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The DIS Essay Contest Winners Spring 2009At the end of each semester DIS invites all students to participate in the DIS essay contest. Students write essays reflecting on their study abroad experience and travel adventures throughout Europe. At the semester closing ceremony the top three contestants are awarded a cash prize and their essays are published on the DIS website.
Check out some of the past essays!
Dear City – a Letter Dedicated to the Spaces in a Danish MetropolisA fter calling you home for nearly four months now, I have been continually charmed by nearly every corner and every new city space that I discover. Despite being here through the bleak bulk of winter, I find that my most cherished memories will be of the outdoors, and of spending time in the public spaces that are delightfully strewn across the city. Whether it be a casual walk through Frederiksberg Plads, a romp through Fælledparken, biking down Nørrebrogade every morning, picnicking along Islands Brygge, or reading on a sunny park bench in Vesterbro, each spot and journey seems perfectly choreographed, and I am merely a guest dancer in the local Danish ballet of perfect urban inhabitance. Bruce Mau even called Denmark, as a whole, “too perfect.” Throughout this spring at DIS, I’ve been introduced to such a new, relevant way of experiencing and reading a city – such as interactions between pedestrians and vehicles, human scale as the universal measuring ruler, different methods of street paving in public squares, ground floor/storefront culture, the civic design of urban furniture, etc. – and it’s as if Copenhagen has been my gateway text for all of this. (I would say that the overarching title in bold could be: Small Things, But oh So Important. Or Copenhagen, City of Details.) This way of reading a city has made a huge impact on how I have traveled this semester – as each new place embraced me, and I tried to open my eyes a little bit wider to see the everyday life-improving details I probably wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. Through extensive walking and public transportation-ing around, I realized that subconsciously, I never ceased to comparatively hold this ‘new city’ against the candlelight of Copenhagen. I am in continual admiration for Copenhagen’s foresight in the 1960s to gradually move from a car-traffic-parking culture to a people-walking-biking haven. I think of my daily journey to DIS at the literal heart of the city, two skips away from Radhuspladsen, and as I try to remember of all the walking streets, public squares, and green parks that I pass on a daily basis, thinking of each one fills me with a sense of happiness and…gratitude. I look back home to New Jersey, New York, and Boston, and wonder if we, too, will have the foresight to bring such delightful public spaces into American culture. What I find fascinating is that prior to arriving in Denmark in January, I had no clear impression of Copenhagen, what it was most famous for, or what exact snapshot I was supposed to think of in my mind. Vague images of some bicycles, a few wooden chairs, a cold ocean, fashionable ankle boots, and a café or two swirled around, but never manifested itself as a distinct, underlined, BAM! mental picture. What I find even more fascinating is that now, after seeing so many facets of the city, I still don’t have a clear image. Instead, I have a quilt-like collage of visual and emotional experiences that I never want to forget. One shining square of this quilt will be the feeling of riding my bike for the first time, and seeing the lakes come into view along the bridge. I breathed in an incredible amount of brisk freshness, and felt an amazingly drowning wave of happiness. If I had to pick one of my absolute favorite things about Denmark, it just might be the 10-centimeter rule, which we learned about in European Urban Design Theories class. The 10-centimeter rule refers to the height difference between the car lane, bicycle lane, and pedestrian sidewalk on any given street. It makes me feel safe in each respective arena, yet it does not alienate -- so simple, yet so brilliant, so thoughtful. I would say that the bike lane has been the location for some of my most wonderful experiences in Copenhagen. Biking in the U.S. might never be the same…
Another lasting image will be of Kultorvet – one of my favorite places to simply ‘be.’ Located on my way to and from University of Copenhagen’s Faculty of Theology and African Studies (where I have my human rights class, another overwhelming learning experience complete with a looming oral exam), I’ve had the privilege to see this square in all of its various seasonal cloaks. On a winter day, when other streets might be lacking life, Kultorvet was always a major buzzing thoroughfare, with hardy UNICEF volunteers enthusiastically trying to gather donations in the freezing weather from fast-jaunting pedestrians. At night, I see this square as a beautiful moonlit intersection for young people going from trendy bar to trendy bar (or dashing in and out of the savior 7-11 on the corner), a breath of fresh air from memorable nightlife experiences. Now that it’s spring, at least four restaurants in the square have thrown their tables, chairs, and tablecloths outside, while masses of suncatchers sit, dine, drink wine, and relax al fresco. (Copenhagen café culture at its finest: there are over 8,000 outdoor seats in the inner city!) Last week, I bought an ice cream cone from Paradis, and tried to look for a seat somewhere in the square. After 5 minutes of searching to no avail, I ended up sitting on the ground for an hour, slurping up my noisette ice cream and enjoying the Alanis Morissette-singing guitar-strumming Danish minstrel next to me. With the capricious sun warming my face, ice cream cone in hand, and leaning against Elijah Lake [name of my beloved bike], and the murmur of quiet Danish all around me, I wallowed and soaked up the city. Dear Copenhagen, thank you for all of your corners, cobblestones, bike lanes, and other beautiful and emotional spaces and experiences. I hope that I will be seeing you soon, in the life and spaces of other cities around the world. Memorable CollisionsEvery so often I will find that a single moment will extend further than itself. While its limits stretch, its liquid limits streaking, we grasp more than our goldfish-sized memory, and we see how many moments can stuff themselves within the confines of a solitary instant. The resulting logjam releases in pulses of images, feelings, word associations, and all that our memory has concealed from our conscious self. My most recent Moment happened on a bridge spanning the distance between Amager (pronounced Ah-ma) and Copenhagen center. The dawn was just beginning to spread her rosy fingers over the Danish horizon while my roomate and I were biking homeward. Allan and I looked over the canal and were chatting about something or other. When we came to the spot we had caromed into one another during an impromtu race earlier that day, time collapsed on itself and set off a series of collisions within my memory of the past four months. Maybe we were talking about my impending departure, now that I think about it. Riding three to a swan car at the oldest amusement park in the world. All of us smiling through the leftover grime of overly-enjoyed cottoncandy. The gray light of dusk diffusing through a light fog, as I step out of the airport into the light drizzle which precipitated my arrival. The many attempts to speak Danish to a store clerk, who responds without fail in English, ‘Don’t worry about it, Danish is pretty hard. At least you tried.’ Meeting friends of friends, and their friends too on first arrival. Catharine and her six year old daughter coming to dinner, Whitney laughing ceaselessly about my calendar photos (french advertisements) while Catharine attempts to describe her thesis and its relevance for her hometown in Nigeria. Dressing as Vikings with my Danish class in Roskilde, being laughed at by a group of school children who listen to our attempted Danish patter. Sitting with the same group around a conference table and struggling to wrap our throats around the sounds ‘æ’, ‘ø’ and ‘å.’ I meet Juan and Carlos again in a hostel in München and become automatic friends for merely growing out of the same continental soil. Sitting in a kollegium surrounding myself with Spaniards, talking to Estefania and Reuben about youtube crazes happening simultaneously across the world. Playing Rugby with Australians, Welsh, Scots, English, French, Italians, Portuguese, Brazilians, Swedes and Danes. The lectures given, by people who I assumed were far too busy and far too important to deign to speak to a group of American university students. Going to the Little Mermaid with the intention of disappointing ourselves, gleefully succeeding. Watching the scenery gracefully crawl away from the train while a friend sleeps and thinking how much better it is to travel by train. The visit to a gymnasium and the conversation with Elsa, Anders, and Pernille who were fascinated by the puritanical American liquor laws. Heidi, Marie, and Inga the Norwegian, German, and Icelandic girls who had befriended each other for their (shared?) geographic relationship with Denmark. The bring-your-own-meat barbeque in the greenhouse, where Danes crooned to eighties music and awkwardly shook their limbs as if to dance. Walking through the forests of Humlebæk with Lam to his folkhøjskole to immerse ourselves in hyggeligt—sitting around a candlelit basement lounge with two sofas and large comfychairs in a small circle. Two friends entertaining a whole room by bickering incessantly over a grave injustice where a glass of wine was unjustly thrown into the face of an unsuspecting supporter who was falsely accused of speaking sarcastically while making a case for the wine-pitcher. Everyday basking in the glorious extra four minutes daylight as the sun slowly burned through the constant grey of winter. Commiserating with Molly from Wisconsin over biking in Copenhagen as an American. Concluding the dire need for a warning system to alert locals that, as Americans, we don’t really know what the hell we’re doing on a bicycle. Cycling through town with Jens on a mission to Karaoke, only to fall at every stoplight and earn the kindly nickname ‘VæltePeter’ (Faulty Peter) for my odd similarity to the old bicycles with the obscenely large front wheel and the tendency to topple over without reason. Pedaling through empty streets at six o’clock on a Sunday evening, pathways devoid of motion except my wobbly roll and the wind rattling things. Sitting on the pier at Nyhavn next to tall-masted ships, chatting with friends as tourists file into the overpriced multicolored cafés. A sunny cemetery, sprawling with locals who lay themselves out to tan on top of the gravestones. Fælledparken in winter, whose snow-covered ground disturbs no ones scheduled exercise, a strict schedule which probably explains why the Danes are all so damn skinny. Looking out over the Baltic on a sandy man-made island, oafish oil tankers ambling past the silent wind turbines, slowly chugging toward the north sea. Endless falls, crashes, awkward near-misses, sheepish apologies, and embarassed laughter. One after another in rapid succession, a violent crescendo rising up into the collision earlier that day with Allan as we raced by a girl we thought was riding too slowly. As she passed by, we laughed together at ourselves and cleaned our impending bruises. A time of laughter, quiet, confusion, homesickness, discomfiture, ambivalence, acceptance, rejoicing; falling down, getting up, looking around, and moving on — the joy of travels—the joy of metamorphoses. All this incinerated in the flash pan of my memory, only for a second — or maybe two? — and left behind only a gray tendril to daintily hang in the space between words. I only realized that I had suddenly gone quiet while in the middle of a sentence, when my roommate turns to me and said, “You Americans. I won’t ever understand you.” I laughed hard enough to fall over the handlebars of my bike. He slowed down, and waited for me to get back on track. Peanut butter shelves and baked good from scratch: Just a small part of my Danish experience
While it’s true that I love how clean and timely the public transportation is, that I am incredibly grateful for the flat roads of Denmark whenever I get up the motivation to go for a run, and that I’ve developed an addiction to Danish pastries, these things alone are not enough to make Copenhagen one of the best cities in Europe. It’s the people that live here who really make it wonderful. From the museum worker who literally beamed with joy when my father asked a question about Danish history, (“It’s so exciting to see how interested you are! We don’t get enough American tourists anymore, you know.”) to the woman who good naturedly made fun of me when I almost lost my flip-flop on the track of the Metro, to the bus driver who gave me a five minute lesson on how to properly pronounce the name of my stop, the Danes are possibly the nicest (not to mention most accommodating) people you’ll meet in Europe. They may not go out of their way to strike up a conversation with a stranger on the street, but if you put in a little effort, you’ll be surprised at just how friendly they really are. I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing life in a Danish family first hand with my host family, and although I was extremely nervous when I first arrived, I now know that all my fears were for nothing, as most of my favorite, not to mention funniest, memories involve them in one way or another. When I asked my host family one day if it was true that Danes don’t eat peanut butter, they just laughed, but the next day I was presented with two jars of it. Over the next couple of weeks, more and more jars piled up in the kitchen, until my host dad joked that he would need to build a shelf just to hold my peanut butter. Or at least I thought he was joking, until I returned home one day to find a new shelf in the kitchen, with a sign hanging above it, declaring it “Kira’s peanut butter shelf.” The shelf is still standing at this very moment, and holding up about five new jars of assorted Danish peanut butter, which were excitedly picked up from the store by my host family. I was asked a by my host mom to make a visit to my host brother’s English class to talk about being an American student in Denmark. I had no idea what to expect from a group of 15 year old students, but I was extremely impressed nonetheless, both with their essential mastery of the English language and their enthusiasm in talking to me. It seemed as if they had a never ending supply of questions to ask me, some of which were quite entertaining. I was asked everything from, “What are the differences between New York City and Copenhagen,” and, “What age do you start driving and how much does a license/car cost” to “Are you allowed to use cell phones in school in America,” and, “Are Danish boys better looking than American boys?” When I offhandedly mentioned something about my friends who are also studying here, one girl exclaimed, “You have friends?! There are more of you?!” I simply laughed and nodded, a little stunned at the idea that Americans were really that big of a deal to these teenagers. There have been many different things I’ve needed to master since being in Denmark, and my host family has helped me through them all. I’ve learned how to make almost any kind of baked good you could ever imagine, all from scratch, because the boxed mixes “aren’t very good.” My first attempt at brownies ended with a half burnt, completely flat sheet of chocolate mess, but my host family ate it all, encouraging me the whole time. I had to navigate the Danish healthcare system at one point, and my host mom had no problem making phone calls for me, and shuttling me back and forth between doctors and pharmacies. I discovered that you can, in fact, forget how to ride a bike; and while my host family couldn’t directly help me with that problem, they were there, thoughtfully taking pictures of me as I crashed into things so that I could remember the momentous occasion. Coming to Denmark for a semester is an experience I won’t soon forget. These four months have been filled with activities, and more importantly people, that will stay with me forever. Right now, I’m just waiting for my host family to take me up on my offer to come to New Jersey – while “leverpostej shelf” doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as “peanut butter shelf,” I’m still eager at the chance to give them the same unforgettable experience they gave me. Physical Therapy and Mental Stability
But there are situations and experiences that, though subtle, are harder to come by and have taught me more about Denmark. When I boarded the plane to Copenhagen, I had fantastical ideas about renting a bike and riding into the city with my scarf and my hair horizontal behind me in the wind. I imagined the weekend adventure trips I heard about from DIS students of yore. I did not picture myself lost in an unfamiliar section of the city, meandering the streets of large Danish residences while trying to understand the receptionist’s directions over the phone to get to my new Danish doctor. I did not picture myself waiting for my number to be called at the local “apotek” to pick up my prescription with dozens of other Danes on their lunch breaks. And after all of that, I still didn’t imagine a weekly trip to physical therapy. Our school buildings at DIS are located in the old medieval section of Copenhagen. The streets are narrow and uneven. It was not more than a week of navigating these cobblestone “gades” before my knee pain, dormant since high school, came back worse than ever. Forget wearing heels out dancing in clubs – I needed the elevator to get down to the metro. The first few weeks of pain were discouraging, frustrating, and sometimes physically sickening. But my weekly physical therapy appointments with Marianne have virtually erased those feelings. The walk to Amager Fisioterapi at 7A Under Elmene is not long but it is always peaceful – I walk alone with my iPod playing familiar tracks. No one knows I’m from out of town. When I walk in at the ground floor, the receptionist just smiles; she knows I know where to go. I’ve learned that the Danes value punctuality, and I don’t mind arriving early. I sit in the waiting room riveted, paging through Danish Design Magazines with chairs inspired by orange peels and houses modeled after paper clips. They say pictures are worth 1,000 words, and I definitely don’t need to be able to read the articles to be dumbfounded by these magazines. Marianne calls me back and I take out my own towel to lay over the therapy table – I no longer think this is odd. Just as a woman pays her half of the bill on a date, we are expected to provide our own comforts as patients. Through laser treatments and endless stretching, we talk about my knee and how it has been since the last session. This doesn’t last too long, however, and then our conversations wander. We talk about the trips I have planned all over Europe and the different lifestyle here, and about how I’m using my body in a different way than I do in the states. I don’t drive myself around the city and exercise in a concentrated hour or two at the gym. Rather, exercise is a slow and steady constant in everyday life. And this, apparently, is why my knee hurts so much. Marianne loves the stories about my Danish hall mates and how they tease me, yet include me in conversation and social activities, eager to pick my brain about America, politics, and college life. She also thought it was fantastic that my professor had the class to his house to eat frikedeller and skinke pizza, letting us see how a family lives and eats in the suburbs of Copenhagen. It soon becomes clear how much the locals seem to want to share their Danish food, traditions, and ways of life. The Danes like to hear how they are different from my friends and family at home; they take pride in it. Then Marianne shifts all her body-weight forward and presses down on my kneecap, slowly shifting the direction of the pressure. She fixes her gaze on my face to see how I react to the varying levels of pain. She watches me closely. The only noise is the Danish radio station playing softly in the background from the corner of her desk, and I direct my eyes at the oh-so-Danish light fixtures hanging from the ceiling (they are square, not circular, and after studying the magazines I know that they probably are not designed by Poul Henningsen). When she asks me a question about my classes, my living situation, or my commute, she watches my face with the same intensity as when she is treating my knee. She pays such close attention. Amid a somewhat solitary life abroad, it is nice to have someone be so interested in my activities and my wellbeing. Because of my knee I learned about new stops on the metro, and that even in a system of “free health care,” painkillers will put a dent in your cash supply. I saw another layer of Denmark and got outside of the international student bubble that surrounds us at school. More than during any other activity in Denmark, I feel like I actually live here when I’m at physical therapy. I feel like a member of the neighborhood, and not as much like I am a tourist on an extended vacation. I blend in and can pretend I’m Danish for an hour. “Molly McDonald?” I put my magazine down and walk to the therapy room with a slight limp – like any other Dane with a bum knee.
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