Udgang, Indgang

Had the first of many meals in this awesome place tonight. It was a cozy (Hygge) cafe on Oslo-Plads. Dark (cherry?) wood floors, walls and ceilings, scuffed and scarred by, what I imagined to be, hundreds of years worth of foot traffic. Around the perimeter of the main dining room were small, red, ceramic lanterns which spilled their warm atmosphere onto the walls which anchored them. The waiter moved mechanically from table to table, sharing smiles and topping off water glasses (glas vands). "Tak", I'd say a little nervous and self-conscious about my accent. I had the chicken.

I'd noticed earlier almost everyone I'd seen in this country was fucking beautiful, and the waiter was no exception. But, unlike in the UessofA, it seemed never to inflate their personalities. The pretty young girl at the Budget Car Rental at CPH fit so incongruently into her blue knit company sweater, and tan pants. The uniform I'd come to understand we understand would only ever be worn in America, by Jeanine, a single mother from a small town in Wisconsin, working towards her Associates in Information Technology. DOWN WITH THE UNSPOKEN CASTE SYSTEM OF AMERICA. A JOB IS A JOB. I'm ranting.

Farvel