The Pant Cuff Surprise

Last week I got a part time job to work for a London based staffing company. The company is contracted by larger caterers, or venues for large parties at some of the coolest venues in London. This week, for example, I have a job at the Royal Albert Hall. What will I do? Im not sure, but I will write about it later on.

I got the call on Monday requesting that I be in training by Tuesday (the next day) for several hours, and was told I needed to be in uniform: black pants, and a black T-shirt. Only problem was, I didn’t have either of the two.

After getting home from school I raced to a nearby TK Max, and got the stuff I needed just as the store was closing. The pants were way too long, but I was all ready showing advanced symptoms of Man in Shopping Mall syndrome (unexplained fatigue, nausea, regressive behavior, and short term memory loss) and needed to finish shopping quick before I lost consciousness. To remedy the long pants problem, I planned on doing an improvised sewing job to shorten the pants when I got home. I mean, how hard could it be?

I got home, found the mini sewing kit that I had kept since my mission in South Korea, and got all the necessary “bits and bobs” ready to go. I then asked Kaela to mark the appropriate pant length as I stood with my dress shoes on. This was more challenging than anticipated as she kept laughing at the prospect of me doing the sewing all by myself, and consequently kept shifting the marking needle.

Pants marked, and sewing stuff ready, I threaded the needle and began the work. Being raised by a mother who majored in “textile studies” and after watching her construct quilts that should be exhibited and not used, I thought, how hard can sewing a flippin pant leg honestly be? As I finished the first leg, Mikaela saw my efforts and couldn’t control herself. My stitching was uneven, and according to her it looked pretty bad from the outside. She offered to do the other leg “properly” and I sheepishly handed her the pants as she sat down and started the other leg. A few minutes later, after she had meticulously worked her straight edged stitches, she smiled at her work, and had me put on the pants. Here were the results:





But lets take another look:





Lets just say I re-did her side.

And kept my ego too.

Student Riots in December

In December, many of you will recall, there were student riots in London protesting the raise of university fees throughout the country. As the BBC and other international news agencies covered the events in Parliament square, and throughout London, several friends and family members contacted me and asked if we were alright.

Yes, we were fine, I said; but what I didn’t say was that I had almost been in the middle of it.

You know, just for kicks.

The LSE is right along a major street in London called Kingsway which connects the massive University of London, the Queen Mary School of Law, and the London School of the Arts to the Strand via the semi-circle road of Aldwych. Go a few minutes down the Strand, and you pass through the broad open Trafalgar Square where Nelson’s Column and the National Gallery compete for the most attention with St. Martin’s in the Fields. Take the second left from the Strand and you are led down through Whitehall, which, if it didn’t turn in time, would run straight into Big Ben. The Strand to Whitehall is one of the main arteries of the city s it curves along the north bank of the Thames, and that is why thousands of students took the route as they marched towards Parliament. Their goal was to influence the MP’s as they voted on the measure that night, but sadly what resulted was much different.

Earlier in the day Police had lined Kingsway with their neon-green vests, and dark blue hard hats as hundreds of UCL students, and students from other universities walked towards Parliament with banners, signs, drums, and interestingly enough, their backpacks (if I am going to riot for hours, I’d be sure to take my backpack as well). At the LSE, it was pretty quiet except for the hugely underpublicized sit-in, and a few muted student walk outs. The student newspaper shouted with angry bold titles against the education cuts, and signs throughout campus blistered the school director with obscenities; but aside from the handful of students who read the signs, the message fell to a largely non-existent audience, let alone one who cared.

The thing is, most of the LSE is comprised of international students, and since already pay nearly double what the average UK student is, we were unsympathetically indifferent. If they chose to walk out of class, (which no one in my program did) then we would stay there and continue to learn, and outperform them. If they took over a classroom, then we would tell them they were idiots, and make them go elsewhere. In all honesty, the most disruption that occurred in my classes was from the drums, and cheers of the UCL students passing by on Kingsway. It wasn’t that big of a deal from where we were.

By lunch time, the LSE student protesters had gathered in the central area on campus, and were lining up with speaker phones, banners, signs, and upturned buckets. I stood eating my lunch and watched them march off onto Aldwych to join with the rest of the students. I thought it would be fun to go long with them: I didn’t have any classes later on, it was early in the day, and what the heck- how many REAL student demonstrations do we actually get to participate in?

“I’d rather get homework done,” I thought, and walked back to study.

Well, the rest is history. Later that evening, the peaceful protests turned violent. Even bordering on anarchy. Barricades in Parliament Square were ripped apart, and used as battering rams against the great doors of the Dept of Justice. A fire was started in Parliament Square and the massive Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square was nearly set ablaze. Students staged a sit in inside the National Gallery. Windows, and phone booths were smashed, and the statue of Winston Churchill was graffiti-id. Stores on the upscale Oxford Street (miles away) were vandalized, and Prince Charles was mobbed by students as his car drove through central London. Students even climbed the great Cenotaph- the memorial for WWI- and swung on the draped flags.

The police (mounted police, and riot squads as well) contained the riots, and eventually dispersed them late in the night, but the damage was done. Thousands of pounds of damages to the city’s cultural center and government buildings, and even more revenue lost by tourism based companies. With these costly results it was too my complete surprise that one of Mikaela’s friends told me she thought the police were too tough on the protesters.

To sum up, one of my LSE English friends posted this the night of the riots in her Facebook:

“Great job you idiots. Make us all look bad as you terrorize London. I’m sure lots of people will want to listen to what you have to say now that you’ve cost us even more money. Quit complaining and get some jobs.”

Copenhagen Part 3: Tisvilde

We headed to the airport to pick up our rental car, and drove up to North Zealand- where Frederiksborg is. We intended on renting the smallest most affordable car available, but the guy gave us a huge Ford Stationwagon instead! Cruising on the clean Scandinavian streets was refreshing considering we were on the right side of the road, and after driving in Zimbabwe, and dodging buses in England, it was welcome rest. The drive to the northern bit of the island was only supposed to take an hour, but due to some map mistakes it took nearly 2. Regardless, the drive outside of Copenhagen into rural Denmark was enchanting.

I was struck at how pastoral it all seemed- and if it weren’t for the sleek economical European cars wizzing past me, I would have thought we were driving through the midwest with rolling farm hills, green pastures, and windmills dotting the undulating horizon. Mikaela was glued to the passenger window, and kept saying how she wanted to move to Denmark. As we drove past lakes, and glimpses of vast tracts of untouched pine forest dotted with the occasional red framed house, I could see why she was drawn to the place. But as it was darkening quickly, I was getting nervous that we would get lost.

The Hansen side of my family traditionally (as far as we can tell) have lived in the little outpost of civilization of Orby, and the surrounding villages, since the 18th century. Next door is Tisvildeje, an old fishing village turned sleepy vacation town, and adjacent to both of them is a city called Vejby which is where the area church is perched on one of the many hills overlooking the area.
While farmland still dominates the scenery, residential homes, quaint and not so quaint, seem to be slowly encroaching on the non-chalant horses and cows grazing nearby. During the summer, the area explodes with art festivals, flower patches, crops, and paste-white Danes trying to get their yearly overdose of Vitamin D at the beaches. But once autumn settles in, the colorful shops close down, the homes shutter up, and whomever is left seems to hunker down as the temperamental Northern Sea hammers the island for the long winter months.

Before the tourists, however, the town used to be fishing village and probably remained so for hundreds of years at least until the Vejby church was built in 1100 AD. It was to this church that we went to in the morning in search of my ancestors.

After driving through Orby (about 2 streets) lined with cool moss covered homes and shiny BMW’s grinning in open aired car parks, we drove to the Vejby church. It was at this church that Lars and Petronille Hansen (who came to the US in 1868, and are buried in Logan, Utah) were married in 1851.



To walk through the old door (which has rune-like Danish carved into it) they most likely walked through as well, was pretty neat. Inside the church we found an old stone baptismal font with a silver christening basin (made in 1829) on top. This, I am pretty sure, is the same basin where the original Christian Hansen was christened in 1856. To be in the same spot where my ancestors were was a pretty neat feeling.

Outside of the church there is a large cemetery, but we had no luck finding anyone we knew as the latest relative would have been buried in the 1830’s, and most of the graves, it seemed, were pretty recent. A short excursion to the caretakers house where the official records were examined confirmed that we were unlucky to find anyone there. It seems that after a number of years older graves were dug up, and interred somewhere, to make way for the newly dead. Hence R.I.P. should mean “Rent In Peace”. Any records older than a hundred years, we were told, are shipped to Copenhagen. At least next time we know where to go!

With time running short before we had to drive back to Copenhagen to catch our flight, we drove to the sea where we dipped our feet in the freezing water.

On the drive back to Copenhagen, I had some time to reflect and realized that I hadn’t found what I was expecting in Denmark. All my life I have had this belief that I had a connection to Denmark as I had always proudly said to others that I had Danish heritage; Christian Hansen, I found out, is the most popular Danish name; each Christmas we would have a “Danish dinner” with meat, potatoes, and boiled red cabbage (which I forced myself to eat each time); we even did (and still do) the almond-rice pudding tradition. But beyond those traditions, I didn’t have any other connection other than in word alone.

What I did find was a renewed gratitude for my American heritage, and an increased appreciation for the sacrifices my ancestors made for new lives abroad. The last Hansens that lived in Denmark, left in 1868.

Lars and Petronille, (grave in Logan, Utah with Petronille's name with American spelling) and their 10 year-old son Christian met Mormon missionaries in Denmark, were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and joined part in one of the great American stories- the Mormon trail west. The family arrived in Utah after an arduous journey by ship, rail, and wagon and Lars and Petronille died a few years later in Logan. But their son, Christian, went on to have a completely different life than his parents, and any other Hansen before him. Instead of living on the same ground that had bound his forefathers for centuries, he started a new family- a new life- in America. Today, nearly 150 years after they made their move, we are still being impacted by the lives they lived and the heritage they left. If it wasn’t for their sacrifice, nothing would have happened.

It is the connection to that heritage that I came to realize, because I saw in a small way what they had to leave. The incredible thing about this is that every other American has a similar story as well.

In a way, I found what it means to be an American, in Denmark.

Copenhagen Part 2: The Christus

The next morning, we briefly visited Thorvaldsen’s Christus before making our way to the airport for the next leg of our journey. I was surprised by the setting of the statue: behind the altar of a large neoclassical cathedral (the National Cathedral of Denmark, it so happens to be) with a massive vaulted roof overhead. Lining the walls down the center aisle of the church are grand statues of the apostles by Thorvaldsen as well. A gated area prevented the average Joe from getting any closer, and so we had to be content to view the masterpiece from about 20 yards away. The distance and the over-scaled roof overhead seems to diminish the statue’s 11 foot frame in comparison, but it is still an awe-insipring piece of work. Compared to the setting in Salt Lake where the replica statue is much more intimate and warm, there was a noticeable difference, but to see the original was special.

Copenhagen Part 1

One of the most memorable things for me during our time here in Europe has been to visit Denmark and try to locate some of my ancestors. To be specific, I wanted to locate the birthplace of the original Christian L. Hansen who was born in “Tisvilde”, Frederiksborg, Denmark. So taking a 7:30 flight leaving Stansted to Copenhagen the day after my birthday (for which we had Mexican food near Covent Garden and spent time with Elizabeth and Brian Shelley) we arrived to the airport in C-hagen to meet the puzzled customs officials who looked in consternation at Mikaela’s passport. “What is Harare?” One asked. Classic.

We took the train from the ultra modern airport into central Copenhagen where we left the old brick train station, walked along the sides of Tivoli Gardens, and located our Bed and Breakfast on Studiestrasse near the heart of the city. We were actually a hundred yards from the Church of Our Lady where Thorvaldsen’s Christus is housed. The house we stayed at was several hundred years old, and had exposed old wooden beams in the ceiling seemingly to justify the semi crooked doorways and the eclectic art choices of the lady who rented the place out. Frida I think was her name.

We spent the day wandering Copenhagen’s streets and getting a feel for the place. First impressions? Online forums told us to watchout for drug dealers and hookers at every corner, but to be honest, I never felt unsafe once. Add the fact that EVERYONE speaks English fluently, and we felt right at home. Walking the lined streets we ate candied almonds bought from men with giant woks on the side of the street, and ate several polsa- or Danish stye hot dogs: solid rolls gouged out in the center, where the sauces are poured in, and the hotdog inserted with the end sticking out a few inches.

It soon became clear that what Denmark lacks in good weather, the Danes make up in paint. The sky was dank and grey with ominous clouds turning dark early in the afternoon, and yet the buildings were all painted bright reds, greens, yellows which, with their dark blue/black framed windows crisscrossing along their faces, added some warming charm to the cold air.

We visited Nyhavn Market- an old sea port with some hoky Christmas stalls lining the docks, strolled the ritzy Stroyet- which had the newest European fashion exposing itself to us as we walked by, and we even stepped into the Royal Copenhagen- a near religious institution for dinnerware divas and cutlery connoisseurs. At Royal Copenhagen, the official purveyors of dishes to the Royal Danish Family, they had their Christmas dinner sets on display- and we were not disappointed. Ornate, classy, stylish, with the Danish hint of sleek modernity mixed in, it was pretty neat to see the craftsmanship.

By the end of all the walking, and considering that we had been up since about 3 am in London, we took a break at the house, and went out again to Tivoli Gardens. Call me elitist, snobby, or whatever you want, but I wasn’t that impressed or significantly moved by what Danes consider one of THE attractions in Copenhagen. Tivoli Gardens is just that- a series of Gardens which decided to pretend to be an amusement park/christmas festival. The result? A couple of acres of ticketed carnival rides (AND you pay a separate admission just to get in), video arcade games, kitschy shops, and over priced restaurants. Not to mention the Elves. In the States when you think of Christmas, what images come to mind? The nativity, pictures of, oh gosh, I don’t know. . . Jesus? Angels, reindeer... add in a few Dickensian relics of England and voila, your house is decorated. In Denmark, Christmas is commandeered... no, infested ..with elves- or Nisser- which are half Santa’s little helpers, and half sinister gnomes which live in your hay-loft (with an active religious following in Denmark, mind you). EVERYWHERE you go, Nisser of every race, religion, creed, physical condition and political persuasion stare at you beneath oversized red hats with buggy little eyes... waiting, just waiting for you to blink.

So what if I compare all things to Disneyland? At least Disneyland characters don’t give me nightmares.

Anymore.

(Editors note: Mikaela does not approve the previous endorsement of Tivoli Gardens. She loves it there.)

After traipsing through Tivoli, we thought it would be fun to see Harry Potter 7 at a theatre and ran to get some quick dinner beforehand. McDonald’s was across the street- easy choice right? 2 regular hamburgers, fries, and 2 small cokes later we made it in the theatre to our pre-designated, assigned seats. But wait- that massive amount of food cost us what translates to US $26. AND- they made you pay for Ketchup packets. Tåber (idiots). After watching Harry get k.... oh wait- some of you haven’t read it yet... nevermind... we called it a night.

Funny Word Play

Invariably, we experience some funny miscommunications because of the language gap across the pond. Most of them I understand, but others- like the picture- I never quite get. One of the best happens to be the British word for a USB flash drive, or, in the UK- a “dongle”.

One story from Mikaela says it best:

“There was a massive virus that took down the computer system throughout the school where I worked. The IT Director informed us during a staff meeting that they had found the source of the virus.

Completely unwittingly, she stated that the virus was a result of ‘someone sticking his dirty dongle into a computer’.

This didn’t seem to strike anyone as funny, but I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself.”

To add some more (relatively clean) humor, check out this comedy sketch from some of England’s most popular comedians:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAG39jKi0lI&feature=player_embedded

(FYI- Orange is a cell phone network)

London Food: Part 1

So where does one go out to eat when in London? In this two part blog entry, I’ll try to cover some of the interesting places we have been to.

The Exotic and Slightly Bizarre:

Archipelago Restaurant

Want to eat some pretty exotic food, and keep your wallet? Well, don’t go to this place. A cozy muffled explosion of Persian carpets, hanging drapes, and south-east Asian backpacking trip curios bought from flower-power college years long past, they will charge you out the nose to experience their barrage of the senses.

You can enjoy a culinary tour of Africa, but it costs just as much as going there! Ostrich filets, Gnu on a stick, stuffed Crocodile, Zebra slices- you can have your savory safari from the comfort of your stuffed chair all the while having about 7 different Buddha statues staring at you.

Considering you can order anything from Kangaroo to a “Love Bug Special” (pan fried locusts and crickets in garlic), whoever designed the menu liked variety. And mind altering drugs. How much was the food? For wafer sized ostrich cuts with veggies and rice we paid 16 pounds. A simple grilled Chicken, 12 pounds. Whichever you choose (Ostrich or Chicken), that’s still a fowl price.

Historical Haunts:

Crypts- the Down to Earth Dining Option

Ever feel like the restaurant your at is full of dead-beats? How about eating on top of dead beats instead? In the crypts of St Martins in the Fields and St Paul’s Cathedral, you can do just that. While they both offer Café style food, St Paul’s has a full-blown white glove restaurant to add to that extra-special subterranean charm. Eating on the graves of monks and monarchs alike, you can watch England mingle over munchies.

While we haven’t eaten in either place yet, I have wandered down there and it was pretty cool!

Pubs- Where London’s Heart Really Beats, and is Subsequently Clogged

The English Pub is one of the great institutions of English culture, and include some of my favorite places in London. When we went to Horsham to visit Kaela’s relatives, they took us to a cool old pub that was 400 years old. The ceiling was short- making us duck to walk to our seats; the open beams rippled under the weight of the upper floor. In the center of London is “Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese” which is considered the oldest pub in London- having been around since the time of the Great Fire in 1666. Only briefly walking into the pub, it was clear that it definitely matched the picture of a 400 year-old city pub. The wood is now practically black with the accumulation of cigar smoke, and years of candle oils. Smoky paintings frown upon you as you enter over the stepping stone, now worn concave from the millions who have stepped on it.

Since I don’t drink, my favorite part of the pub experience is the food. Sandwiches held together by toothpicks, fish and chips swimming over the side of the plate, and hearty soups that warm any chill. In particular, I love the meat pies: Steak and ale pies, chicken and mushroom pies, Cornish pasties are my top favorites. Piping hot cuts of tender seasoned steak with cooked veggies, wrapped in thin baked pastry. Hunkering down in some low lit booth, thawing from London’s wind next to a fire, and watching the steam rise out of a newly fissured meat pie. . . it doesn’t get any better than that!