Scenes from Aarhus

Cheese I: Taleggio

Today I began my education in European cheeses. This has been long overdue and, in part, I am in debt to my many gourmet Uncles – but in particular to my dear zio Roberto – who always seems to entertain in a magnanimous manner. After dinner at his house, there always seems to be a plate of a good half-dozen cheeses to nibble on (with the appropriate wines in accompaniment, of course!). It is to him that this particular series in this blog is dedicated.

I just happened to stumble across a hole-in-the-wall cheese shop today along the Guldsmedegade in the center of Aarhus: the Grand Fromage which dates back to 1883. On this first visit to that shop, I knew not what I was looking for so I played it safe and went for a nice-looking hunk of Italian Taleggio cheese.

Taleggio, as I learned later, is a product of northern Italy – Lombardy, to be exact – and it is made of cow’s milk. Its appearance it is milky white, and looks like it would ooze all over your hands if it weren’t wrapped. Its rind is a faint reddish-orange speckled with bits of green mold. Apparently, it has a very high fat content (on-line, I’ve seen references to 48%!)which I confirmed after my first bite of the creamy pleasure.

In taste, it is extremely pleasant, reminiscent (to me) of a brie – but with a lingering aftertaste that my uneducated palate found hard to describe. I ate some if it with some dark, nutty, whole wheat bread; another day, I ate some of it with some grapes and apples which was delightful. On the whole, a delightful cheese.

Random Photos

Absinthe Recipe I

Apparently, Oscar Wilde used to love the following drink recipe (which requires Absinthe):

WILDEMULE

1 shot of Absinthe
1 wedge of lime or freshly-squeezed lime-juice
Ice
Ginger Ale to taste

Aarhus

I woke up reasonably late this morning – around 10 a.m. which is not too bad at all. I probably would have slept longer had it not been for the shrieks of children right outside my window. Apparently there was some kind of festival going on this weekend organized and sponsored by the college – the kollegiet – to which I now belong.

I was about to try to go back to sleep hen I got a call from Alexander asking if I would be interested in going to the beach with him and the Chinese participant. I would have loved to, I told him, but I was more anxious to get some grocery shopping done. So, instead, I called up Ankeeta and Alyssa and went with them a little later to buy some foodstuffs.

So I decided to get up, shower, get dressed, and go outside to wait for them. When I got to the outside of my dorm, the craziness was worse than I expected. People were already drunk and it wasn't even noon. But far more entertaining, was the amazing feat of precarious climbing that I saw right outside my dorm door.

Some guys had started to pile up beer crates -- and some hapless American girl had started climbing on these.

The hitch was that a large, bearded, long-haired Dane -- he honestly looked like a Viking -- was throwing more beer crates up to her. She would catch these and then add them to the top of the beer crate pile -- towers, actually -- and then take another step up.

It looked very wobbly and just a bit dangerous even with the harness securing her. In the end, of course, she fell an both towers of crates crashed to the floor. The drunken masses cheered and laughed.

I then met Alyssa and Ankeeta shortly after this and we took a bus from right outside the kollegiet -- bus number 15 -- which took us to some unknown destination where we got off to exchange money first.

This place, they explained, charged no commissions which sounded great to me. The place was a hole in the wall run by two Middle Eastern men who spoke very little English. I exchanged some money – although they rejected one of my $20 bills since it had a slight red mark along one of the edges, probably some kind of dye used to see if it is counterfeit or not. They apologized and explained that if they, as Middle Easterners, tried to go to a Danish bank to exchange it, they would get refused. But that I would probably have a better luck at trying to exchange it for Danish krone.

After changing money, we went grocery shopping. I’ll tell you about that another time. Suffice it to say, today, that I went home with a lot of vegetables, some fish, and cheese. That should tide me over for a few days. We took the same bus 15 back to the kollegiet.



In the afternoon, I fell asleep despite the live rock concert right outside my window. It sounded like fun but I was too dead from the trip and the previous week to really care. When I finally “woke up” again, around 9 p.m., I called Alexander to see what he was doing. Apparently, the plan was to go out to the college bar tonight. Good. I was looking foreward this. A few drinks can go a long way when you are exhausted and jet-lagged.

Korn

As I ran back to the train station in the rain, I had to stop to take a picture of this advertisement for this particular concert. I may have to make it back down from Aarhus just to seek this, one of my favorite bands. Can you imagine?

To Copenhagen

I left Hartford (BDL) at a little after 12:00 p.m., felw to Detroit, waited there a few hours, then flew to Amsterdam, arriving at 7:15 a.m. I had a few hours to wait there as wellso I walked around, drnak coffee and juice, went to the bathroom to change my shirt, socks (which I threw away), and my shoes. Then I waited some more.

To the left, you can see me at Schiphol airport looking perhaps a bit tired. In this picture, I have yet to go freshen up.

I look a bit tired not only because I spent nearly all night rhe day before packing and putting my finishing touches on things at home, but because, perhaps a bit stupidly, I overpacked and overprepared, ending up with the following monstrosity as a travelling buddy (yes, this is my luggage, below):

When I finally got to Copenhagen, I was thrilled to be there. I made a dash for the trains as I meant to get to downtown Copenhagen as fast as possible. The plan was to spend the next three hours walking around the city, having lunch, before boarding the train for Aarhus.

So I left my bags at the train station which was, fortunately, a few blocks from the main city center, the Radhuspladsen, my main destination.

As I left the train station, I found myself on the Reventslowgade, a busy side street lined with biycles (which I regret not taking a picture of). I had been reading alot about "bike-friendly" Denmark. It seemed like the perfect place for me.

There were some pretty buildings along the Reventslowgade. I don't really know what they were but I took a shot of the corner of one of them simply to be able to share with you what I was seeing as I walked for the first time in my life along the streets of Copenhagen.

At the end of the Reventslowagde, running perpendicular to it, was the Vesterbrogade, a wider, busier street that i I took a right on, would lead me straight into the Radhuspladsen.

As I walked along the Vesterbrogade, I took visual note of everything. For example, many young women seemed to be wearing black tights on their legs -- under skirts and dresses. I alos tried to notice how people behaved, how they talked, how they looked at each other. It is these traits and habits that I would eventually have to imitate, I told myself, if I wanted to fit in to any reasonable degree.

Along the way, I went into the centrally-located Tourist Information Center. I went in quickly so as not to waste too much time and grabbed a handful of brochures and pamphlets that I will probably barely look at (but it is good to be prepared). I also took advantage of an Internet cafe -- Boomtown -- not only because I am addicted to my emails, but because I simply had to send a message to my lovely wife, Marynela, back in Vermont. None of this experience is as good as it would be if she were here.

Along the way, I ran into a largish group of schoolchildren. They were lovely and cute and I snapped a shot of a few of them (to the left). They laughed, giggled, pointed, or were simply quiet. I guess I had scared them. Their teacher later gave me what I thought to be a dirty look.

I kept walking and in another block or so, reached the Radhuspladsen. I stood by a lamp-post for a while while I simply looked at it and took int the sensation. It is a large open space flanked by several beautiful buildings. There was a lovely feeling here and I took it in, along with some warm sunlight which just happened to come out at the moment I reached the central square. This was a beautiful spot.

It was beautiful and lovely -- and then these clouds came along with some rain making everyone run for cover. It was still quite beautiful.

But just before it began raining (in truth, it was a massive downpour and people scurried everywhere for cover), I was able to sit down at an outdoor cafe -- simply caled the Restaurant Copenhagen Corner -- which had a very simpl and very overpriced menu (of course). I ordered the simplest and most inexpensive item on their menu which turned out to be absolutely fantastic: Terrin af saltet laks og kulmule med se samvinaigrette (that is, terrine of salted salmon and hke with sesame vinaigrette -- easy, you see?). It was truly fantastic. Here is what it looked like before I sank my teeth into it:

Preparations

Tomorrow is Monday. On Thursday, I leave, ready or not, for Denmark. There are still literally dozens of things to do and here I am at 2:00 a.m. sifting through my files, organizing my address book, and pulling together different strands of my life in an attempt at organizing myself so that I can leave in three days without having a complete anxiety attack during the intervening days.

At least the house is in better shape than it was a week or two ago. At that time, I had taken out all my files and had strated to go through my papers, throwing out things right and left, purging my file cabinets of anything deemed even remotely out-of-date and trying to consolidate everything into a few heavy boxes.

Last week, I also began to pack my books which was one of the most laborious tasks that I had to face. It wasn't just a matter of putting everything into boxes, closing them up, and sticking them into the attic. We're talking about books, here -- books that I have carefully collected and gathered over the years, books that are too rare to even find on eBay or Alibris. My books deserved a bit more respect.

This just means that I spent hours organizing these books by topic or subject, carefully arranging them in boxes, labelling and numbering the boxes, cataloguing the contents of each box, and then wrapping each box in plastic so that the heat and humidity won't get to them. Tomorrow, these carefully labeled, numbered, and bagged boxes will go upstairs into our attic.

I was looking through some of the titles today and I have to admit: it's going to be hard to be without a lot of these. I am used to being with my books -- being able to refer to some passage in Russell Kirk or some pithy phrase in Roger Scruton or re-reading some perplexing passage in Richard Weaver or simply jumping into some Wodehouse for some light and amusing reading. Not having them to rely on will be, well, difficult.

Introduction

I never thought I'd grow up to be a writer but that's what I've become. It's almost as if my maternal grandfather -- Don Jimmy -- has been gently nudging me along in a certain direction these past few years. I have even begun to wonder if I, like my grandfather, the so-called "architect of [Bolivian] journalism", may have printer's ink running through my veins.

I certainly didn't intend on getting into journalism. For years, I had been pursuing my interests in international development, finance, and politics. These interests and related employment activities had taken me all over the world. But over the past several years, I increasingly have found myself being offered interesting jobs as a freelance writer and in professional journalism -- first, as a business reporter for a weekly newspaper, then as a news correspondent for a financial wire-service, and finally as an in-house financial journalist for a multilateral organization.

Since each of these experiences kept me involved with economics, finance, and politics, I saw no reason to decline any of these offers. At the time, the thread that I thought bound these experiences together was simply their international dimension. It is only now -- with the benefit of hind-sight, of course -- that I realize that the real element binding all these experiences together is writing: putting together words, crafting sentences, expressing thoughts, and communicating ideas.

That is why after I was selected as a Journalism Fellow by the Phillips Foundation in 2003, I began to suspect that perhaps my vocation was not at all what I originally expected. Perhaps it was time to take my writing a bit more seriously. And that is what I proceeded to do in Vermont.

When the Phillips Fellowship ended in early 2005, I decided to look around for other opportunities that might keep me writing. In February, I applied to a new two-year academic program in "journalism within globalization" sponsored by the European Union (EU). In April, I received a letter informing me that I had been selected -- along with 23 other young writers and journalists from around the world. And in June, I was informed that the EU had also awarded me a full stipend to cover all my expenses during the duration of the program, which begins in late August 2005 and which will take me to Denmark, the Netherlands, and either Germany or England.

So, once again, I find myself headed in the direction of journalism and writing. I think that I might as well accept what life is offering me in terms of a vocation. I do enjoy it after all; and my favorite activities happen to be those that make up the day-to-day grind of a writer's life: research, reading, interviews, writing.

Thus, in an effort to document not only my own realization and acceptance of my career as a writer, but also my experiences in contemporary Europe, I start this blog. I hope you enjoy the reporting, the anecdotes, the stories, and anything else I decide to post here. I promise you, dear reader, that I will use this medium not only to regale you with tales of my personal excesses while abroad but, also, to report on the contentious political, economic, and cultural state of contemporary Europe. For this latter purpose, I will prepare a separate site to which readers will have access -- by invitation only (due to its more serious content).

The Author

This is the scribbler, A. M. Fantini. He was born and raised in Vermont and educated in the U.S. and South America. He has worked in international development, financial journalism, and public policy analysis for a variety of organizations. This is his first blog.