent organic pollutants (POPs). After seven long days of bargaining, and a marathon all-night session, delegates finally agreed a text at 7:30 am on the day after the meeting was scheduled to adjourn. During those days, I witnessed weighty debates whose resolution impacted the future of mankind (e.g. should the text read, ‘the parties shall,’ ‘the parties should,’ or ‘the parties shall, where appropriate’?); I expanded my repertoire of obscure acronyms (ask me about the ‘POP Rock’); and I found out what happens when you keep international diplomats awake for 24 hours straight (don’t ask). Unfortunately, I had to leave before the champagne was popped, to catch a flight to Cape Town – where I spent three wonderful days taking advantage of the southern hemisphere summer. My sunburn lasted long enough to be the envy of Denmark when I returned, a week before Christmas, to a Copenhagen in full holiday cheer. The pre-Christmas fervor in Copenhagen even included (gasp) a Sunday shopping day, complete with carolers lining Strøget (the main shopping street, and a word which no non-Dane can pronounce correctly). It was quite lively and charming, though I must admit, it was quite strange to hear ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ sung in Danish. After six days in Denmark, I got on another airplane to Boston, where I spent Christmas with family. I traveled to Seattle for New Year’s, and spent a weekend in New York, before returning to Boston for two weeks and two conferences at Harvard.

So, the grand total is three continents, ten time zones, 12 flights, 26,701 miles (42,721.6 km, for the metrically-inclined), 76 hours in transit, and eight new pairs of British Airways socks. (OK, I admit it, I took the sock packets from the empty seats next to me. So turn me in to the British Airways police. I will argue that extra socks can only begin to provide a remedy for drawing the lucky row with the malfunctioning video screens on a 12-hour flight, and that £7 for dinner is hardly compensation enough for a seven-hour delay at Heathrow due to ‘equipment.’ But I digress.)

I am back in Denmark just in time for the week when everything in the country is on sale. Just about every store has a sale, which is great – although I thought it slightly cruel that they seem to be clearing their shelves for the ‘spring’ merchandise. As if spring is coming soon. But the good news is that, at long last, I have finally found a trash can for under $15 (the vast majority of the trash cans I have found on sale in Copenhagen, inexplicably, cost greater than $80). I think I am finally over my jet lag. And maybe the sun will come up again next week.