You’ll hear no more “nature-schmature” from me

In all my 28 years, I never thought organically. Not in the kitchen, not in the bathroom. I never saw the point of paying more for organic food unless there was nothing else around, and thought Clinique and Estee Lauder were great because of their free gifts. My life was so simple.

But then I got pregnant. And the moment that happened, I went into mad hormonal research mode. I found Skin Deep, a site that shows the risks of various ingredients – and then, much to my amazement, discovered that my bathroom was filled with garbage!

My cosmetologist had been going on and on about awful parabens for months – but it never crossed my mind to look into it as I honestly just figured it was part of the usual cosmetologist “buy my line” marketing ploy. But alas, it appears that parabens have estrogenic effects (my interpretation: what you put on your face messes with your hormones, freaky) that could have something to do with cancer. I put that info together with the constant newsfeed about increasing cancer rates, and figured I might as well go natural.

And “natural” is key here. Not “organic.” Because as far as I can tell, organic products can still have loads of crap in them (as is 92% organic ingredients, 8% hell). Anyway, whatever the label, the trick is to learn about the biggest culprits and make sure they’re not on the label.

Come to think of it, one of my reasons for avoiding the natural cosmetics isle at Whole Foods is I was wholeheartedly convinced that stuff didn’t work. But then I bought some Zoya nailpolish on Amazon (awesome stuff, stays on and comes in a dizzying range of colors). And after over two years of inexplicable face horrors exacerbated by the pregnancy hormones, I found a German line called Lavera Faces that has been doing no less than wonders for my destroyed skin in just a matter of days. “It’s not the product,” my cosmetologist friend asserted, “it’s just your hormones changing.” So I went back to Clinique for 3 days – and with it right back to what my Dad affectionately called my “Pepperoni Pizza Face” back in the chicken pox days.

So I’m convinced. No parabens. No salicylic acid. And a whole bunch of stuff that they say you shouldn’t use when pregnant that I’m quite sure you shouldn’t use when you’re not pregnant.

Note of warning: the ladies at Macy’s and Nordstrom’s cosmetics counters won’t tell you a darn thing about ingredients. Before I knew what was good for me, I let one of their smiling faces convince me to get this wildly expensive brown Estee Lauder glass bottle with a pipette that’s supposed to restore your skin to baby butt quality (“and is used by burn victims!”) I  came home and discoverd that just about every ingredient was in the danger zone. With the $70 or so I got back, I could buy about 3 months’ worth of my Lavera calendula stuff.

Just don’t ask me for before/after photos just yet. While my skin might be improving, my expanding “baby fat” face is not the stuff of web posts.

Forget everything I said: Sluseholmen cancels out all Danish efficiency

Danish efficiency is bollocks. I’m over it. Admiration has been replaced by frustration and wonder.

For almost a year, we’ve been living in the brand spankin’ new Sluseholmen neighborhood in Copenhagen SV.

It’s perfect in theory:

• Beautiful new building blocks surrounded by man-made canals, a la Amsterdam
• Stunning views over the water
• A street for shops (notice I say for, not with)
• Instant access to water in the summer – and heaven if you are a boat or kayak person
• 10 minute drive into central Copenhagen, and way closer to things that the Fields neighborhood

But in practice, it’s making me crazy:

• The digging is neverending. The lot of land in front of us appears to be used as a dirt transferring area. They bring dirt by the truckload, shift it around, and then take it away. This has been going on for months.
• The roads are wide enough for 2 cars to pass by each other, but that would be too easy. They’ve put up poles that barely fit one car, so there’s always a traffic jam. In a drunk and mad rage, someone knocked a few of them down, and they are sadly rolling around the street. Hilarious.
• The bridges are just a bit too narrow for 2 cars to pass. Again: traffic jams.
• IRMA finally arrived. Woo hoo. That and a tanning salon (which I’m told is a front for a drug dealing operation) is all we’ve got. A cafe seems nowhere in sight.
• There is nowhere to go except in circles. There was a little bit of land allowing us to easily cross our canal to get to the bridge over to Amager Faelled. The other day, they dug up that patch to let the water flow. Now we have to walk for about 10 minutes to make a trip that used to take 30 seconds. Ridiculous.
• All doors in our block weigh a ton (read: smack you in the arse on the way out) and require two hands to open: one for the handle and one for the lock, which is so close to the wall that you take off abit of skin every time you turn it. Awesome when it’s raining (it’s always raining) and you have to put all your nice leather bags on the ground and then try to lift your bags and make it through the door before is smacks you in the face.
• I still find men on my balcony. Yes, they come unannounced and hover outside the third-floor window. One minute you’re gazing out the window, and the next you are gazing into the eyes of a mud-covered stranger with a missing tooth or two. And they do absolutely nothing! Poke a few things, and then descend again. Always when you are half dressed and looking like crap.
• Every building has elevators that go down to the garage. Every building except ours, that is. So while our neighbors stay toasty, we have to take 2 elevators with a wet, rainy yard in between.

And those are my main complaints. The workers have stopped coming in (without knocking) to fix things while I’m in the shower. So that’s positive. Still, though, you’ve gotta be one happy person to enjoy all this.

People keep telling me it’ll be great in 10 years.

Yeah.

Totally flattered by a drunk (or: woman’s need for occasional male appreciation)

It’s funny what gets you back into blogging after a pathetically wrong lapse.

Today, as I descended to the S-train platform at Nørreport, I noticed a homeless guy in an amusingly bizarre position. Smack in the middle of all the action and inches from the edge of the platform, he’d laid himself down, crossed his feet at the ankles, and gone to sleep. Out of his pocket stuck a bag of opened candy, and pieces had dropped out, creating a colorful display around his drab body. I shifted my newly-bought tulips into my other hand and started my new book. Minutes later, he was up, encouraged by a good samaritan to get himself out of the way.

First, he picked the candy off the floor and ate it. And then he decided that he’d be the first man in Copenhagen to pay me a compliment. He stumbled over to me and slurred (in Danish) “Hi, beautiful. Have a great day, beautiful.”

And then he was off. And I felt surprisingly pleased.

My Russian friends’ first reaction to Copenhagen was that it made them feel ugly. Not because the women are gorgeous, but because the men never look at them. Forget compliments! What is so much a part of Southern European and Eastern European cultures seems seriously taboo here.

Except for the drunk and homeless. Today, in my eyes, they rose above the other men with the ability to make a woman feel like she stands out and has what it takes to turn a head. Even if it’s a drunk head that was just resting on platform pavement, it’s better than nothing.

How the world sees Denmark

Another entertaining tidbit on Denmark from my favorite e-newsletter on fashion, culture, and other sweet necessities: DailyCandy. Check out Denmark’s the Spot.

Copenhappy

Time for a poll

True or false: “Denmark is a place where stoic locals wear sensible shoes and snack on herring sandwiches.”

Forget the 7-inch heels that push the pedals. Forget the sushi craze and the anything-but-stoic debauchery on Kongens Nytorv on Saturday night. Apparently, the statement is TRUE – and one of the reasons behind Denmark being the HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH.

But seriously: Denmark’s been up there for a while. I even wrote a paper about it for my Social Phych class two years ago. My conclusion was that it was about activity – and not just any activity: activity towards a desired goal.

That may still be the case, but according to the article, Danes also feel really protected (the taxes stink, but they’re there to strengthen that social safety net). And maybe protection is the key. After living here for over a year, I’d say it’s a part of this country’s charm. At work, at least, I feel like the system is looking out for my best interests. Loads of vacation, normal hours, respect for my personal life. All things I sorely missed back in the US. Customer service was way better, but maybe the Danes just haven’t prioritized it because they realize it doesn’t make people happier to have clerks smile at them incessantly and do whatever it takes to make them buy more stuff.

Looking out for our best interests also includes priorizing efficiency. (I’ve been tracking some of its manifestations – check out the category on the left). And it includes letting people feel in control of their lives, by trusting them to use their own judgement to, say, not step off a cliff or lean out the window of a skyscraper. In the US, there’s be signs and locks. Here, there’s just the philosophy that you should be smart enough to make the right decision. I’m sure that makes people feel happier, too.

But you can make up your own mind. Check out the story and the videos here.

p.s. The US is #23 on the list.

I’ve never seen modern dance like this…

It’s been ages since my last blog. Pathetic, really. But in my defense: we’ve started a very fun blog at work and I’m feeling my virtual time being spread a bit thin. Still, my friend’s visit from London has given me a swift kick in the rear about the personal-blog-apathy situation. She’s a successful freelance journalists and has convinced me that a writer must have a personal blog. I may be just a copywriter, which is a few steps removed, but sod it, I’ll work harder to keep up the dissemination of my opinions!!

There are so many times when I wish I had a trustworthy pal in DK I could call to learn about the best cultural event in town. I don’t know if I’d be a reliable pal of the sort to others (my sporadic efforts leave a bit to be desired), but I feel it’s my duty to report good cultural stimulation when I see it.

So if you trust my opinion at all and you’re in Copenhagen, go see Silk & Knife at Det Kongelige Teater. It was really stunning modern ballet. It started in a slightly disorganized way (15 minutes before the announced showtime, we were ushered, slowly, into the basement!) But there in the basement began a walk-through human installation. And 30 minutes later the stage performance began. Let me ask you this: when was the last time you laughed at ballet (and not because it made you nervous)? It was witty and surprising and continually engaging. It made you question the rules of traditional ballet – I wished dancers were always allowed to push their bodies and the way they interact to the limit.

 There were a few very different pieces, always with beautiful music (a new-agey-feeling classical mix). We left the place exhilerated…and thinking that there’s a good reason for Copenhagen being one of the creative capitals of Europe and the #2 most livable city in the world.

And it didn’t hurt that because we’re under 30, we paid 65% less for perfect seats in the 5th row.

Danes and the F-word

On my family’s second night in Copenhagen, we went to the (great) Laundromat Cafe in Østerbro. And on the way there, we walked by a very trendy-alternative looking hair salon. This was the tagline they chose to slap up on their storefront:

“F**king great hairdressers.”

The other day, in a very serious business meeting about a company’s very serious corportate presentation, one of the company’s very serious employees stuck up his middle finger to emphasise that his customers really didn’t care about his product.

My conclusion about the F-word’s travels abroad? Non-Americans do not have a CLUE about its symbolic meaning – yet insist on using it at every opportunity. Why is it so attractive? Is it the way it rolls off the tongue? Or doest it just have that USA cool factor?

I don’t know. I remeber the first time I ran into the F-word. Back in Moscow, at the age og 9, I cut my middle finger and showed it to my new American stepdad so he could give me a bandaid. My mom later had to explain why he’d acted so weird about that cut.

I thought, “Amazing that such a silly hand gesture can be so powerful!” And then I gave everyone I disagreed with the finger for a few months, until I came to the US and realized that I didn’t want to spend my life having balls thrown at my head.

Chagall, Nice, and nasty security guards

If you choose to work in a museum, you really should take pleasure in watching a family of 5 -  two parents with a 26 year old daughter and 7 and 9 year old sons – thoroughly enjoying the art that’s responsible for your livelihood.

But not if you work in France. Here, “35 Heures” (35 hours) is responsible for everything. God forbid you work overtime, you might give someone the impression you care.

I have never been so close to slapping a man in my life. No boyfriend has ever infuriated me as much as this completely full-of-himself French security guard. (Then again, the closest I came to a French boyfriend was a 2-day affair with a Corsican football player, mostly via SMS). Our conversation went something like this (in French, with voices and my use of offensive words escalating by the second).

Me: Do you think it’s logical to let people pay to see this exhibit, then tell them they have 25 minutes since you close at ten to five, and start kicking them out after 15 minutes? Especially when the poster you’ve hung all over Nice says you’re open til 6? What do YOU think?? (At least until now, I’ve been smiling at him ironically, hoping that my good-natured rebellion will let us see a few more Chagalls.)

Him: But Madame, it is not a question of logic or opinion! That is just how it works! There is a hierarchy here, and you do not question it!

 Me: That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard! Where I live, there is no hierarchy (at this point, Denmark is the most wonderful place on earth). And anyway, don’t you have your own opinion? (My favorite question for law-loving fools.)

Him: Madame, rules are rules! It is a question of security! (Has he ever stepped outside of his museum into his rule-guided, security-loving city? Perhaps, then, he could explain the laws that govern its motorway lunatics who aim at pedestrians?).

Me: Do we look dangerous to you?? There’s no one else here! Do you think I’m going to attack a Chagall painting?

…and it goes on, until my Mom covers an entire page of the Comments book in furious scribbles, ending in the words “destroyed my visit” (in reference to the elderly security guard who insisted on following her, as much with his physical presence as with his museum-filling odor that makes one wonder how this country could have possibly invented Eau de Toilette).

So much for our day-long anticipation of the Chagall Museum.

The worst part is that this was a totally one-off experience. Our week here has been fantastic. Everyone has been friendly beyond belief. This morning at breakfast, I had a little monologue over my croissant about how ridiculous the French stereotype is. Yes, maybe it’s because we speak their language, but they seem so damn charming and helpful!

And then it took so little to realize how fitting the 80/20 rule is here, as it is everywhere. 80% of your impressions are based on 20% of your (bad) experiences. Or something like that. Mais oui.  

Amy Winehouse in Copenhagen

Before seeing Amy Winehouse at Zulu Rocks in Copenhagen, I only knew that she sings “Rehab” – and that she has a stunning voice. When the curtain went up, I expected to see something quite different. I couldn’t imagine that the bearer of that voice could be so frighteningly wasting away. Physically, she was hardly there. She kept pulling up her pants because they couldn’t stay up on her tiny waist. Vocally, there but unable to follow the music. She went through about 4 large Cokes, broght on stage by a nervous staff member. When she bent down to take the drink or tie her shoelaces (the latter, at least twice), she could barely get up to the mic in time for her entrance.

The last time I saw someone move that way was when a family friend’s relative stopped by our house, completely high, a few months before she fell off a cliff. But there was something so much more terrifying about watching Winehouse in that state on stage, rubbing her noise and rocking jerkily to the music. She couldn’t focus on the audience. Her very charismatic backup singer was dancing overtime to keep the energy level up on stage. Once, he asked the drummer to wait on starting the song and asked Winehouse if she was alright. And during the last song, she casually turned and walked off before it finished. There might have been more in the repertoire but she seemed barly able to stand.

There were so many little girls in the audience and it was pretty terrifying to imagine what could be going through their minds. The audience was fairly quiet – scared and confused, I imagine – and that was probably the worst reaction for Winehouse to see. She seemed to be longing for a booming response, and she just couldn’t generate it. For some reason, someone in the front was waving a pirate flag (or whatever you call the black one with the skeleton).

For my part, I’ve never been so deeply and personally affected by a performer. Stupidly, a part of me wanted to get back stage and talk to her. She looked so completely lost on stage, and when she sang “I don’t ever wanna drink again, I just need a friend” it occurred to me that at that height of celebrity, it’s possible to feel that you don’t have any at all. A few nights ago I dreamt about having a new anorexic friend whom I was trying to get to eat French yogurt. In the dream, it worked, and I woke up wishing I could somehow do the same for this girl I’ve never met.

After the show, I’ve spent quite a few hours listening to her music on YouTube and watching her videos (particularly the very witty “F**k me pumps“). And I’m amazed by her talent. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it in any other singers in my generation. She’s funny and charming and strangely beautiful, and the last thing you want is for that talent to disappear because of god knows what she’s gotten herself into.

I’ve just learned about her marriage and matching arm scars…what a damn mess. We all know that there’s nothing you can do if someone doesn’t want to go to rehab…but letting her on stage in that state…it seems to be a complete exploitation of her talent, and a complete disregard for what she really needs.

Last year in my celebrity culture courses, we discussed that celebrities are often proxies for our behavior, doing the things that we dare not try ourselves and living out extremes so that the rest of us may see the results and decide whether we want to make the same choices ourselves.

Amy, please stop proxying and start enjoying your life.

Great food – just don’t expect change

We found this great little cafe, ironically, when we popped in to ask for some change for the parking meter. No way, the waitress said. So we rebelled against her impoliteness and walked around looking for another decent cafe on Christianshavn for 45 minutes (we’d just been to Cafe Luna so that was out, and the French place across the street was full and had a drunk, vociferous, cigar-smoking old man playing fake drums).

So we came back to Sofiekælderen, and asked for food instead of change. I’m really glad we did. I had a great, totally rare (as asked) tuna steak, and it was prepared in this very gourmet way…but without the gourmet price. Really nice atmosphere, modern and cozy setup, quick service, artsy crowd (the guys next to us were excitedly fooling around on a sleek new Mac).

I also found out they have live music. Check them out (menu and music menu online) at www.sofiekaelderen.dk.