You know when you’re at McDonald’s post-clubbing?
Yes, yes you do.
Everyone pretty much looks like hell. Girls are walking barefooted with feet dragging across the filthy filthy linoleum floor, dudes are squinty-eyed and discussing the night’s triumphs and mishaps, and it is arguably one of the grossest places to be picked up at at the end of the night.
There’s always a few people who are still club-drunk and are laughing loudly, sputtering out their menu order with the coherency of a toddler, and are generally making a fool out of themselves.
That’s Winda and I, the morning after we’ve broken Fabrizio’s ancient key, missed our morning train to Florence, and are subsequently left wondering our purpose in life in an Italian McDonald’s. We buy 1 euro espresso shots.
We are so. Freaking. hHngover.
It is 9:00 AM in Rome — we had to leave Fabrizio’s apartment due to his checkout policy/we needed to get out of there ASAP before we broke anything else of his.
We are laughing-slash-crying because our heads hurt so much from last night’s escapades. We look like crap. We have our giant backpacks with us — of which is comedic in itself because our backpacks look like they could eat us.
Just to backtrack a bit, this was not our only drunk night in Rome. We also had the opportunity to party with some ridiculous Italians.
Lemme tell you the story.
We’ve set up at Campo de’ Fiori. We have our mojitos, our grape-flavoured hookah. We are basking. A group of Italian dudes at the next table motion towards us to join their table. We submit to their boyish timidness (derived from speaking in broken English) and yet, their Casanova calibre assertiveness. They literally move all of our stuff — our drinks, hookah, table, and chairs — to join their table.
Naturally, they begin introducing themselves. Here we have a lawyer, e-commerce specialist, accountant, and..
“Taxi driver!” They exclaim in unison, pointing out their most outgoing friend whom had initially approached us. He smiles sheepishly. They pause for a second, taking in his self-consciousness. “… And stylist!” They add with enthusiasm/thick Italian accents, pronouncing it stye-leest!
We chat. They are hilarious. One of them, named Francesco, has an amazing handlebar moustache — reminiscent of our friend Alessandro — and continuously strokes it. They talk about their jobs and the friends emphasize just how stylish the Taxi Driver-sash-Stylist is. They really want us to know that he is more than just a taxi driver.
The Stylist invites us to a club.
We get into a cab and head to a Roman club. In hindsight, was it a good idea to get into a cab with strange Italians? I’m gonna say no…
Bumpin’ is not the word I’d use for the club we’re at — maybe simply interesting. The Stylist turns out to be an amazing dancer. Really amazing. Winda steals his stylish hat. We booty bump with Francesco. The Stylist does the Harlem Shake a few times. The ratio between men and women at this club is way off.
I can’t really remember all the details of getting home, but we do. A cab takes us back to our AirBnb in trastevere and I remember him asking for a kiss instead of paying him in euros.
Hard pass, my friend.
Ciao, Roma! You were so good to us.
Sidenote: I come back again for another adventure later on in my Eurotrip — this second time we meet two Italian boys who ask us if we’d like to break into the Coliseum! God bless the Italians.
So, I left Denmark (extremely hungover, eyes swollen from crying, and boarding a 9-hour bus ride to Berlin) and my best friend from home met up with me in Europe..
Which only means more adventure-timing to write about. We visit London, Barcelona, Rome, and Berlin–we only get into a moderate amount of trouble.
“You do NOT want to get political with me!” I’m screaming. Top of my lungs. Full force. I’m screaming, and I’m probably spitting all over my friend who is trying to calm me down.
My head weaves to the right of her face, so I can get a good look at my oppressor. She’s too quick for me and continues to mirror my bobbing and weaving so that I can’t make eye contact with this douchebag motherfucker.
“You do NOT want to get political with me!” I repeat, because clearly–he does not want to get political with me.
It’s 5AM on a Saturday morning, post-club, we’re standing in line to hail a cab, it’s misting out, and I’m embarrassing myself and my friends in front of large percentage of the city’s Danish youth. I am just raging at this giant Norwegian guy in the middle of the street–jumping towards his towering physique, flailing my arms in the air in all my fury, and just being extremely World Star Hip Hop-ish cray.
He had asked me in a very accusatory tone, “Why do you have to bring such an attitude to Denmark?” To which I was immediately offended by and when the yelling started.
“What the FUCK is that supposed to mean?” The East Van in me is awakened.
He subsequently calls me a racist.
In my drunken state, I transcend into this obnoxious know-it-all Canadian girl. “You want to talk about political correctedness? Let’s do it LET’S DO IT NOW!” I shout.
“Kaylynn,” this is about the fifth time one of my friends is clasping my shoulders. “Let’s go home, it’s not worth it. Ignore him.”
More shouting ensues, further angry drunken words are exchanged, and I continue to make a scene despite the cajoling of my friends. Someone tells one of my friends to shut the fuck up. Tempers flare. I am going to kill someone via heated political discussion anytime now.
One of the Norwegian Guy’s equally massive friends appears on my left, “We’re really sorry. We’re going to go home this way, and you and your friends can go home that way, and we’ll never have to see each other ever again.”
He’s probably genuinely hoping he never runs into us ever again. In hindsight, I can understand why.
I don’t remember what exactly happens next, but I somehow get shuffled away from the Norwegian Guy and his very tall friends, and we get into a cab. I vocally and very liberally express my hatred for the Norwegian Guy as the cab driver takes us back home to our dorm. What a fucking asshole. I complain the entire way home about my attitude. I complain about my attitude.
“Do I have an attitude problem?” I wail in the backseat of the cab.
I have no pictures from that night, but here is a picture of me when I’m not trying to antagonize strangers while studying abroad in a foreign country.
“We’re going to THY!” I have been screaming this for the past week and a half every time someone asks me what I’m doing for Christmas abroad in Denmark.
Peter has graciously–and cautiously–taken in two wild and very foreign creatures into his family’s Danish home: a Canadian Girl and a Spanish Girl.
Peter calls us skøre piger in Danish (crazy girls.)
A Danish Christmas is straight out of a fairytale: so so so many cookies (brunkager, pebernødder, klejner, more cookies primarily made out of butter, etc.), marzipan that we make ourselves on the 23rd (lille jul aften)–rolled in nuts, dipped in chocolate, folded into nougat, molded into the shape of a cat, dancing and singing around the Christmas tree–real candles lit on the Christmas tree (juletræ) as we’re dancing around it in a holiday frenzy (Pat and I were screaming in fear at this point), a ridiculous amount of food at every meal, making Christmas ornaments with the whole family (folding Danish hearts and stars), shots of schnapps taken at appropriate celebratory intervals–“Skål!”–during Christmas lunch (julefrokost)/every lunch, an onslaught of potatoes, Danish Christmas beer (juleøl/julebryg), the most adorable of traditions–like whoever finds the almond in the risalamande (Danish rice pudding) wins a prize (or traditionally, a marzipan pig. And of course I won.), visiting extended family for more julefrokost, litres and litres of wine, and a lot of basking in each other’s presence in front of an open fire–the essence of Danish hygge.
And by the way, Thy is beautiful. I am literally just frolicking in a winter wonderland right now–casual sledding after julefrokost, leisurely walks through the snowy countryside, quiet moments by the coast with a frigid breeze, and driving through a living postcard of snow-capped evergreens and fields that go on forever.
And I get to spend Christmas with the cutest of pies. Undoubtedly, two of my favourite people in the entire kartoffel-filled, wrapped in bacon, smeared with butter, involved in rationality, smelling of freshly baked bread, Danish universe. I’m also very much in love with Peter’s parents. Very much–as I happen to be easily smitten by bountiful food spreads, gentle and hospitable souls, homemade jam, roadtrips, and people with a penchant for fine cheese and excelling in the art of relaxing during the holidays. I have since, on a number of occasions, casually suggested to Peter that his parents adopt me. Because, let’s be real–who doesn’t love homemade jam???????
Glædelig jul from
Spain Catalonia, Denmark, and Canada!
Det er meget hyggeligt.
Tour des chambres is quite literally a tour of rooms. It is the best kind of dorm party–where people in your dorm decorate their rooms a certain theme, you have a theme-related game, and you are served a welcome drink. You go room to room, and you end up drunk as shit. It is très amusante.
I share a kitchen with 17 people, and 15 of us were participating this year, so we split up into pairs and had 7 themed rooms, and one game/welcome drink in the kitchen. The themes were:
0) Beer memory game in the kitchen
1) Wine-tasting in France
2) Nude sketch/croquis class in France
3) Life of Pi directing and reenactment
4) Camping under the stars (le mine)
5) Drinking in the dark
6) Danish New Years Eve
7) Music and hookah lounge
Learnt a lot of random shit about wine/realized how unsophisticated I am when it comes to wine; did not expect to see penis but did. Plus I won best nude sketch and that’s saying a lot about my hidden talents; made my flatmate eat cat food and gnaw on my other’s flatmate’s neck (the game was rewriting scenes from Life of Pi, and my team did it justly); watched my flatmates play the North American gem that is Chubby Bunny. One of my flatmates had to spit out her mouthful of marshmallows, and that mouthful floated in my toilet for about a week after; drank in the dark because it soo unheard of; Danish New Years Eve is the cutest thing ever, and you get to eat cake with adorable Danish flags everywhere; by the time we go to the music and hookah lounge, I was so drunk that I knocked over my flatmate’s hookah, and there was ash everywhere… Thank God my flatmates are Danish, and are very calm about these sorts of things.
The Beginning Of My Demise
Fast forward to the after party, and I’ve fallen and twisted my ankle. It wasn’t as though I was running, doing anything remotely athletic, or even wearing heels for that matter. I was simply trying to sit down next to my flatmate, and I just toppled over and rolled my ankle like a complete loser.
After having to be carried, then lots of complaining in bed while three of my flatmates are drunkenly laughing and trying to soothe me… I wake up the next morning, and the pain is ridiculous. My foot looks ridiculous. It’s ballooned to about 3x the size of my right foot, and it’s in the sickliest shades of purple and blue. Groce. I’m contemplating whether or not to post a photo here because it might really offend some viewers. I spend the rest of the day in the fort–drinking tea, listening to acoustic One Direction covers, and reading Pride and Prejudice.
Everyone’s telling me to go to hospital, and I’m just shrugging it off like, “Don’t be silly.” Because, as I said, I’m always in the mindset that everything’s going to be okay. Plus I fucking hate hospitals. There’s something about the colour of their walls that’s so… sterile. Like a starchy yellow colour that forever needs to be starchy and yellowed. And the smell of it all. I hate it. I’m starting to think that I hate institutions.
To The Hospital We Go
I finally cave. I plan to call my doctor on Monday, but things work differently in Denmark. Family doctors don’t have x-rays on hand, no real medical equipment or anything. My Danish girlfriend and my Danish flatmates tell me that I need to go the ER. The E-fucking-R. Fuck me.
In Denmark, you have to call before you go to the ER. Yeah. Yeeeeeah. Because of free healthcare, people had previously been showing up at the ER with paper cuts (this is a dramatization) and so, they developed a system where you have to call in before making a visit to your local emergency room. You have to call in, explain to the dispatcher what your emergency is, and if the dispatcher supposes your emergency worthy, then you may go to the ER.
My flatmate calls in Danish for me, and by the end of the call, the dispatcher goes, “She twisted it on Friday night? As long as she doesn’t come in smelling like Bacardi.”
Blah blah blah. 2 hours of waiting, 2 doctors, more questions regarding my level of sobriety on Friday night, and an x-ray later… I find out that I have no broken bones. Thank the Lord Holy Jesus, because my foot looked it had been dipped in ink for the two days, the swelling had not gone down whatsoever, and I could barely walk. It’s just badly sprained.
My medical file reads: “Friday, twisted ankle, drunk.”
And my first visit to a foreign hospital has been completed. Woooohoooo, motherfucker!
Started my exchange in Aarhus, Denmark in July. Spent the rest of my summer having dinner with some beautiful people..
From top to bottom: Dinner in Copenhagen–the night I very nearly single-handedly ate a whole bag of family-sized curly fries because I’m from North America and I had to have it; our first garden dinner in Loes’ backyard, perfected by an international spread; dinner in Copenhagen #1–nothing better than arriving in a foreign destination with dinner sitting on the table; Night of a Thousand Wines (we had 10-12 bottles–a bottle per person); that time Loes made pavlova, and it was gorgeous; pre-Holland vs. Argentina sustenance; French evening, where Gauthier made a shit ton of crepes–both savoury and sweet; smuggled French wine in the park, and my fav apple cider; garden dinners & more. Hygge mad.
I’m easily smitten by good food, good company, and consecutive bottles of rosé. Easily.