The Hittegodskonter

Today, I decided I would finally pick up my wallet from the Lost and Found at the Copenhagen police station. The nice honest Danes that promised to mail it to me instead mailed me a piece of paper with my address and their address printed adjacently on it, so, using my limited knowledge of Danish, I deduced that I would have to go straight to the source to retrieve my beloved shiny red Versace.

Some Rejseplanen and Google Maps later, I figured out that my commute to Vanløse, where the Lost and Found was located, would take about 45 minutes and set out. I traveled many more train stops than I ever had before, bought a multi-zone ticket that of course failed to get checked, and finally arrived anxiously at The Hittegodskonter. Although this word looks fairly intimidating, as if it would mean adult circumcision device, or prehistoric Danish sea monster, it actually referred to the most wonderfully strange place I had ever encountered.

Hittegodskonter is Denmark's word for Lost & Found, and what a Lost & Found this was. Bins and bins of key rings, key chains, and single keys! A full table with cell phones ranging in crispness from Siemens Piccell to Blackberry Bold! A B-class nightclub sized coat check area containing not only coats, but sweaters, shirts, and several tubs full of shoes! It seemed that everything that had ever been lost by anyone ever in the greater Copenhagen area had been returned to this room. Ever the tourist, I ecstatically snapped pictures.


If a Hittegodksonter existed in New York, I'd imagine it would be full of the odd tennis racket and old poncho. Overcome with glee, I came up to the Hittegodskonter window and presented them with the slip of paper that I had so intelligently translated. The Hittegodskonter employee, who I had imagined to have the temperament of Winnie the Pooh at the honey tree (Side note: I just googled Winnie The Pooh to see if I could drop the name of the forest he lived in and discovered this fun fact via Wikipedia: "In December 2005, Disney announced that Pooh's friend and owner Christopher Robin would be replaced by a 6-year-old "tomboyish" red-haired girl named Darb." WTF! But that's a rant for another time) scowled at me and muttered something in Danish. Leading me to another window, he muttered something to a group of Danish women, who proceeded to stammer, then giggle, then look embarrassedly at each other and me, before approaching me to inform me the true translation of their little note.

Apparently, the letter I had received was from the post office. It informed me that the package I had been delivered was too big for my mail slot (that's what she said. Duh) and I would have to pick it up at the nearest post location. Two blocks from my apartment.

At least everything was in it except the kroner.

Fitness and Contemplation

Last week, I learned that the reason Scandinavian women are so beautiful is because 1000 years ago, the Vikings killed all the ugly ones and thus drastically reduced the unattractive gene pool.

It was this thought that I kept in mind as I handed over 1000 kroner for a gym membership.

I went alone. It was one of the first times in Copenhagen that I was doing something that I didn't have to all by myself. I had taken the S-tog to class and the airport alone before, but it felt different to do something non-mandatory. The walk to the gym was only 10 minutes, but it was snowing perfect-consistency snowflakes and my I-Pod kept shuffling to the most appropriate songs and I felt suddenly at home.

A Short List

Things I like about Copenhagen:
1. Somebody found my wallet and turned it into the American Embassy, who in turn gave it to the CPH Policia, whose cute accents I just got off the phone with. It still has some kroner in it.
2. Yoggi yogurts, Lox, 28 kroner feta cheese salads, Pizza&Burger pizza
3. Danish babies in onesies. Especially those whose gender is indeterminable
4. 711
5. Attractive architecture
6. Lack of obese Americans devouring hamburgers (although the McD's does feature the 'El Maco," a three cheese bacon and beef and pepper burger")
7. Pastel colored houses
8. Tasingegade 29 (aka, Branscomb Version "We're Legal/2.0")
9. Public transportation, especially in the form of the Natbus
10. Leif(s)
11. Boys with occupations such as "cheesemaker" and "bricklayer"
12. Castles (and thus, princesses)
13. Health insurance (My room has been officially proven to be a living space, and not an office)
14. Contendas
15. Extensive BBM networking
16. Christiania

Things I do not like about Copenhagen:
1. Pic Cell (my Pic Cell looks exactly like a lego. When it rings (seldom), I always find myself surprised that this technology older than me can vibrate and light up. I have sent about 30 text messages since getting here.)
2. Taxes
3. Carbohydrates
3a. A diet that consists entirely of grilled cheese, raw pasta, and macaroons
4. Cobblestones in heels
5. Class at 8:30AM
6. Lack of turkey
7. Patient pedestrians
8. Punctuality (on our field trip to Western Denmark, Sarah and I arrived at Frue Plads 8 minutes late--after stopping to get 711 Coffee and Yoggis, naturally. The bus had left without us. I had to call our program director and beg him to come back. He did. I then proceeded to see how incomfortable I could make him by hitting on him for the rest of the trip.)
9. The weather
10. Contenda (a love-hate relationship)
11. Paying for Gossip Girl, Lost, The Office, and other TV whose network sites do not work in Scandinavia
12. Exchange rates (although today, the kroner is at 5.87. Go take out some monay)
13. Maps (although I have somewhat figured out East and West. The sun rises in the East. Right?)
14. Developing drinking problems
15. Missing theme parties

F My Life. No, Seriously.

Today (yesterday, actually, but for format's sake), I woke up at 7:30 AM to attend a mandatory class session. After deciding I would in fact attend this session, I rolled out of bed and remembered that I had lost my wallet at a bar last night. After sneaking onto the bus Metro-Pass less (horrible Karma for rebelling against bus drivers? Dear God, I got Bat Mitzvahed this summer, and I have put at least 43 cents into the charity jar in my dining room this year, why oh why?....), wearing Juicy sweatpants and Uggs (I may look Jappy, but I save Juicy sweatpants and Uggs in public for very.bad.days.) and napping through class, I came home to find the following letter in my mailbox:

Dear __________________,

I write to you from Kobenhavn Borgerservice, where you came last month to get a cpr number, because there's some doubt about the address you want to be registered on.

The room number 118 is, in our system, not for living in. It is more like an office or a place you can work and not live in, so we need you to bring a contract of your apartment so we can try to solve it and so you can get a cpr number and be registered correctly.

I am sorry that we didn't pay attention to it the first time you were in here.

Best regards,

Danish Hoe.

I now don't have my passport (it's at the Russian Embassy for processing for my upcoming trip!), no drivers license, no credit cards, no health insurance, and no registration as a Danish resident. My most official form of ID is the Student ID I have been using as both bus and bar pass. And to top it off, apparently I have been living in an "office" for the past three weeks.

F my life.

F My Life

A couple of days ago, I discovered a phenomenal website that has greatly aided the quality of my life in more ways than one. I really have only felt this way about several internet finds (SaleHabit, the site that allows you to send an "I have an STD and you might too!" e-card anonymously, Elf Yourself, FabSugar, Facebook chat). This website has now joined a league of rare quality and affection. I am referring to www.fmylife.com.

Upon first glance, Fmylife is a poor man's Seventeen Magazine embarrasing moments section, but upon careful and tedious review, one finds that it is so much more than that. A few recent posts:

Today, on the crowded train, a cute guy called me over and told me to stand next to him because there were less people there. We started talking, but he left before I could get his number. Just when I was about to tell my friends about it, I find out that he stole my phone. FML

Today, my boss fired me via text message. I don't have a text messaging plan. I paid $0.25 to get fired. FML

Today, I finally got the chance to sleep with a girl from home who I'd wanted for a long time. She has low blood pressure problems though, and when things got hot, she passed out while she was on top of me, fell and hit her head on the night stand. FML

This site is glorious. It is the epitome of Schadenfruede. That word may make it look like I have picked up some Danish, but it really means "pleasure from observing the misery of another" in German. I learned it from Avenue Q, an R-rated puppet play that takes much pleasure from observing the misery of others, and although it is not technically Danish, I am fairly certain the Danes would relate. Yesterday, as I was crossing Norre Volgade, I tripped and knocked my falafel sandwich out of my hand. It fell on the floor along with my Blackberry and I picked it up and would have ate it anyway if I hadn't noticed the attractive blonde Danish girls next to me blatantly pointing and laughing at me. F these cobblestones.

Cultural Differences

Three weeks is probably long enough to make broad generalizations about a country. They say that the Danes are the happiest people in the world. I say this is because the Danes, unlike the New Yorkers, will gladly accept anything and everything that comes their way.

As if dealing with 70% taxes, obnoxious local celebrities like Hans Christian Andersen, and irritatingly constant obeying of pedestrian rules wasn't enough, I decided to run my own social experiment on the people of Denmark. Target test group: bus drivers.

This is how the public transportation system in Denmark works:
1) Leave home. Walk through cloudy streets.
2) Stop at every red light, despite obvious lack of approaching cars.
3)Have life threatened by bikers.
4)Board immaculately clean S-tog, Metro, or bus.
5)Pay for ride**.
6)Exit at stop.

**In the case of S-tog and Metro, MetroPasses aren't required. They operate on an honor system, where obedient Danes purchase a ticket to the zone they are going to (20-100 kroners), and wait, hoping a ticket checker will come check their ticket. In my time here, I have encountered one ticket checker. I had the wrong ticket. Cayla and Ali had none. We got away with it.

The bus is a whole other story. The bus operates like any normal public transportation system would. Passenger boards. Passenger shows MetroPass. Passenger sits. Other passengers continue in same fashion. Except for the social experiment. Over the course of the past two weeks, I have been deliberately refraining from showing bus drivers my MetroPass. I simply board, flash my Lost-American smile, and sit. This may sound silly, since I have a 2 Zone bus pass and take the bus at least once every day, however, I am still waiting for a bus driver to stop me and actually ask me for my identification and payment. It hasn't happened.

In Manhattan, if you boarded the bus without swiping your MetroCard, the large African American, Latino, or Eastern European (like my immigrant family. Who's a racist now?) bus driver would do one of two things.
1)Kick your white girl ass out onto the curb.
2)Grab your arm and force you to scrounge up change in all the pockets of your purse and clothing, ask strangers for additional change, and scowl ferociously at you when you only come up with $1.93.

So my theory: Danes are the happiest people on Earth because they will do whatever the f you tell them to. Being extravagantly bossy is #3 on my list of spectacular talents (blowing smoke rings, being middle spoon), so this country should work out rather well for me.