Christmas Under the Alps

In America, our Christmas traditions are mostly indoors, be they huddling around the fire with family or missing your connection at O’Hare. The Swiss, however, are an outdoorsy people, and just because their country at Christmastime is a dark and frozen tundra, they won’t be dissuaded. If anything, they double-down on their outdoorsiness in the form of Christmas Markets.

Christmas Markets, as I understand them, are outdoor wintertime markets that are popular in countries where markets shouldn’t be outdoors in winter. These yuletide bazaars provide a host of culturally-specific Christmas fare (most of which involves pretzels) and the camaraderie that comes from shopping with your countrymen as you slowly freeze to death.

Sweden and Norway: Külture Wår

Sweden and Norway are reluctant siblings.  Stuck side-by-side on the Scandinavian Peninsula and conjoined by a border one-thousand miles long, they’re forever up in one another’s business.  Over the years, they’ve faced many of the same threats – Vikings, Nazis, the usual – but having a common foe did not unite them.  Rather, Sweden’s response was, “We’re neutral.  Go invade Norway instead,” whereupon Norway would get its butt kicked.  However, Norway has historically excelled at finding the silver lining to any situation.  Consider their Resistance Museum’s analysis of Nazi occupation:

“Rationing had some advantages: people could no longer indulge, and the shortage of sugar meant less dental decay.”

Sweden and Norway: The Arctic Winter of Our Discontent

There’s a reason people don’t visit Sweden and Norway in January.  The temperature is perpetually subzero, whether you’re measuring in Celsius, Fahrenheit, or Kelvin.  And the sun is perpetually nonexistent: while in May the sun rises at 4 am, in January the sun rises in May.

There’s a reason I visited Sweden and Norway in January.  At least, I assume there is.  The PTSD has driven it from me, but it involved a suggestion from my once-friends and never-again travelmates Alpana and Gagan.  They figured that two weeks in the dark and frigid reaches of Scandinavia would make their decision to live in Cincinnati seem reasonable by comparison.

Just as high-altitude areas require alternative cooking instructions, so do Scandinavian winters require a new approach to vacationing.  For example, where you may be used to “going outside” and “seeing things,” Sweden and Norway have other ideas.

Czech Your Pillage: Central Europe under Siege

Once burned, twice shy.  Twenty times burned, Central Europe.  Between Ottomans, Swedes, Napoleon, Hapsburgs, non-Nazi Germans, Nazi Germans, and Communists, Central Europe has the habit of being burned to the ground by most any marauder.

To discourage this cycle of destruction, medieval city planners turned to a new model: find a hill, build a castle on it, and keep your important stuff in the castle.

We prepare to storm the castle.

Aside from walls, which came standard, the particular defense mechanisms varied from castle to castle.  In Cesky Krumlov, the royals filled the moat with bears.  (Incidentally, I have an idea for a Revenant sequel.)  In Prague, castle dwellers pushed people out of windows, an approach which led to the 1618 Defenestration of Prague, my new favorite historical event.  In Salzburg, the castle had a giant mechanical organ which could blast only one chord and was presumably used to annoy invaders or summon Von Trapps.

Wrestling with Masculinity

When it comes to masculinity, America has feelings. We males are supposed to be aggressive yet easygoing, equally adept with a slap on the back or a punch to the kidney. We should like large quantities of meat, as well as drinks that double as drain cleaner. We must be hairy of head and voluminous of bicep. American culture communicates these requirements in many ways—Hollywood, men’s magazines, gym teachers—but perhaps no vehicle is more effective than that hallmark of pay-per-view: pro wrestling.

This summer, that I might finally attain masculinity, I attended my first pro wrestling event, “The Best in the World” hosted by Ring of Honor. As I understand it, ROH is the Off-Broadway of the professional wrestling scene. It’s for those who find the WWE “too commercial” and desire more artistic integrity in how men in speedos fake-punch each other.

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Cambodia: Hankering for an Angkoring

Tourism in Cambodia falls into two categories: Angkor Wat and death. That we may end on an up-note, let’s begin with the latter.

But first, some historical context:

I. Apocalypse Then

Cambodia is a country that’s still trying to reconcile itself with the horrors of its past. I don’t mean the 2001 film Tomb Raider, though that does require a great deal of reconciliation, but rather the Khmer Rouge.

Founded in 1968, the Khmer Rouge was a group of Cambodian communists. Under the leadership of schoolteacher-turned-psychopath Pol Pot, the group blossomed, bludgeoned, and conquered Cambodia by 1975. (To put this in perspective, I’ve been working on The Judgment of Quintus for 8 years. Pol Pot took over a country in 7.)

We'll Always Have Disneyland Paris

Since 1945, American culture has functioned less as friendly emissary than zombie horde. Marauding across continents, it devours brains, assimilates everything in its path, and leaves behind only ruin and childhood obesity. But as this onslaught spreads throughout Europe, one nation has boldly drawn its Maginot line in the sand. I refer, of course, to France.

Being an expert on France (I’ve seen Scarlet Pimpernel and Les Mis), I can speak authoritatively of its culture. Unlike America and its melting pot, France defines a fixed version of Frenchness which its government encourages everyone to upkeep. Roaming outside the bounds of this Frenchness is frowned upon, and succumbing to any aspect of American culture is expressly forbidden.

To better understand the struggle between American and French cultures, we need not look further than Marne-la-Vallée, a sleepy hamlet just 20 miles east of Paris. You may not know Marne-la-Vallée by name, but perhaps you’ve heard of a local business it contains: Euro Disney.

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Iceland: Hut, Hut, Hike!

America and Iceland define “intermediate” in decidedly different ways.  Here, when applied to a physical activity, “intermediate” suggests you may need to stand up.  There, it means “in all likelihood, you’ll die.”  So should you visit Iceland and go on an “intermediate hike,” as Maggie and I so unsuspectingly did, I offer you this guide that you might learn from our mistakes and perhaps live to tell the tale.

Pro Tip 1: Pick an honest guide.  To determine if a guide is honest, refer to their suggested packing list, and identify how many times the word “waterproof” appears.  For Iceland Mountain Guides, it was five, which put them just on the verge of veracity.  (Sun protection, on the other hand, was “optional.”  And highly optimistic.)  Once you have obtained your hiking attire, test it out by putting it on and throwing yourself into a swimming pool.  This simulates the experience that Icelanders call “going outside.”

Iceland: There's No Business Like Snow Business

Iceland is called Iceland for a reason.  10% of the country consists of glaciers, and the other 90% is snowy volcanos with little regard for European air space.  According to the Icelandic Tourist Board, “Iceland is actually green land, and Greenland is ice land,” but don’t listen.  They’re attempting to lure you to their country without sufficient winter wear so they can sell you very expensive coats.

In fact, Iceland’s entire publicity machine is geared toward making the country sound comfy/cozy, as opposed to freezing/oh-my-god-it’s-coldy.  On Icelandair, the planes have cute names (“Grabók, the Friendly Volcano”), and the seats’ bibs announce “The most incredible thing about Iceland is…” and end in a variety of predicates, including “The prime minister is listed in the phone book” or “We have no army, navy, or air force [but don’t tell Germany].”  Only when you land in Iceland and promptly lose all feeling in your toes, do you realize that something more perfidious may be afoot.

The Final Peril of Argentina: The Arts

The arts are huge in Argentina.  Even in times of fiscal crisis, the government generously endows its concert halls, and the results sing for themselves.  For example, the Teatro Colon looks like a train station and, given the six-hour operas performed there, is only slightly less entertaining than one.

Wherever you walk in Buenos Aires—and I do suggest that you walk—art and culture thrust themselves upon you.  Outside the Recoleta Cemetery, tango dancers dance, bodybuilders flex, and jewelers hawk their wares.  A few blocks away, the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes provides free admission to those in search of expressionism, or you can stroll around the Floralis Generica, a giant metal flower in the United Nations Plaza.  The flower’s purpose is unclear, but given its location, one assumes it hates America.

The Second Peril of Argentina: Transportation

In Buenos Aires, the bus system operates under the philosophy of “eh, you wouldn’t understand; just take a cab.”  Lonely Planet washes its hands of explication, and even if you know your bus stop, number, and route, there’s a 15% chance it will take you to your destination, and an 85% chance it will take you to La Boca where you will be stabbed.

If you’re lucky enough to travel by private bus, after a 15-minute welcome video which explains the concept and execution of seatbelts for those who have never seen seat nor belt, they play New Year’s Eve and Pirates of the Caribbean 4 until walking or death seems preferable.

To avoid buses entirely, when I daytripped to Colonia, Uruguay, I traveled by boat.  Now, I’ve ridden boats before.  I sailed through icebergs in Alaska, back when there were icebergs, and I’ve visited Staten Island four times, which makes me either rugged or insane.  However, the Colonia Express was different.  It was...bouncy.

The Three Perils of Argentina

a decade ago, with my Cub Scout training not yet forgotten, I was a prepared traveler.  Before backpacking through Italy, I took a year of Italian, seven of Latin, and could easily differentiate between composers and pastas, Pu- and fettuccini.  However, as I’ve approached thirty, my preparations have dilapidated in direct proportion to my hairline.  Where once I spent weeks poring over Lonely Planet and crafting every aspect of my trip, now I think of a place from a musical, buy a plane ticket, and hope it all works out.

Which brings me to Argentina.

As I boarded the plane to Buenos Aires, my understanding of Argentine history was as follows: indigenous people (Incans?) lived there until conquistadors did their thing; said thing included churches, tango huts, and the Ezeiza International Airport; eventually, Patti LuPone was elected first lady, which really pissed off Mandy Patinkin, until she was replaced by Madonna in a midterm election.  There’s also steak.

Clearly, this history is incomplete—Elaine Page predated Patti LuPone—but I figured I would learn more along the way.  And learn I did, though my education covered a topic far more pernicious than history:

The Three Perils of Argentina.

Unclean

When you’re on your back, in a seedy corner of Istanbul, being ravaged by a Turk, you ask yourself a few questions.  How did I get here?  Is my body supposed to bend that way?  And, when it’s over, do I tip?

I refer, of course, to the Turkish bath (“hamam”), a centuries-old tradition which combines personal hygiene with all the pleasures of the Fourth Crusade.  For Turkish masseurs take the brute force approach to ablution: they pummel you until you’re clean or dead, whichever comes first.  In my case, it was a tie.

Publicists? Where We’re Going, We Don’t Need Publicists.

I am a tastemaker.

In first grade, I brought my Phantom of the Opera coffee table book for show and tell, and by the next month, everyone else had one.  In second grade, my name for a four square move where you bounce the ball off your buttocks (the “bouncy poo”) entered the schoolyard lexicon.  In third through sixth grade, my peers studied every word I spoke and action I took that that they might ostracize me more effectively.

While my cultural prescience and innate understanding of The Hip has always been self-evident, leave it to one group to recognize the extent of my sway: Cirque du Soleil.

Physics Prom

Recently, I dated a theoretical physicist, an experience I would recommend to anyone, particularly those who watch The Big Bang Theory.  It was educational not only in an academic sense—my knowledge of math and science doubled—but also in an anthropological one.  For, during a period of two months, I got to run alongside physicists, to study them in their native habitat, and, a privilege afforded few others, to attend Physicist Prom.

Like gazelles or other species who suffer depredation, theoretical physicists travel in packs and establish communities where the resources they need (whiteboards, Trader Joes) are close at hand, and the annoyances they’d eschew (civilization) are far away.  The Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey provides just such an environment.

Denmark, Part 2: A Capital Pursuit

The Danes have every reason to distrust foreigners.  Over the years, Denmark has been invaded by Vikings, Swedes, Nazis, more Swedes, and H&M, losing over one-third of its land in the process.  (Throughout all these invasions, it managed to hold onto Greenland, which speaks less to Denmark’s naval strength than Greenland’s desirability.)  Although Mariana, Bob, and I visited the Danes for purposes of peace and pastry, we did not escape their distrust or the behavior we would come to know as dis-Dane.

If you do something in New York that the natives consider impolitic (e.g. walk slowly, take too long to order, compliment Times Square), you find out immediately because someone punches you.  In Denmark, though, there is no violence, just quizzical stares with a subtext of abject horror—that is to say, dis-Dane.  Nobody tells you what is or isn’t good etiquette, so every social interaction is tantamount to playing Minesweeper with Danish customs.  Asking for directions in Ringkøbing?  Boom, you hit a mine.  Drinking hot chocolate in Ribe?  Boom, another mine.  Trying to borrow a plastic knife from a deli in Jelling (BOOM) or olive oil from a bed-and-breakfast-but-apparently-no-olive-oil in Århus (BOOM, BOOM, BOOM)?  You might as well have just invaded Greenland.

While dis-Dane, like the Danish military, is passive, the Danes have found some more aggressive ways of keeping encroachers at bay.  Exhibit A: the prices.  There’s a sales tax of 40% built into everything, which leads to $5 cups of coffee and other fiscal atrocities.  How many armies have been dissuaded from invading Denmark just because they couldn’t afford the $32 toll to cross the Stovebælt Bridge?  Exhibit B: the strict environmental regulations.  Denmark’s enemies had better power their tanks by windmill, or their presence will simply not be tolerated.  As the country's green-friendly bathrooms dispense toilet paper by the single sheet and paper towels by the half-inch, invaders must also be dainty in their hygiene.

But that's today.  Centuries ago, Danish defenses were reactionary and focused around one strategy: whenever anyone attacked, the Danes moved their capital.  Accordingly, every hundred years or so the capital appeared in a different, impossible-to-predict location, not unlike Brigadoon.

One of the early capitals was Helsingør (or “Elsinore,” as countries with real armies call it), which is right across the Øresund strait from Sweden.  As Sweden invaded Denmark on a weekly basis, the Danish king realized this was not an ideal location and fled to greener, less accessible pastures.  Helsingør’s Kronborg Castle meanwhile gained fame as the setting of Hamlet and became a mecca for Shakespeare aficionados and those who would sell them merchandise.  Nowadays, the Kronborg gift shoppe offers Beanie Baby bards, inflatable pink castles (for your wee Ophelia), and half-assed souvenir shirts (blank with an ironed-on “To Be Or Not To Be”).  Outside the shoppe, the courtyard hosts productions of Hamlet in every style ranging from good to opera.

Less sacrilegious was a tour of the Kronborg dungeons led by Emma, our guide who hated children and was therefore amazing.  Taking us into the bowels of the castle, she pointed out Ogier the Dane, a statue which, according to legend, will come alive in Denmark’s hour of need.  For the record Viking, Nazi, and Swedish invasions didn't count as hours of need.

After the Danish king fled Helsingør, the capital moved to Ribe (pronounced “Ree-ba,” as in Ms. McEntire or the catchphrase of Speedy Gonzales).  Founded in 869 AD, Ribe is Denmark’s oldest city and remains ferociously committed to being quaint.  The streets are cobblestone, the buildings wooden-framed, the citizens suited in the styles of yestermillennium.  The inn we stayed in, Weis Stue, was built in 1600 and hasn’t been updated since, making it my second most decrepit residence after Jonathan Edwards College.

The police, too, are quaint.  With uniforms and artillery dating back to the 14th century, they’re more for the benefit of tourists than murder victims.  These “night watchmen,” as they’re called, guarded the city from ne’er-do-wells a hundred years ago; today, they lead tours.  Our guide/watchman carried an old-school weapon that looked like an avocado with knives sticking out of it.  This device, he said, is called a “morning star” because it reminds people of Jesus.  (In the 14th century, Jesus was often conflated with heavily armed guacamole.)

As the watchman led us through the streets of Ribe, he sang the traditional tolling-of-the-hour songs outside people’s houses, and these people would come down and bribe him to sing elsewhere.  With the hour tolled and people extorted, he began pointing out the dangers that lie beneath Ribe’s façade of quaintness.  For example, the Great Floods of 1638, 1825, 1904, 1909, and 1911 wreaked havoc on the Riberians and their more absorbent possessions.  With all these floods, you’d think God was telling the townsfolk to go to church more frequently.  God, however, sends mixed signals.  During Christmas service in 1283, the Ribe Cathedral collapsed crushing the parishioners and ensuring that its living nativity wasn’t much of either.  Fortunately, the cathedral has since been rebuilt, and Ribe’s leading cause of death is now morning star rather than shoddy construction.

While Helsingør is adjacent to Sweden, Ribe is directly on the German border, and if you know your German history or, in my case, your German stereotypes, you’ll understand why after frequent invasions by our favorite Teutons, the Danes decided to move their capital to Copenhagen.  (In all fairness, Germany did much less damage to Denmark than did Sweden.  I’m assuming that, amongst his many propaganda campaigns, Goebbels toyed with “Nazis: At Least We’re Not Swedish.”)

Perhaps because their city has not been recently attacked, the denizens of Copenhagen greeted Mari, Bob, and me with levels of friendliness I had hitherto associated with Mormons.  Not only had all dis-Dane vanished, people went out of their way to help us.  At the city’s graveyard—where we went to visit Søren Kierkegaard (that Bob might pay his tributes) and Hans Christian Andersen (that I might sing “Poor Unfortunate Souls”)—a friendly receptionist opened a special parking spot just for us.  An equally friendly groundskeeper took time to expound upon the importance of relaxation (“You’re walking too quickly to enjoy the graves”) and to allay our perceived concerns about his country (“We’re not communist”).  At Tivoli Gardens, where we went for our final Danish hurrah (hørråh?), the ticket taker waved us in without charging admission.  Maybe in a country where everyone is six feet tall and blond, he mistook us for the entertainment?
 

Speaking of which, Tivoli Gardens was Walt Disney’s inspiration for Disneyland.  Both theme parks combine rides, whimsy, and borderline racism to create a sense of magic.  At Tivoli, this magic is buoyed by the prevalence of alcohol and cutouts of topless women.  After trying some rides that were on par with Ireland’s X2 Flight Simulator and avoiding those that had paramedics waiting at the end, we decided to watch a show.  In addition to resident productions of Mamma Mia! and Cabaret (“Nazis: At Least We’re Not ABBA”), Tivoli has bandstands throughout the park and a Peacock Theatre which specializes in commedia dell’arte.

Commedia dell’arte, a dramatic holdover from 16th-century Italy, is ideal for theatregoers who, like me, prefer their characters clearly defined (men want money; women want a husband), their conflicts heightened (a cross-dressing man strikes a child with a fish), and their denouements elegant (God comes down and fixes everything).  I imagine this genre appeals to the Danes since God so rarely fixes things for them; rather, he smites them by way of Swedes.

And with a history of cities smitten and capitals relocated, who could begrudge Denmark the occasional display of dis-Dane?  Or who could be unmoved when the Danes finally opened their hearts and graveyard parking spots to us?  Certainly, not I.  As I flew back home to New York and the American economy (now an oxymoron), my soul brimmed with melancholy instead of the usual xenophobia.

Denmark, if you ever need another place for your capital, I totally volunteer my apartment.

 We're overcome by anticipation.

26.2 (miles) at 27.8 (years) in 3:07 (doom)

This Sunday, I and 44,829 others with similarly terrible judgment ran the ING New York City Marathon.  In my case, I use the term “run” generously, for though my first 18 miles went at a decent clip, my body then succumbed to paraplegia.  The sheer bloodlust of competition would move me once more, however, as I spent the final miles in a duel to the finish with a transvestite Minnie Mouse.  But I give away the end of the story without properly addressing the origins:

Denmark, Part 1: To Jumbosnegl or Not To Jumbosnegl

I’d always wanted to see Denmark—the cuckoo clocks, the wooden shoes, the old-school windmills.  Unfortunately, I’d always been confusing Denmark with Holland.  Denmark has neither clocks nor clogs, and its windmills are turn of the millennium.  But Denmark does have, in increasing order of magnitude, Danes, Danishes, and Hans Christian Andersen museums.

My Trip (at) Home

The weekend of May 22, I experienced two highs: first, seeing a former school chum kick Elphabass in the San Francisco production of Wicked; second, inadvertently eating a pot cookie from my mother’s fridge. I will now discuss the latter.

Traditionally, in anticipation of my visits, my mother stocks her refrigerator with health food. This is one of her many ways of spiting me. My sole refuge from organic yogurt and bales of kale has always dwelt at the bottom of her freezer where she maintains a supply of Trader Joe’s Cookie Dough. This time, however, the dough wasn’t there, but cookies were. So I assumed that she had finally baked the dough into cookies rather than, say, cleared it out to make room for her boyfriend’s supply of pot-based pastries. My mistake.

Ireland, Conclusion: The Belfast and the Belfurious

When Irish eyes are smiling, Irish mouths are speaking and, more often than not, incomprehensible. Yes, consonants in Irish English function mostly the same as in American/real English. (One notable exception: "th" is pronounced as a hard "t." Accordingly, if you need a drink at half past ten, you're considered tirsty at ten-tirty.) Irish vowels, however, are inconsistent, nondeterministic, and designed to drive Henry Higgins mad. They vary among regions and speakers. Additionally, one speaker may pronounce the same vowel in completely different ways depending on whether he's talking to a customer, his buddy from the Publick House, or four hapless tourists, three of whom did not cause their car to lose a hubcap.