I realize that creating a blog makes me a certified fruitcake, but I have my fans to think about.

This is all in danish i have no idea what i'm doing.. I really hope I just titled this no canadians allowed. Funny, but mostly just the truth.

Hello to my loving public! Sooo, hello sofia because you were the one who asked that I blog, and hey mom and dad. Its 12:30 AM right now and honestly, I was a lot more inspired to do this about five minutes ago. I have such a rough life right?! Kevin, stay out of this.

This morning I woke up at the usual 6:30, got to Copenhagen around 8:45 via the tog, bought a coffee that was too much money, but it had a cute design in the foam on top. I'll take it. Today, DIS sent us on a tour of the greater Copenhagen area, which is just so beautiful. Every street you turn down is so quaint and cozy, the brightly painted buildings and the twinkling lights strung up on the cafes are a stark, but welcome contrast against the endlessly grey sky.

"Its too cold for revolution, no?"
This is one of my favorite lines from today. One of the professors showing us a building that had been rebuilt multiple times had to answer a question about why this was. At first, he told us with a completely straight face that it had had happened during a revolution. He then smiled and admitted it had burned down from being overheated some years ago.

An expedition of the city with my group, many other orientation activities, and the purchase of a bad ass 50 kroner (~ 9 dolla) metallic gold backpack later, I got home late and had some delicious vegetable soup waiting for me. This was the first vegetarian meal I've had at home, my family wasn't exactly aware I was so high maintenence/ a vegetable supremist upon my arrival. But, my god.. turkey is good. And then Lennart (age: nine, occupation: third grader/ host brother, hobbies: tickling me/ generally being hilarious/ putting his break dancing videos on youtube) was put to bed and my host parents and I watched the handball match, the third one I've seen. I'm pretty much an expert on it by now.

There's this ball, and these people throw it.

After the handball game, my host parents (who are really great, I feel quite lucky) and I talked about french arrogance, accents, the culture of language, quesadillas, pitas, all sorts of things. When I said the word "quesadilla," to them, they looked at me like I was insane. Then they tried to explain a pita to me. I say, "Oh yes, I know of those. Its a Greek thing, right?" to which my host dad responds, "I don't know. I don't talk to it. I just eat it."

truer words have never been... eaten.