A Hamburger in Paradise

Though I've been in Denmark now for a short while, I've yet to document the last days of the CBS pre-trip. The Netherlands was no slouch, and Hamburg did not disappoint. We boarded my favorite European bus service, Eurolines, in Amsterdam and prepared ourselves for the seven hour trip northwest to the great port city of Hamburg. I was feeling the after-effects of a week in Holland, and was able to entertain myself for most of the ride by simply staring out the bus window. The bus arrived at Hamburg's massive ZOB at 23:00, and I did my best to rub the Eurolines sleepy dust from my eyes, as there was work to do. The plan was to stay with someone from the couchsurfing network. If you're not familiar with couchsurfing, it's a network of people, from all over the world, who offer their couch to fellow travelers. Don't tell my parents, but I've used this resource before. It's a money-saver, the hosts are usually cool, and you have instant access to a great source of knowledge on the city. We managed to find the right bus to Malte (our host) and arrived with out much trouble. After some good convo, we crashed on the available sleeping surfaces.

Malte had to work in the morning, so Pete and I woke up and readied for the day. We left the comfortable flat in search of breakfast, and found it at a nice cafe called Bagel Park. The Germans do a nice lox, and one gross (Deutsch for big) coffee later we were good to go. Malte was only hosting for a night, so we tracked down a hostel a little north of the center, which turned out to be one of the nicer hostels I've stayed at. The dorm rooms were only four or five beds, and were roomy, clean and bright. And I actually witnessed someone cleaning the bathroom.

We were turned around on the way back, but eventually found our way. Maps are hard. That evening we planned to see a gratis hip hop show on the university campus. Our hostel was in a largely Turkish neighborhood, also known for it's anti-establishment punk roots, which made for a cool ambiance. We dined at this Turkish potato place. The meal basically consisted of a giant baked potato stuffed with pretty much anything you could think of. A Warsteiner later we boarded the metro for the University. Never found the Pony Bar, and cursed whoever printed those terrible flyers for the hip hop show. We headed back to catch a late beer at Fritz Bauch, and called it a night.

Wednesday was a big day. We started it by heading out to a museum dedicated to Ethnology, the largest of its kind in the world. There was a great photo exhibit created from archives of trips to places like Egypt, Iran, Turkey and Tunisia in the mid-1800's. It was a really cool look at these places during the birth of tourism, and before every traveler wielded a digital camera. From there we headed down to the port. Hamburg is Germany's most important port, and it connects to the North Sea via the Elbe, which flows from as far east as the Czech Republic. The "port city" label gave Hamburg a blue-collar feel, and it was interesting to see tourists walking a boardwalk looking over a bustling port.

If you weren't aware, the first Euro Cup semifinal was Wednesday, and the matchup was Germany v Turkey. Germany boasts (or claims) over 2.5 million Turks, and it was just as common to see a Turkish flag flying in the city as it was a German flag. There was a giant public viewing area set-up in a central park, and it quickly filled with fans. They closed the gates before Pete and I could sneak in, and we watched a handful of people attempt scaling the barricades. We settled for a busy street cafe with a big widescreen, and we watched the match with six-packs of Beck's at our feet and German fans all around. It was a fantastic match, and ended 3-2 in Germany's favor, so the place erupted. We followed the growing crowd, eager for some good old-fashioned rioting, and found what we were looking for by tracking a long line of police swat vans. The mob moved down a main boulevard, heading south to the Reeperbahn and singing and shouting. The Reeperbahn is Hamburg's infamous red light district, situated close to the port, for easy sailor access.

The mob grew, and eventually we found ourselves singing and shouting along with thousands of German fans. Pete took some good video, which I'll add to the bottom of the post. All this celebrating made for a late-night, and the 7:30 bus to Copenhagen on Thursday hurt a little bit. Still, we arrived mostly unscathed and running on adrenaline, and moved into Kathrine Kollegiet. I have some initial impressions of Copenhagen city life, which I'll get to soon. For now, enjoy the videos and farvel.

photos and video..finally

I've finally settled into my efficiency in Frederiksberg, a neighborhood in the west of Copenhagen. My laptop is up and running, and it's time to add some color to this text-ridden blog. In the interest of time, which I've quickly realized is scarce and valuable here in Scandinavia, I'll just throw down the photos I intended for the previous posts. Caption free. Enjoy.

instincts still functioning

I forgot to mention this in my last post, and it would be a shame should I forget. During our last afternoon in Amsterdam, we headed out west of Bob's, Californee way, in search of some coffee and internet. Anytime I've been to Amsterdam, I always see this sign at Leidseplein, for what must be the worst-named coffeeshop of all time. It's simply called Internet Coffeeshop C@fe. One could assume they spent all of their money making the place great, and none on a marketing plan, but one would be wrong. We walked to the place, all the time thinking this would be a bad experience. It was. The proprietor scoffed at a 20 euro bill after ordering 12 euros worth of goods. She evil-eyed us as we sat at the too-clean tables and watched one of four widescreens playing Dutch top 40 music videos. The joint was terrible, the coffee was worse, and Pete's "Green Fruit Juice" tasted like cream soda crossed with fruit piss. This place is the worst coffeeshop in Amsterdam. If you follow my logic, you can agree that it is by default the worst in all of Holland, and finally, the worst in the world. Universe, if that applied. So please, never go there. And tell your friends and family to never go there. We suspect the place is just a front for something more lucrative. I mean, what's with all the widescreens?

By the way, I'm in Hamburg for the next few days, and plan to view the Germany v Turkey game in a Turkish neighborhood. I've been guaranteed this place will burn regardless of the result..

Back at Bob's

I sit in the lounge at Bob's, back in Amsterdam as I type this. The past few days have brought me back to Utrecht and out to the Dutch countryside for midsummer, and now I'm back here. When we arrived in Utrecht the market was in full swing outside the station in the square. My first goal was to find fresh stroopwafel, which I did. Huge stroopwafel for only one euro. I felt as if I stole it, and Pete enjoyed it as well. We walked the familiar main street down towards Janskerkhof and turned into the alley street of Boothstraat. We were staying at the same hostel I spent my first night in the Netherlands at. Hostel Strowis' bright yellow sign was visible from the corner on, and we were offered the complimentary warm drink I had been too flustered to accept that first time I checked in.

Once settled in our first floor room, we headed out to Biltstraat, destined for Super de Boer, my second favorite grocery store. We picked up the makings of a decent hostel meal, and prepared it in the well-stocked kitchen. Strowis has a really nice garden, with plenty of places to sit and talk, and we spent some time socializing. It's always interesting to hear why people are in Utrecht, and more often than no they're there on a friend's recommendation or because they heard it was a great break from the insanity that Amsterdam thrusts into one's lap. Pete and I headed out down the Oudegracht, passing under the Dom and soon reaching the infamous Cafe Belgie, home to hundreds of beers, most of them of the Belgian variety and none disappointing. We chatted with a bartender on break about Dutch football, the American dollar and of course, beer. After a few rounds we continued down the canal, stepping down into 't Oude Pothuys for some 2 euro Brand. A step down from the Belgians up the street, but beer nonetheless. Before long the live music started, and the place filled up with Dutch. We cursed with what can only be described as a 90s funk band playing 90s pop songs with just the wrong mix of sincerity and energy.

The walk back to the hostel was rife with Pete comments like "I have no idea where we are," "this is great," and "I hope you know where we're going." I did, and we made it back to Strowis in time to relax at the now darkened patio. We made the mistake of sitting down at a table with a Virginian and a Bulgarian named Tony Anthony. They were drinking Jack Daniels, and requested some help with finishing the bottle. I had a chance for one wary look at the almost empty bottle of Coke before my glass was filled. The rest of the evening was spent discussing life, politics, and some philosophy. Great topics with a glass of whisky staring you in the face. Tony had an extremely interesting view on life, and stereotyped the hell out of Bulgarians. He explained he is a self-centered asshole, who thinks only of himself. He is also extremely self-confident, as are most Bulgarians. To compensate for this selfish lifestyle, he commits one good deed each day, most days. If that bottle of whisky was his deed on that particular day, I don't think it was so good for Pete, and I know I had to sleep off most of Mr. Daniels.

We rented bikes from the hostel, and I couldn't have been more pleased. These were Dutch bikes: a ton of metal, bells, back seats and beat-up. We took the borrowed stallions out north and west of the city, following canals past the infamous floating hookers of Utrecht, past the city limits and out to the Oud Zulyen, where Slot Zulyen and a few notable windmills greeted us. There was a wedding party at the castle, and they released doves as part of the ceremony. Where do those doves go? Can doves survive in any climate and biosphere? I doubt it, but damn, it looks cool to release a bunch of them at once.

We spent the rest of the day in Utrecht visiting some favorite sites, including Falafel City, Grift and Wilhemina parks, as well as the Dom and surrounding area. I woke up early to pick up breakfast from the bakerij and visit the Parnassos garden, which was empty, because international students don't wake-up before noon on Saturdays. Pete and I headed down the Oudegracht to Bert's Bier Huis. We picked up some favorites for the midsummer party, and enjoyed lunch at De Oude Muntkelder before saying goodbye to Utrecht once again, and heading southeast to Ede-Wageningen. Jeroen and Melissa, whom I know because Barry, my Utrecht roommate, is their brother-in-law and brother, respectively. As mentioned, the party had a medieval theme, and our plastic battle axes got us in the door. The scene was great. Authentic. But what made it for me was the axe throwing. Jeroen had fashioned some serious throwing axes, and we placed a wooden target against a sand wall. Pete and I quickly caught on, and before long we were throwing bullseyes. And of course, we had to make it a competition. Europeans can throw axes casually. We Americans need a scoring system so we can confirm victory.

A night of great grilled food, cheeses, Leffe, and mead followed, and the night carried into the early morning hours, which found us shouting about choice topics and not really listening. We woke up and showered, and boarded a train back to Amsterdam. It rained, poured really, for the first leg of the ride, but when we arrived in Amsterdam it was the best weather I've seen here. It wasn't even cloudy, and it's always cloudy in Amsterdam, so that "God can't look down and see." Sodom and Gomorrah paranoia I guess. Pete and I took a whirlwind tour of the still-under-renovation Rijksmuseum, and emerged into some kind of windstorm, where no one was having a good time except some guy flying a kite. He was having a blast, and when he noticed us watching him, he shouted, "Haven't seen this kind of wind in 20 years! Woohoo!"

Bob's was packed again for the Spain-Italy match, after which we enjoyed an absinthe at Absinthe. This bar would be a great place to start a film. Weird, underground, and hard to find. Later we stumbled into a bar I once found when searching for Absinthe. A brown cafe, as they're called, this place had some serious beer. We drank Kwak from the obnoxious glasses, and when I returned to the bar for round two, a German girl inquired. I explained the glasses as best I could, and made conversation. Meanwhile she ordered two, then four Kwak, and proceeded to pay for two. This was a problem, as I had just enough cash for the intended round of Palm, which runs a bit cheaper than Kwak. I snagged a euro from Pete just before he gave it to a drifter, and helped pay for the round. So now I owe a cute girl from Cologne two euros. I'll buy a Hamburger a beer to make good.

So now we're catching a seven hour bus to Hamburg, where we'll couchsurf a night and stay a few more in a hostel. The last run before the Copenhagen era begins. Watch for some photos and maybe even a video come Friday..

Belated, Bloated, and Dutch

I managed to pack for Europe, with much thanks to my sisters and mother. I didn't have any fun doing it. Mom and Pops drove me in the roomy Camry west to the land with less lakes than Wisconsin (We have 15000). Although there were multiple concerns voiced over the lack of proper airport signage, we made it in plenty of time. I was actually rather early, and when I arrived at Gate 8, Pete was one of the only individuals waiting to board.

We eventually boarded the jumbo jet, and took off in true Scandinavian fashion: on time. This was the longer leg of the trip, heading to Iceland, before a small layover and a plane to Copenhagen. There were some seriously fancy LCDs in each seat, and I spent much of my tv time on the maps section. There was this world map, stretched out on the screen that showed where in the world it was night, and where it was day. The little clipart plane's followed a dotted line that traced the line between night and day. I made an educated guess that I wasn't going to see the sunset for a while.

The time passed quickly, and I changed my watch to Copenhagen time, seven hours ahead of those of you who call the Midwest home. I sat on the southeast side of the plane, and the sky was a dark blue through my window. If I looked across the plane, to the northwest, I could see the sun, still peeking out from the horizon. It was difficult to sleep, but I caught a wink before landing. As we approached the Icelandic coast, I pictured the satellite image on Google maps. It looked identical, this impossibly jagged coast leading up to a taiga, with low mountains in the backdrop.

There was a short layover in Iceland, and boarding for the plane to Copenhagen began soon after arrival. This flight was shorter, but long enough to finish The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, a fantastic quick read. Good film too. Anyhow, everything went smoothly as we landed on a rainy afternoon. The rain continued as we boarded the train to the city centre. The plan was to toss our luggage in the basement locker storage at Cph H, and walk around the city until our host for the evening, Nicolai, finished at work and could let us into his Norrebro apartment. Only stairs down to the luggage lockers, so we carried everything down only to find full lockers and a massive line to check bags.

So we hauled everything out the back door, and started our short trek to Nicolai's apartment. The rain held of until we were half a block from the place, so we ducked into an alley to wait out the worst. The rain weaned, and we walked the rest of the way to the apartment, waiting in the courtyard under a small tree until Nicolai arrived. In the mean time, I went to buy some of Copenhagen's famous hot dogs. The concessionaire moved too fast for me to attempt tracking the condiments. All said, it was great. Spicy, sweet, crunchy, and hotdoggy. Nicolai returned from work around 16:30, and we moved everything into the apartment. As I mentioned, Nicolai lives in the Norrebro neighborhood near the station. The neighborhood used to be notorious for drugs and crime, but has since been renovated, and now hosts the city's young professional class. Nicolai's apartment is comfortable, and there was plenty of room to sleep.

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So I just read the previous paragraphs, and they bored me. And they're about me, so I'm sorry. I've been travelling in Holland this week, and haven't really logged the kind of computer time necessary to complete a quality blog entry. This, coupled with the fact that all sorts of crazy stuff has been happening, means a long afternoon at the computer when I'm back in Copenhagen. I'll attempt to play catch-up.

Pete and I took a short flight from Copenhagen to Amsterdam on Tuesday evening. We arrived at Schipol Int'l around the time the Dutch v. Romania Euro Cup game began, and it was obvious even in the airport that Orange Fever has gripped the city and had no plans to let go. Walking out of Amsterdam Centraal and into the carnival was a very weird feeling. It was all too familiar, and yet so damn anonymous. We hadn't booked a hostel in advance, due to a late-notice change in plans, but I knew of a place that didn't accept reservations, so we'd at least have a shot.

We walked into Bob's Youth Hostel after a short walk, and found the small downstairs lounge packed with people. The Dutch were winning and the three employees behind the counter were engaged in a death stare with the TV. I asked if there were rooms, and received an immediate yes. I then offered to wait to check-in until the game finished, and in response the Dutchman behind the desk handed us each a Heineken. As the story goes, the Dutch went on to victory, and we dragged our bags up four flights of teeny-tiny Dutch stairs, and claimed the hostel's last remaining beds. It was only 22:00 at the time, but there were already (or still) people sleeping in the room. This is not uncommon in an Amsterdam hostel. Other common sights: boxes of candy, unopened packs, and red eyes.

Pete was excited to be in the city for some of the right reasons. The Netherlands have this legend quality, and most people only remember those aspects that make it notorious, and in the process never really get to learn about the country and the people. I did my best to expose Pete to some of those other aspects. Enough preaching. After a tour of the Red Light and a stop at the Bulldog, we took a back route past the Oude Kerk and in the general direction of Bob's. One particular alley contained a large fire ladder, and a crowd had gathered. We watched with morbid fascination as a man on a stretcher was removed from a 4th floor window. I spent most of the time before he appeared hoping it wasn't an obese person being removed because the stairs were too small. This wasn't much better. With a weird mood on, we went back to the hostel to hang out in the lounge for a bit, watching the effects of an Amsterdam week unfold in the chairs around us.

Free breakfast gets me out of bed. This isn't an English breakfast, with hearty helpings of all things greasy and good. A Dutch breakfast is pretty simple: two pieces of bread (not toast), jam, a hardboiled egg, and a cup of tea. It's not a bad way to start the day. We took a walk west, toward an American establishment called Grey Area. It wasn't quite open, so a whirlwind tour of the West-Centraal district followed. The weather was really good most of the day, hot even, and the ever-threatening Dutch skies seemed to subside for the day. We lunched at a Turkish restaurant near the Red Light, and were served shwarama with a side of blunt political opinion. It's fairly obvious everyone has an opinion on an American Presidential race.

The Red Light is a different place during the day; the hip shops and quaint cafes stand out more than the bright red lights and whispers of "Coca, ecstasy, coca, ecstasy..." By some chance, we stumbled upon the World Press Photo 08 exhibition, which was being shown at the Oude Kerk. It's a display of the year's best photojournalism, and I had the good fortune to view the previous year's in Utrecht. The photos are all pretty powerful, and this exhibit had the added bonus of computer kiosks where one could find endless information on the photographers and their chosen work. Some poor Dutchman made the mistake of asking me a few questions about the exhibit, and I talked his ear off for it. A few times I noticed I'd speak for two minutes, and he'd jot four words down for an answer. I'm not fluent in Nederlands, but I'm not sure he was getting that down verbatim.

Later back at the hostel lounge, we ran into a mess of Canadians. I shared a yerba mate with two nice girls from British Colombia, and Pete struck up convo with two Winnipegers (sp?). The latter seemed to have a good knowledge of the surrounding area, and we joined them for dinner at a place simply called The King, and later stopped by Cafe BEN for some R&R. After a long search for a bar with four seats, we found ourselves at the cusp of the Red Light, at a Western-themed bar called Suzie's Saloon. A jukebox filled with country music and the necessary saloon doors greeted us there.

I woke up Thursday morning to rain. The rain in Holland can almost always be called a drizzle, and this was no different. Pete and I put on the raingear and took a walk down to Museumplein (just past Leidseplein..). It's nice to see Amsterdam in the rain, functioning more like a normal city as tourists flock into cafes and locals go about their everyday business. We thrifted for our requisite medieval/fantasy costumes for the upcoming Midsummer party in the Dutch countryside, and soon boarded a train south for Utrecht, where we've spent the past few days. I'll relate the last few days when I next have time, and maybe upload a few photos. Until then, Happy (early) Birthday Mom!

This was on my to-do list

Hello, and welcome back to those of you who subscribed to my blog during my semester in Utrecht. If you're interested in acquiring a taste for what these posts will resemble, or are just looking for some way, any way, to kill a few hours, check it out here.

The combination of a lightning-quick senior year (my first senior year, for those of you counting) and the fresh memory of my last trip abroad gives me the feeling I only just returned from my semester in the Netherlands. If you were to peek into my bedroom in Madison, you'd find it hard to believe I'm leaving in just over a week. Empty boxes are strewn around and half-done projects are littered across my desk and dresser. I've only recently added this line to a tattered to-do list: Make packing list for summer. So in the tangible realm, I'm ill-prepared to board the plane in Minneapolis next Sunday. But my sense of adventure is tingling and I'm more than ready to arrive in Copenhagen and begin my sure-to-be unforgettable summer exploring Scandinavia.

More than a few friends pointed out to me that my last blog was a bit PG in nature. There are obvious reasons for this. However, thanks to the lethal combination of facebook's immense popularity and the ubiquity of digital photography, I've all but ruled out a future in politics. I'm not promising coarse and brash, but I do plan to use a more liberal filter. That being said, I will do my best not to tarnish my good family name, as I'm well aware I will have some difficult questions to answer should that happen.

Feel free to pass this blog on to anyone who may enjoy it, and I encourage and look forward to any and all comments and feedback. My next post will be from the European continent. Until then, skål!