To My Inner Eye

So, there is this book called The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. Pretty much every slightly intellectual young adult has read and been obsessed with this book during some radical transformation, and there are still several parts of that book that I must admit to having appropriated as parts of my own story, my own ever-changing-but-never-really-transforming self-narrative. I won't elaborate all of these little scenes that I have inserted myself into, but I will note one influential idea.

Franz, one of the characters in the novel, lives his life in constant negotiation with an inner eye. I think that is what he calls it anyway. I cannot find my copy of the book to double check on the actual lingo that Kundera uses, but the idea is that Franz always has the image or voice of someone he knows as an internalized judge in his head. Nearly everything he does, he imagines doing under the gaze of Sabina, one of the other characters. Now, I am pretty sure that most people, if you could get them to admit it, also do this to one degree or another, but I do it all the time. The perspective of the inner eye changes, and at various times it has been a christian pastor celebrity, a boy I had a crush on, a teacher, a writer, a new boyfriend, an ex-boyfriend, and an elusive acquaintance. Though I may only have a slight guess at the view of this other, and how he would view my actions if he even cared to, (I don't know what it means that this gaze has almost exclusively been male, besides that I am subject to my societal influences despite being aware of them) the internalized perspective of this other never ceases to accompany something that I identify as my own voice.

I am writing all of this because I have moved back to the US and I am no longer abroad. I would like to reserve the right to blather about my own solipsistic brilliant ideas anyway, so I needed a reason to continue to blog. I thought about all of my communication training, and I remember that the most important part of successful communication is to direct your work to a clear audience, never letting them escape your view as you write.

I, quite frankly, do not know who my audience has ended up being, or if I even have one, so I decided to just write to the person who my thoughts are directed anyway: my inner eye. You might notice that this means that the way I direct the story is different in different cases, and this is because my inner eye shifts frequently these days. Don't try to figure out if you are my current inner eye. Chances are, if you read this, you are either too close to me or too distant to be an inner eye, and my inner eye would never read blog posts anyway.

So, the title of the blog will soon change to reflect my geographical change, but I will still tend to write a lot about Denmark because I am in that annoying phase of reverse culture shock that is characterized by the statement, "In Denmark, they..."

My apologies.

Thinking about you, and there's no rest

When I was 17, I told a friend of mine that I didn't want to graduate from high school and go to college. My life was too good, I said. Of course, now I can hardly believe that I felt that way, and I would rather die than go back to age 17. At the time, it was so intense that my whole life would change, but now it just seems inevitable. Much like I feel today, I was sure that my best days were behind me, and the feeling of moving away from people that I loved was so acute, so sharp, and so juggernautishly real.

With this experience in mind, I face another big change in my life. Some of the people here have changed me, irreversibly I imagine, and I can barely even comprehend that they will not be a part of my daily life next week. Still, I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that a year from now I will be buried in Habermas texts and paper grading, and this life will seem distant. I will remember it fondly, but I won't feel waives of nausea when I think of what has changed.

The funny thing is that, with this attempt at trying to comfort myself, I realized that the real pain of moving is that the things that I am sick to lose will fade from importance. It is not so bad that I feel the impending loss of these relationships, but the scariest part is that in five years, I may not feel it this way anymore. Just like when I look back on high school with fondness and don't remember the urgency and the size of my feelings, someday I will think of leaving these friends and I won't feel sick. Instead of feeling tragic, it will seem inevitable.

Cranky Face

Whenever I was in a bad mood in Eugene, Jose would sweetly look across the table at Full City, the local coffee shop, and say, "Are you a cranky face today?" In response, I would force my face into a scowl, full with wrinkled nose, furrowed brow, and pursed lips.

"NO!"

This routine is followed by peals of laughter from Jose, and, after a few seconds of scrunching my face into a more vicious scowl, a slow smile from me.

I was a serious cranky face today. I had my cranky pants on, and there was no way that it was going to be a good day.

It was the day that I would have to do all of the tasks at work that I had been putting off because I either don't really know how to do them, or they are so mundane that they make my eyes want to vacate my head to find a more interesting host.

After I had completed one job that had been looming over my head since last Thursday, I went off to proctor a final exam, which at least allows me to read for two hours, even if I do nearly collapse with low blood sugar because of the bad timing of the test. Upon returning to my desk at 2pm (14:00 for Danes) with my stomach sounding like Bjork's newest album, the DIS registrar caught me just before I could run to the kitchen to warm last night's curry leftovers.

"The Story Telling Exam that Frazer was proctoring was missing the final page, you know, the one with the essays," she said in an I-am-not accusing-you-just-letting-you-know kind of way.

I quickly searched the files in my brain that catalog my responsibilities.
Editing ECH Finals: Yes
Photocopying ECH Finals: Yes
Handing Complete Finals to Registrar for Distribution: Yes
Generally Taking Care of Everything Related to the Administering of ECH Finals: Yes

Overall Responsibility for Reported Problem: 100%

The registrar didn't need to say anything. Frazer, my fellow intern who was stuck with the problem (standing in front of 35 students who are wondering why their test isn't like it was supposed to be), couldn't console me with any number of optimistic and kind words. I felt horrible and nearly cried. And when I nearly cry at work, my response, if you can imagine, is to become even crankier.

I really hate failure. And I know that this problem was totally fixable. The students got the last page of their final, and they had enough time to finish, and Frazer got her lunch shortly after I got mine. But I just can't stand it.

On the grand scale of things, this was minor. I will forget about it tomorrow. What has struck me about this past year, however, is how differently things work outside of academia. This little problem affected 3 co-workers and 35 students. I am used to any of my little screw ups mostly affecting me. Maybe that typo means an A- instead of an A, but just for me. Maybe showing up 2 minutes to class makes me look like an ass, but no one else really cares. This means, however, after 16 years of school, I have no idea how to work with other people. Perhaps I should have been more gracious with everyone else for making these kind of mistakes since last August, and easier on myself with problems that everyone else has forgotten. Still, I am pretty sure I am the main culprit. Philosophy students should never work in administration.

I left my office in a crankster flurry, informing my friend Emilio that I must have put on my cranky tights today.*

*He actually asked if some tights make me more cranky than others. I miss Jose.

Misfit Collections

I thought my earlier post today was a subtle insight into my own Danish lifestyle (simplicity, to a fault?). For this reason, I decided to post another list that could also shed light on my current transitional state (for those of you who do not know, I am moving back to Oregon in about 1.5 weeks).

Collections of items that, for a variety of reasons, I do not know what to do with:

• 3 half used candles: a bit strange to give away, but a shame to throw out

• 4 piles of Swedish, Russian, Czech, and Euro change: too much to be a souvenir, not enough to exchange

• 10 months worth of bank statements and pay stubs: how long do you have to keep financial documents from a nation you no longer live in?

• More than 15 scarves: I will never need this many scarves living in any other city

• 11 Netto and Fakta bags: too useful to throw out, but every one else I know in this city has their own growing collection

• 18 maps to Copenhagen, Prague, Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Malmö, Århus, Cesky Krumlov, and Sorø: can one throw away maps? Can one fit them in their overpacked suitcases?

• 3 vowels that I can half pronounce but will likely never use again

• Countless friends and acquaintances that I will always want to stay in contact with, but likely never will

• 1 city that I know like the back of my hand, but will no longer call home

shopping list

Here is my shopping list for today. The question marks indicate that I will only purchase said items if an acceptable variety is found at the only grocery stores open on Sunday.

Chicken
Red Peppers
Carrots
Butter

Whole wheat bread?
Greek Yogurt?

Living Forward, Understanding Backwards

So, there is this famous mis-quote that Danish people like to attribute to Kierkegaard that goes something like this "Life can only be lived forward and understood backward." I guess this is really how some Danish scholar interpreted Kierkegaard's work, and it is much to concise to really be anything he said. Still, I kinda like it, though it is a sort of Existentialism for Dummies version.

All of that is to say that I am thinking back on my time in Copenhagen now that I have been here for a while and I am gearing up to head home.

One thing that has changed tremendously for me, at least since I was here as a student, is my ability to enjoy other people. I think that this process, this change that I have undergone, started before I even wrote the application to come here, but in interacting with a very similar set of students that I knew as an undergrad now as an intern, I see how much has changed.

About a week ago, I was sitting in the front of a large tour bus (something I end up doing a lot in this job), and two girls were talking behind me. It was the kind of conversation you would expect two twenty year old girls in Denmark to have as they think about heading home, and one of them was talking about what she was going to do about her french boyfriend who is living in Denmark as a student. They haven't really been together long enough to make a long-distance relationship across the Atlantic seem practical, but she really likes him.

I sympathized with this girl, as I am in a long-distance relationship myself, but more than that, I was impressed that these two girls, who I could tell from the conversation were not best friends but merely what I call 'class buddies,' were able to seemingly genuinely connect on a variety of levels based just on their short months in this single class in Denmark. I realized that I had been so limited in my time as a student. I had taken almost the same class as these students, gone on trips like this with many students just like them, but I had only a few close friends. I would sit on those tour buses alone (not that it is bad to be alone) and watch other people have fun. I was disappointed that I had wasted so many chances as a student.


There is, however, another side to this experience. The two girls were, as I said, totally average, nice, not super intellectual but not dumb girls. I found myself enjoying listening to one another's insights about relationships, living (and drinking) in Europe, and their analysis of their favorite and least favorite classes. This moment of pure enjoyment of other people for no good reason struck me as a new experience. I could relay dozens of other stories about how my friend base is much more diverse, about how nearly none of my favorite people here are 'intellectual,' nor do hardly any of them tolerate philosophy talk, or about how I actually found myself hanging out with 'the bad kids' on my last study tour (I would have HATED these guys as a student, but they were fun and clever, if not a bit reckless). All of those things are examples of how I have branched out, but I think this simple moment, where nothing was in it for me, of just enjoying other people, really showed me how I have learned not just to tolerate, but enjoy other people.

None of that is to say that I am not super eager to get to a philosophy department and start talking about Marx again.

Languages and What I Have(n't) Learned in Denmark

Today I went to a reception at KU's Theology Department with Jakob, my boss, supposedly to do some social networking for DIS. Since I don't know how to hobnob in Danish, I mostly stood around trying to look like I was supposed to be there.

A few of our students from the new Kierkegaard Honors Seminar were there, and so was one of the professors that I work with, Brian, who teaches at KU and works for the Kierkegaard Research Center. He is American, but has lived in Denmark for about 12 years.

As we were standing in this cellar at KU, drinking wine from plastic cups and nibbling on fancy snacks, several people were giving speeches in honor of the soon-to-be-retired head of the Kierkegaard Center (today was his 65th Birthday) in Danish. For an hour and a half, I listened to speeches about a guy I don't know in a language I cannot understand.

About 10 minutes into the third toast, a student leaned over to me and asked what they were saying. "Fuck if I know," I responded. The three students seemed surprised that I did not know Danish, as I appeared to be listening attentively.

Later, Pia, a woman from the Kierkegaard Center was talking with Jakob, Brian, and me, all in Danish. I know enough to recognize her greeting, so I nodded in reply. Then, I preceded to space out with an intelligent look on my face while chit chat that I did not understand danced off of my ear drums like the clatter of silverware at a crowded diner.

Suddenly, I realize that Pia appears to be asking me a question in Danish, and I don't know how long she has been addressing me. The other two clearly know that I don't speak Danish, but they still look at me expectantly, awaiting my response to her query.

"uhhhhhhh...." I spit out, in my most eloquent American English.

"Oh, Amelia is an English speaker!" says Brian, informing Pia, and apparently reminding himself.

We all chuckled, and they each apologized for cutting me out of the conversation, but the most interesting thing followed.

"I forgot that you don't speak Danish because you were nodding and smiling at all the right places!" said Jakob.

"Oh, I can listen to Danish without understanding," I joked. But to tell the truth, I hadn't heard a word they said, and I didn't even experience myself nodding, smiling, or even looking at anyone.

This brings me to the conclusion of this blog. I have learned quite a skill here in Denmark. I have mastered the art of appearing to know exactly what is going on, even playing the part of an active participant, in a language that may as well be glossolalia. I imagine that I can bring this skill not only to foreign countries like France or Indonesia, but other foreign lands like Chemistry classrooms and corporate boardrooms.

Unless they actually address me with a question.

Being-in-the-[blizzard-ridden]-World

I meant to go out tonight, but as there is what has been called a 'blizzard' by many Danes, I am stuck on my bed the first night in nearly three weeks that I felt like going to a crowded and noisy bar in Copenhagen.

I find all this snow to be pretty strange, mostly because it highlights something that I think I forget a lot: my in-the-world-ness. Everyday, my life is made possible by the ground, streets, bikes, and buildings that make up the setting for my life. I guess it is only when something goes wrong with it, like copious snow and wind that sounds like a pride of angry lions, that I notice that I am at the mercy of a world that has no regard for my plans.

That is how I came to post this short little blog.

In slightly related news, I had a smokey and beer stained conversation with a co-worker at the bar right next to my work before I came home tonight [to get ready to go out, mind you] about the possibilities of the technology of the future. He is interested in a certain strain of thought called trans-humanity that discusses questions about what will happen when [I would like to add 'if'] humans become fully non-biological, completing a process that began when we first picked up stones to use as tools. While I am a bit skeptical of a teleological supposition like that, I am fascinated by the idea that through technology we could begin to overcome these inconveniences of life, like snow storms and long distance relationships. We could live in a reality that had little regard for space and time limitations, or perhaps we could even manage to manage the weather. I mean, I guess it is possible.

But I wouldn't be possible. The creature that I am is a product of my attempts to manage my human limitations. I have to contemplate, to struggle to decide where to live, trying to navigate the conflicting values that are associated with different geographical life choices. Even more, I wonder at the birth of a baby [this is a new experience for me], unable to comprehend how a new human being just came into existence, and I feel sad at the death of someone who I don't even know [though I am sure that I must live in a world drastically affected by Howard Zinn]. I feel sad even though he lived a full life that touched people and did what we all hope to do--make a difference--but the end of life is just always sad.

The human that is me today merely would never exist in the world where there was no death and no blizzards or geographical separations.* Of course, the human being that is me couldn't have existed in the same way before global capitalism, so I know that to posit something like human nature is always a bit tricky. I guess that I don't want to think about a world without births and deaths because I wouldn't exist. That freaks me out that creatures like me might not be around for that much longer.

Although, it would be nice to do away with snow storms so that one could go out at his or her leisure.

*Clearly, trying to balance a long-distance relationship with the real possibilities of an academic career are largely on my mind. The limitations of space and time seem to really emerge strongly when you just want to be in the same room as someone else. Still, this whole relationship is made about 400 times easier by the communication technologies that already mitigate my situation. Perhaps skype is just the beginning.

Instructions for Surviving Arrivals Week

These instructions will help exhausted DIS interns survive the week that 662 new DIS students land in Copenhagen to be inundated by endless orientations, tours, emails, powerpoint presentations, not to mention a flood of education corporate speak.

1. Go to the gym. Climb those fake stairs until you sweat out every drop of disgusting stress-chemical that your body has made.

2. Shower

3. Go into your itunes library. Select "Chopin's Piano Nocturnes." Lay on your bed, close your eyes, and think of nothing but the music.

DO NOT DO ANY OF THE FOLLOWING:
Check work email
Clean anything (if this is worrisome, turn off the light to hide the mess)
Get angry at yourself for dozing


Repeat these instructions until a slight smile has formed on your face. At this point, you should feel like a human being once again, and no longer a DIS robot.

Should you feel like some dark chocolate or wine, do not deny your feelings.

Fear and Trembling Revisited

This thing happens when I read Kierkegaard. I realize that there is something lurking in the corner that I haven't addressed. There are things that need to change about myself, and they are the things that I am most scared to change. Then, I pretend that I didn't realize that, and everything is fine. This is followed by a period where I wrestle with myself (?) before deciding to do the riskiest thing: imagine that my life could be different.

These things are quite hard to write about because they are usually somewhat abstract, but sometimes they end in concrete changes. The last time I was in Denmark, and I was forced to read A LOT of Kierkegaard in a class, I broke up with my boyfriend, abandoned my theological perspectives, added a new major, and insisted that I would be happy. Strangely, it all worked out rather well.

So, here I am, in Copenhagen, reading Fear and Trembling. Again.*

At first I thought that it was something about Kierkegaard that made me want to change everything. Maybe he has some magical power that makes one dissatisfied with everything and ready to make a leap, but as I got to page 5 tonight, I realized something.

Maybe it isn't that Kierkegaard convinces me to change everything. Instead, it might be that once I have decided to pick up that book, somehow I have already committed to taking the risk. I listened to a friend of mine explain that self-help books do help her. She read this one book and ended up really applying these principles and reshaping her life. I don't want to compare Kierkegaard to self-help (though I wouldn't be the first to do so), but I imagine that it is the same for her. When she bought that book at the store, she had already decided to open herself up to the world. I think that I just need a concrete action every now and again to push me over the edge.

It's not that I want to change my life direction this time, but I am open to the possibility. Post-graduation is a vulnerable time for someone who has defined themselves academically, and applying to graduate school can feel a bit like one's whole identity is being evaluated (in a defensive move, I wrote this sentence in the third person--can't quite own that one yet). Not to mention, I moved half-way across the world.

So, I have felt myself close off, pull in, and hide from myself and others. I already knew that on one level, but I also read it on page 5 of Fear and Trembling. I imagine I will be reading that same sentence for the next 142 pages. Then maybe I will actually be ready to open myself up to the possibility of radical change.

You know, you could lose everything taking a risk like that.

*Please do not assume that I will take all of the above actions again. I just wanted to convey the importance of reading Kierkegaard to the direction of my whole life. Really, it is a bit more abstract this time around.

Pictures

Pictures are memory devices. That is why they are so comforting. I just loaded God-knows-how-many pictures of my trip to the Czech Republic onto my facebook page. It was strangely therapeutic, especially in the melancholy mood I was/am in.

Sometimes I am melancholy because I cannot place myself in the context I am in. What am I doing here? Is this where is should be? Why did I decide this would be meaningful? These questions are so much more obvious when I have left the familiar for a foreign country with high taxes and no open container laws, but these questions are always lurking around the edges of my thoughts, just beyond articulation in my antsy mind.

Pictures, however, remind me that indeed my story has progressed as I remember. I was just in Prague. My memory is reliable, and thus the story that I have told about myself is reliable. I can load these pictures onto my own little identity representation device with little captions to explain why I went where I did, and to show, sometimes all too overtly, why these images make me who I am. It is almost as if I am trying to convince everyone (myself) that I am that person who loves philosophy and is curious, smart, creative, and thoughtful. (Maybe this blog is another attempt...)

Either way, I articulate a story about myself: I am a world traveler. I lead students through academic tours of foreign countries because art, history, identity and politics matter to me. They matter because they are so important, and furthermore, I have beautiful pictures to prove how important they are!

All of this is to say, sometimes we need some confirmation of our own self-story. It is not that I doubt that I was in Prague, but somehow these pictures tell my own story of purpose and organizing telos (the goals and ends I direct myself toward as I live) back to me. Pictures are one of the little tools that I use to remember the right things and in the right ways. Perhaps it is a bit solipsistic to tell myself my own story with the photos I have taken and captioned, but I think it is all I have to start with.*


* I know too well, based on a 75 page honors thesis, that really, I have others. Facebook facilitates the ability of others to confirm my story, to call it into question, or to merely act as a "look of the other" kind of check. There is this other element though of the weight of the responsibility of my own story that can become a bit detached from the confirmation of others because perhaps I can always find someone to confirm whatever story that I create.

Memory and Identity, Forgetting and Oppression

The theme of the tour I am leading to the Czech Republic is memory and identity. It corresponds to the name of the academic program that I work in at DIS: European Culture and History. The basic idea is that, through a class and this trip, the students are supposed to tie history as the collective memory of a nation, to current culture, politics, lifestyle, national identity.

The concept seems a bit vague at first, but the idea is that our identity, or how we think of who we are, is tied to the stories that we tell about ourselves, especially our past. So, when you ask me who I am, I will likely think through the various situations in my life that have led me to live in Copenhagen, love philosophy, and lead a group of possibly asinine students to Prague.

Now, expand this same concept to a nation, and you can see how the history, or collective memory of a nation, can tell a lot about how that nation collectively imagines itself to be. For instance, the United States rests on a solid narrative around the Revolutionary War, the war for independence, the breaking away from an oppressor. This story shapes how we see ourselves today, as independent, strong, and individualistic people who value liberty, who fight for what is right, etc.

Who we are is strongly tied to what we remember about ourselves, but there is also the possibility for pathology, because we can be so wrong about ourselves. We can fool ourselves and undermine ourselves, and because our memories are so spotty, so unreliable, our identity is often built on something that is anything but sturdy.

So, if nationalism is built on a possibly flawed memory, nationalism is an identity plagued by the possibility of pathology. I have tried a half dozen times to distill the history of the Czech Republic into a blog-sized explanation of the frailty of nationalism, but I simply am not able. Because the Czech Republic is built on the illusion of ethnic unity, its pathology shows its face in ethnic tension and identity crisis. The reality is that the interests of nationalism have only divided this nation. The quest for a unified Czech identity has led to the attempted extermination of not only Jews, but Germans and Czechs at different times and in different places, and an identity could only be forged by forgetting some of these events while highlighting others . Even the Czechs, who were oppressed by German empires and nations for years, turned to expulsion and genocide as forms of ethnic cleansing when they held the power in this region, the long proclaimed as the heart of Europe. In the Czech obsession with rejecting German-ness, it has embraced one empire after another, from the Soviets to Corporate Capitalism.

But the stories that we tell ourselves, that Czechs might tell themselves, are the justification of our actions, or, maybe more often, the denial of them. So, we can pretend to be nations of a unified people, while forgetting that we killed those who we could not unify, that we expelled those who disagreed, and the storytellers edit their identity as they forget the past.

This was not a coherent or well-written post, and believe me, I have edited it a lot, but I am practicing explaining these ideas because I am still working out what I think, and not to publish or include in any thesis, but just so I can reconcile what I see. I want to be able to tell a story about Europe and my time here that doesn't forget, and I want to tell a story about myself that doesn't forget either, if it is possible.

international intersubjectivity and the other as other (aka I don't understand Europeans)

I dropped my Danish class today.

I am trying to study for my GRE so that I can get into Stony Brook, study philosophy for God knows how much longer, and have the life that I dream of. In other words, the GRE is kinda important. So the shock is not that I dropped the course, but that I had deluded myself into thinking that Danish class was a good idea for so long. When someone finally asked me why I was taking Danish, I realized that, despite all my belief in immersion, loving languages, and being genuinely curious, I was really taking Danish because I feel guilty.

Why guilty? Well, aside from feeling like I contribute to the stereotype about Americans going around expecting the world to conform to their English-speaking view of it, I feel like a failure in the school of multiculturalism. I feel like I have lost some kind of initial curiosity about the world that I once had. I had beers with a visiting faculty from Whittier College last night. He will only be here for 4 months, he already specializes in Welsh literature, and therefore has no real reason to learn Danish. Still, this guy (who has spent a total of one month here) already knows way more Danish than me. He asks waiters and sales people how to say things in Danish, he marvels at little tidbits of cultural trivia (like Danes always look one another in the eye while toasting, are pretty passive-aggressive when it comes to interpersonal interaction, but strangely confrontational on issues of politics and religion).

When I was watching him stumble through ordering a beer in Danish, something I gave up trying long ago, I remembered myself when I was 17 and in Ukraine for the first time. I couldn't stop asking questions, trying to pronounce new words, and with each new tidbit, I was delighted all over again.

I haven't felt that way in Denmark this time around. Perhaps it is because I am no longer a visitor, but a semi-permanent resident. Either way, I wanted to take Danish to prove to myself that I still have that curiosity or spark that David the Welsh literature professor has.

My concern runs deeper, however. I listen to speeches about what the study abroad experience is supposed to be: immersion in a new culture, "getting to know the Danes" (good fucking luck on that one), preparing for an even more globalized future. Yet, I find myself wondering what the real purpose is. Beyond learning those fun facts that end up irritating everyone you know ("In Denmark, they..."), what is it that I am supposed to be doing here? What is it that my students are supposed to be doing?

I don't really know. I do know that coming to Denmark shook me up enough the first time that I was able to radically change my life, being really happy for the first time in my short adult life. I know that coming back here is hard but rewarding. Despite all this emphasis on culture and internationality, I think there is something about the mere physicality of living in a new country that makes you grow and be more flexible. John Dewey talks about how habits help us live our lives, but at the same time confine us. His solution is that we should build habits that are themselves habit-breaking. That is what Denmark does for me. I am forced everyday to negotiate situations that are completely new. (Example: How do you operate a work out machine in Danish? Push a lot of buttons until it works. Now, instead of ever having to learn a new language, I can merely operate a variety of machines, kitchen utensils, atms, and websites without knowing a word of the language they operate in.)

What is even more interesting is that in the experience of blundering my way through life (and the gym), I find out what works for me and what doesn't. When everything around me is new, I dare to imagine that I could be new as well. Last time I was here, I realized that I could study philosophy myself instead of merely admiring those who were smart enough to do so. I am not sure if that discovery had anything to do with Danish culture, immersion, or Copenhagen at all.

In the end, I am not sure if immersion is really it. The goal isn't to walk around Copenhagen and make everyone think you are a Dane. The goal is to walk around knowing everyone knows you are different, and to not give a damn

.

Home

I am pretty familiar with most of the city of Copenhagen now. I know the main thoroughfares and landmarks. I can bike home without thinking about the directions too much. Familiarity, however, is not tantamount to homeyness.

About 5 nights ago, I was back into the city after taking 18 students to rural western Denmark for 3 days with my work, DIS. I was walking from my office in the city center to my apartment just barely into Østerbro. I walked home with a different perspective, the kind that only raw exhaustion can give you. Since I was walking instead of biking for the first time in a month, I saw the streets a bit differently. I had time to notice the way the street lights catch all the beautiful little details on the neo-classical buildings and the eerie feeling of the bushes on the edges of the botanical gardens.

My reflection was interrupted two young Danish men. It always takes me a second to realize when someone addresses me in Danish. It still sounds like white noise.

"Sorry?" I said, which is how I simultaneously demonstrate that 1. I don't speak Danish, 2. I feel pretty bad about it, and 3. I might be British.

"We just bought some beers, but we don't have time to drink them all, and we are supposed to meet some friends at a bar. Here, take one, it hasn't been opened." (There are no open container laws in DK, you can drink pretty much ANYWHERE.)

"Oh, no thanks, I am really tired, and I am just heading home."

"Where are you from?" they ask (clearly having fallen for my non-American parlance). I answer with some hesitation that I am from the States, but that I live in Copenhagen now. The words sound funny to me, and I almost don't believe myself.

"Where are you coming from," one asks, gesturing toward my giant hiking backpack.

"I just got back from a trip into Jylland," (Jutland, or the peninsula of western Denmark).

"Oh, then you really need a beer!" He pops the bottle open and hands me the beer. If this were the first time that I had been offered beer by complete strangers in Copenhagen, I might not have taken it, but I must say, this is somewhat of a common occurrence.

After a quick cheers, I continued home, sipping my badly tasting Danish beer. I live near the Statens Museum for Kunst, an imposing but beautiful state art museum with a huge grounds complete with lilly-padded ponds and rolling green hills. As I was walking past, I realized the insanity of my life. I live here, in Denmark, in a city that most people from my hometown know virtually nothing about, a city that three years ago I myself knew little about. But it is this charming little city full of quirky Danish people and imposing buildings older than my own nation that I now call home, at least outloud.

Copenhagen felt very foreign for a few minutes, staring at this giant European museum, but as I started to think about my room, with its Danish looking light fixtures and western european electrical outlets (which I still do not always understand), my shoulders relaxed. In my room, no one addresses me in Danish, and I sleep in the bed each night. Though no one would mistake it for an American apartment, at the same time, when I am in my room, I could be in any city anywhere in the world.

I felt a little guilty that I still imagine my home to be a place where I don't have to think about Danish or deal with anything super unfamiliar (damn electrical outlets), but I think we all need somewhere to go that feels that way. The more homey the rest of Copenhagen becomes, the less time I spend at home in my apartment, but for now, I need some time here.