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There have been so many things I’ve wanted to write about recently and not nearly enough time to do it! My recent trip to Israel: rafting down the Jordan River, driving up north and ending up a stones throw away from Damascus, seeing the Wall in the Jerusalem, visiting the holy city of Zefat. These were all incredible experiences, but what I really must inform you about is an experience I had right here in Copenhagen.

First, I must remember that none of you are here with me, and thus a brief history lesson is in order. Within the city limits of Copenhagen lies a neighborhood called “Christiania” in the borough of Christianshavn. Originally a military area in the 1970s, it has since become a partially self-governed, hippie enclave famous for its open cannabis trade, coffee shops and live music. There has always been a struggle between residents of Christiania and the Danish government, but this conflict has escalated the past few years, with Christiania’s independent status being threatened.

Stepping into Christiania is like an out of body experience: you walk through the entrance gates and are met with stray dogs, intricate murals (no doubt the product of halucinogenic substances), and kiosks of drug pushers (on the appropriately named “Pusher Street.”) Reggae music pumps constantly and locals gather around fires in a rusty trash bins. This may sound extremely sketchy, but I swear it is a thing of wonder. There is nothing like it. It is Neverland.

Back to my story. So yesterday two of my classmates and I went on a mission to Christiania to complete a short media piece on the recent troubles in the area (including a young dog being mercilessly shot by a police offier.) As the token journalist in the group I was sent into a cafe called The Opera House to see what dirt I could dig up. As I was about to step through the arched entrance, I was asked by a middle-aged Danish woman with bleached blonde hair, ice blue eye shadow, jeans a few sizes too small and a paterned halter top if I would like to buy marijuana. I kindly declined, and ascended the stairs of the cafe. Having no luck, I came back down and decided to start chatting up the drug dealer, whose name happened to be Tina. Tina was as lovely as can be, though admitedly a bit cracked out. She said she didn’t have much to say about the dog incident but maybe her friend did, a woman named Inge with big curly hair who lived in a yellow house on a farm across the lake, and had witnessed the dog being shot. This was too good: I had to investigate.

My classmates and I took the tip, crossed over the pictareqsue river and set out on our search for Inge. Having little luck, we thought perhaps Tina had been yanking our chain. That was until we stumbled upon Stace: a British expat who has lived in Christiania for over 30 years. He had a thick, scraggly red and grey beard, and what was left of his hair was tied into a neat bun on top of his head. He was wearing a North Face fleece.

Stace led us to Inge’s house, which doubles as a kiosk for ice cream and cigarettes. She was not home. However, we continued about half a mile down the road to Stace’s residence which was, as expected, made entirely of recycled wood and had no furniture. There were animal skins on the floor and a small indoor garden for meditation. He switched on a CD of soothing music from the Far East and we chatted with him about his travels to Berkeley and Peru and his dismay about the future of his home. Before we knew it, the sun was setting on his lakeside abode and it was time for us to make the trek down the dirt path back to the real world.

Ultimately, Stace was not much help to our project for he would not allow us to videotape him. But I wouldn’t trade our time spent with him for anything.

As the saying goes, ”When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” As I am not in Rome, it would make little to no sense emulating them. However, I have made a clandestine, yet concerted, effort to appear more,”Danish.”

If the Danes know one thing, it’s fashion. Sure, Parisians or the Milanese are better known for their impeccable taste. But the difference is that the Danes are literally born with an innate ability to look well put together. I ride the bus to and from the city center multiple times each day, and constantly spot nine-year-olds (not an exaggeration) that make me feel un-cool. They sport skinny jeans in all the shades of ROY G BIV, metallic Chuck Taylor’s, fitted hoodies and checkered Afghan scarves, tied in the style of a western bandit.

While many of my classmates here still insist on traipsing about the city in sweatpants, running shoes and oversized sweatshirts, I have chosen to avoid such attire, and instead opt for clothing that doesn’t scream ”Greetings! I am American! Please make fun of me in a hushed Danish tone!”

This may come off as slightly shallow/judgmental/superficial. And that’s because it is, if I’m being blunt (another common Danish trait.) But by dressing like a Dane I am able to perpetuate the illusion that I am Danish. That is, of course, until I am forced to speak and the person addressing me realizes that all I can say in Danish is, ”Hello, I am from the USA, I cannot speak Danish, two cups of cappucino, where is the discotek? Salmon.”

I recently invested in a light weight coat from a department store called Illum. It’s a pretty standard black trench that cinches at the waist and has a number of unnecessary decorative buttons and ties. But I must say, when I hit the streets in my new purchase, paired with a patterned scarf, cigarette jeans and neon Nikes, I feel infinitely more hip. Meanwhile, my pea coat hangs sadly in the closet and weeps, knowing she just doesn’t make the cut here.

At first I looked on at the Danes in envy. But even after my carefully crafted efforts, I am resigned to the fact that I will never look as chic as a Danish fourth grader. Sad, but true.

Last Saturday I had an experience that directly embodied the major pillars of the study abroad mantra: Gain cultural experience and meet people native to your new country.

My mom was in town and we were invited by my Danish friends Per and Marianne to attend a traditional Easter lunch with their family. We drove roughly 90 minutes outside the city, into the winding Danish countryside, to the vacation cottage of Marianne’s parents. Being Jewish and new to Denmark, I had no idea what to expect, and my mom even less so, as a mere visitor with no knowledge of the Danish way.

The cottage immediately stood out, with a Danish flag out front at full mast, and blustery conditions causing it to flap aggressively. Two smaller flags also waved hello at the foot of the driveway: We were definitely not in Kansas anymore.

As we entered the cozy living space, Marianne’s parents greeted us with wide smiles, warm hugs and not a lick of English. Her father tried his best, often lapsing into German, which Marianne assured him we did not understand. Regardless, we felt extremely welcome.

After some initial introductions to various family members and their friends, the grand spread was revealed: hard boiled eggs, curried herring, smoked salmon, meats, breads. Little did we know this was only the first course, and proceeded to stuff ourselves to the gills.

Multiple types of alcohol were always at the ready, wine, beer and schnapps flowing steadily throughout the day long celebration (on Easter Saturday, strangely enough.)

At the table, a mix of English and Danish floated back and forth, with conversation oscillating between American politics, the difference between Scandinavian and Italian bread and a general interest in the two American mystery guests.

Dessert was probably the most shocking element of the day. Not chocolate eggs, not marshmallow peeps, no, not cookies, but a tray of very potent cheese. This struck me as quite un-Danish, as the plethora of bakeries throughout the city shows their fondness for sweets. Not one to mess with tradition, I politely chewed my cheese with a smile.

We left the cottage, woozy from a full day of food and conversation. This was definitely one of those experience filed under the special label of “Once in a Lifetime.”

I have been a resident of Copenhagen for nearly two months now, a fact that still startles me. What’s even more startling is that I have yet to share with you my favorite Danish pastime: Hygge (pronounced Hoo-Geh.) It is a Danish word and concept, roughly meaning a time when family and/or friends come together and just, well, chill. Often times, mood lighting is involved.

The guidelines of hygge are loose, and leave much room for personal interpretation. However, to have proper hygge it is advised to incorporate delicious food, meaningful conversation, and a drippy wax candle to create a comfortable and “cozy” environment.

After returning from a week-long trip to Paris and London, it became apparent that Hygge is a Dane-specific concept. In the sprawling cities of France and England, many of the cafés were presented on a much grander scale, with rows of tables and an army of staff. A typical Danish café is relatively small, with employees that come from the Laissez-faire school of service. Their hands-off approach should not be mistaken for inattentiveness, but rather, simply saying “take your time, what’s the rush?”

I think the idea of hygge is so appealing to my friends and me because this “chill out” time is not only practiced by almost every Dane, but it is encouraged. Imagine that: being told that it’s OK to stop your absurdly busy schedule, take a load off and enjoy good food and good company. Personally, I think it is a ritual the US should consider adopting. And who knows, maybe it could even be used as a tool of diplomacy.

Greetings from Copenhagen, Denmark! My name is Marisa Kabas. I’m a junior at GW and a staff writer for the Hatchet’s Life section. Let me take a moment to explain exactly where I am since, believe it or not on one or more occasion when I revealed that I was studying in Copenhagen I was met with a blank stare and, “Wow!…wait, where’s that?”

To be fair, before coming here all I really knew about my soon-to-be new home was that it was the capital of the Scandinavian country of Denmark and that it was located in the Northernish portion of Europe. Since my arrival, I have learned that it is a nation composed of over 400 islands! I’m not sure if an exclamation point was warranted, but I think that’s a pretty cool fact.

My friend who recently visited from London put it best when she said, “Copenhagen is an extremely underrated city.” By this I think she meant that it is not a top European destination, overshadowed by London, Paris, Madrid, Rome, etc. But as a new resident of this bustling and yet quaint city, I must say I agree in that it has been largely overlooked.

It is so pretty. Copenhagen is a pretty city. Buildings are not allowed to exceed six floors (much like the building restrictions in DC) and the Danes are not afraid to incorporate color into their architecture. Narrow structures with a simple aesthetic and charcoal slanted roofs line the canals, and streets are set aside especially for pedestrians to shop, dine and soak in the charm of the city.