So, I’ve arrived in New Zealand. Well in truth I’ve been here for 8 days now, and I suppose it’s about time I tell you a bit about it.

The first thing I noticed, already on the plane from Los Angeles to Auckland was that tea-drinkers are not considered a bizarre minority and tea comes in a variety of kinds. And not only is it commonly understood that milk goes in it, these beautiful people also grasp the not unsignificant difference between cream and milk 🙂
And there was real cutlery – fork, spoons and a nice stemmed glass for my morning juice on the plane. The knife was still plastic, but at least it could cut

By now I’ve also learned that they have quite a variety of herbal tea here, some of which are surprisingly tasty. My favourite so far is a divine liquorice root clove fennel and cinnamon blend – overpoweringly sweet even with no sugar in it.

Waiting outside for the inter-terminal bus in Auckland before my connecting flight to Wellington it was hard not to notice that it’s summer here 😉 Straight from the snow in Ithaca to 20 degrees and sunshine. Most of the time anyway. Because in Wellington it’s _always_ windy and the wind brings rapid weather changes. As I noticed the day I forgot to close my office window and found a huge smelly puddle of water on my carpet the next morning ;-/

The jetlag I got over quite easily, but getting used to a summer daylight-cycle is much harder. My body expect it to be afternoon until it gets dark and when twilight finally creeps around it knocks me out instantly when I notice it’s late, and worse: my body doesn’t want to wake up in the morning. Imagine that: Me having a hard time getting up. What is the world coming to?

I’m told that usually people put on weight when they move here, and I’m partly wondering if that might not be bad. Some extra kilos might reduce my risk of getting knocked over by the wind. Yep, it’s that strong.

Wellington is a city of stairs. The 77 steps up to my front door being the least of what I climb every day on my way to and from campus. From almost every point there is a view, and the mountains are always seen in the background. It’s beautiful, but harsh at the same time.
The city itself is not very pretty though. Spread wide and low for earthquake safety the pastel coloured houses look a bit like scattered crumbled paper when seen from a distance.

Here is where I live, the yellow house up top.

I share the house with Sonya and Aidan, their cat Anoushka and Aidans sister Moifa.
They have been very helpful and are lending me all the things I don’t have here: a mattress, bedlinen, towels, the use of their kitchenware and as you see, a mirror.

They aren’t all home right now, so you’ll have to settle for a picture of Aidan cooking.

Many evenings we cook and eat together – it is nice that there is sometimes someone home in the evenings.

Especially as campus is still rather empty. The semester does not begin till next week, and so far the only people I’m introduced to are Rod Downey and his postdoc Guohoa. I’m hoping the situation will improve once I start following a class or two, but don’t really believe it will.

One thing I’ve noticed is that kiwis abbreviates everything. It’s not Wellington, it’s Wtgn, not about but abt and not No Parking but NP. And it’s not only words that are reduced for convenience. Right where I get off the bus in the morning, a shoe store has a sign saying “All womens shoe reduced”. I wonder what people with big feet do.

Another thing that perplexes me is the kiwi accent. I am maybe a bit handicapped by my hearing problem, but this is going to take a while to get used to.
One part is the words that are different here than in America: It’s not trunk, it’s boot, it’s not sidewalk, it’s footpath, it’s not trash it’s rubbish. This is not so hard – it is just a question of remembering the synonyms, and as I am appalled at how American my English now sounds I am pleased to learn better ways.
What is hard, though, is the way vowels sound different here. When I hear “peegs” I think grunting farm animals, not plastic things for fastening wet clothes to lines, when I hear “breed” I think procreation or subspecies, not sandwich ingredients 😉

Rejser • Skrevet 17. February, 2005 • Ingen kommentarer endnu

Having just left America, and not yet gotten used to New Zealand, let me take a moment or two of your time to reflect on some of the things I was exposed to there – things I might eventually bring home with me, and things I’ll be glad to be without.

Some of them are typical American, other are random customs and things I was introduced to based on the segment of people I got to know. To avoid any risk of consistency they appear here in arbitrary order 😉

Salad before dinner: In Denmark salad goes with the meal and some places even after. In America more often than not the salad comes first, usually on a seperate plate.
I found that quite appealing. It is nice to start the meal with something fresh and crunchy, and it makes me eat more salad and less empty carbohydrates.

Fuzzy socks: Warm like slippers and as soft as the Leopard 😉 I have grown quite attached to my fuzzy socks. (Thank you Sydney and Hussein.)
I wear them whenever I travel these days – it seems that when the feet are comfortable, all the rest of me is more inclined to be so too. And for some reason it is always nippy near the floor on planes. Fuzzy socks: The cure for the common (air plane) cold 😉

American pillows and bedsheets: Layers of sheets and blankets that come apart when I turn over in my sleep. And no matter how carefully I fold the end of the sheet over the edge of the blanket it always comes undone during the night so the scratchy side of the blanket reaches my skin and makes it itch.
Huge pillows too stuffed and unflexible to mould to the shape of my neck. Very useful for sitting up in bed and writing, but when sleeping they’d better be left out of the bed, or a massive headache will be a regular morning guest.

Mixed desserts: As earlier mentioned here, Americans like everything bigger, easier or just more. So you don’t just have a brownie or a scoop of ice cream, you have brownie with ice cream, chocolate syrup, sprinkles and nuts. I am not complaining 😉

The accent: Most kiwis I’ve met so far thinks I am American. After more than 5 months in Ithaca I apparently sound like a native. That does _not_ please me! I can only hope that during my time here in New Zealand I’ll eventually begin sounding civilised again.

Cocktails before dinner: As I still haven’t developed the taste for neither wine nor beer, getting the option of a sweet mixed drink is rather appealing. For there have certainly been days where I’ve felt the need for that one drink with my dinner.
I appreciate the irony of having grown up in a country where most people drink, and quite a few drink more than is good for them, yet it has taken me moving to a place where the alcohol culture is much more restrained and puritan to appreciate unwinding with a drink.

Smores: Crispy toasted marshmellows with hot liquid centers, graham crackers and melting chocolate. Another example of bigger-better-more, but a very tasty one. And a good excuse for not doing much besides staring into the fire.
I am in the process of getting Christoffer hooked on these things – you are next.

Extra personal space: Americans have two to three times more personal space than we do back home. Whenever someone passes within a meter of you they will say “Excuse me” and look uncomfortable. I shower every day and generally do not go around armed. The first part is true for most Americans I’ve met and seen (Many fewer sweaty smelling people there than home – more care is taken to always be clean and smell good) so I don’t understand why people feel so bad walking close past each other. To me it seems exaggerated, something that might have started as a courtesy and then turned in to a nationwide obessive compulsion.

Chocolate chip things: Chocolate goes in so many more things here. Chocolate chip cookies, muffins, bagels, pancakes, waffles,… How can one object to that?

Pancakes for breakfast on weekends: Mmmm… Dessert for breakfast. Chocolate chip pancakes or waffles with butter and maple syrup. That one is definetely coming back to Denmark with me.

Thanksgiving: Feels like Christmas without religion, gifts and over-excited hyperactive children.
Only the best parts are left: the family getting together, being thankful and celebrating the lack of hunger and the joy of one’s loved one’s.
To bad it is Halloween and Valentine’s Day we are importing to Denmark these years – this holiday is much better.

Wastefulness and over-processing: Few people buy organic, everyone I’ve met pours out water like the supply is endless, food is very processed and many things have all sorts of weird stuff added.
I look forward to organic, carefully handled milk from Thise, no D or A vitamins poured in, the cream yellowish in summer when the cows graze outside. To flour that is just ground grain, nothing else. To bread that does not taste sweet. To food that comes in managable quantities – who needs milk in 4 liter cartons? To pure, tasty water straight from the tap, no chlorine.

Christmas stockings: Not only do they look very cozy and nice through December, they are yet another excuse for suprising your family with something (silly and) nice.
If I ever get to the point of pondering having children, they are most certainly getting both kalendergaver, normal gifts and stuffed stockings. And so am I 😉

Courtesy: Americans treat each other with a great deal more courtesy than anywhere else I’ve been. Especially (not surprisingly, they do after all get paid to be friendly) shop clerks and people in any kind of official and uniformed service job, but also just the average person on the street.
In the begining I had to stop myself from looking behind me to see who the lady addressed “Ma’am” was, as it took me a while to realize they meant me 😉
I like it. Especialy as I find myself in return smiling more, and treating strangers and clerks with more respect and friendliness than I did back home.

That it is OK to accept a compliment: There is no Jantelov in America. If you are good at something you are allowed to take pride in it, and when people compliment you for it you are not required to politely explain you accomplishment away, but can say thank you and smile. Not just allowed to, but even expected to.
It took me quite a while and some weird reactions to my Danish-bred “Well it was all because so-and-so helped/told/taught/… me x” to understand this.
When I get back, I hope I can manage to keep just saying thank you and not feel the need to explain things away upon receiving a compliment. After all, it seems fair to get the credit for one’s effort and work.

Cocoa butter body lotion: Maybe we have it in Denmark too and I just never noticed. I certainly find that I like the smell of me with a faint hint of chocolate. Even though that introduces the risk of me taking a bite 😉

I am sure there is more, but it eludes me. So as I am still jetlagged, the rest must wait.

Rejser • Skrevet 11. February, 2005 • Ingen kommentarer endnu

Skyerne var uordentligt bumplede og jeg var forvirret. Mine tanker løbende i adskillige retninger på flere sprog samtidig, stumper af sangtekster og samtaler ind over, diskontinuert, rasløst og smertende.

Hvde skyer omsluttede mig, fremkaldende en bleg afglans af limbo og det lykkedes mig at skive en bid af forvirringen og den indre karusseltur ud.

Blå himmel, solskin og bløde sletter af hvide skyer mens brevet jeg skrev bragte en smule ro i mit sind.

Solnedgangslys forude, diset krybende lyseblå skyer og en enkelt stjerne bagude mens jeg forsigtigt ånder i den skøbelige balance jeg har skabt. Forsigtige tanker – byder jeg ukritisk bestemte af slagsen indenfor vil den indre storm hastigt blæse op igen.

Om to timer lander jeg i Los Angeles.

13 timer nat hen over Stillehavet. Brian, en hyggelig skotte bosat i Canada at snakke med, sædet imellem os tomt og dermed lidt ekstra plads til os.

En smule af den gråd jeg har trængt så meget til sivende stille ud til en forudsigelig musikfilm i de tidlige morgentimer mens lyset stadig er slukket. Hvorfor mon det er mindre modbydeligt at græde til en film?

Ankomst til Auckland – klokken er halv otte her, mit indre ur ved godt at hjemme i Ithaca er klokken halv to om eftermiddagen. At det er igår der kan hjernen til gengæld ikke helt følge med til.

Varmt, fugtigt solskin udenfor mens jeg venter på¨bussen mellem terminalerne.

Min skrøbelige balance truer med at briste helt. Mange tanker om alt det jeg efterlader og om udfordringerne og forhindringerne i at starte forfra. Jeg græder næsten igen nu.

På tide at holde op – mit sidste fly på denne etape boarder snart og jeg vil forsøge at forsvinde ned i triviallitteratur inden jeg om ikke længe skal møde min første kontakt her, en af Rod Downeys post doc-studerende der henter mig i lufthavnen idet Rod selv først kommer tilbage om en uge. Hvad jeg skal laveindtil da ved jeg ikke. Derefter til det (umøblerede) værelse jeg har lejet – alle mine besiddelser i skrivende stund er mit tøj, en håndfuld müslibarer og en vaskeklud fra flyet – ikke engang et håndklæde har jeg.

Min bagage er overordentlig rodet, min nydelige pakkejob ganske spoleret af TSA, da de udvalgte mig til et udvidet sikkerhedstjek. Jeg må ligne en smugler eller en terrorist 😉 Eller også var det fordi Kamal fulgte mig til lufthavnen, og alle rigtige amerikanere ved jo at arabere og folk med arabiske navne er terrorister alle til hobe ;-/

Men det var nu ganske underholdende at stå og se den venlige mand pille alting ud af min kuffert, og senere blive meget bekymret spurgt af en kvindelig officer om jeg var tryg ved at hun rørte ved min ryg for at se om jeg havde noget skjult under trøjen, eller om vi skulle gå ind i et andet lokale først. Amerikanerne er forbløffende blufærdige.

Her er den omhyggelige kuffertindholdsudtager:

Rejser • Skrevet 09. February, 2005 • Ingen kommentarer endnu

Many thoughts of my time here. Chest tight around my flame, it struggling to burn clear and straight.

The sorrow of leaving and the challenge of arriving.

Time too short, slipping through my mental fingers, gone before I am done trying to grab and hold it.

Real-time pain and soon-to-be limbo.

My arms open, hoping to embrace Continuous Now.

The road goes ever on and I am walking it. Right now.

Rejser • Skrevet 07. February, 2005 • Ingen kommentarer endnu

“Home” my heart sings “I’m going home!”.

Why it chants so for a place I have lived for just 5 short months I do not know, but sing it does, and have been doing since I first caught sight of New York’s lights flying into Newark last night.

Now, on the bumping Greyhound bus (be glad I have to type this before you read it!) on a clear Thursday morning, remnants of snow still sparkling in the sharply slanted winter sunlight, the song grows stronger with each passing mile.

For now I try not to think about leaving – that in just 4 days I will be in airports again, this time leaving for good, for New Zealand and my next great adventure.

So what will I remember from here, what have I learned so far, which lessons did America have to teach a shy Northerner desperately grasping her courage last August and jumping in with the intention of learning to swim?

At some point Ganesh asked me that question, and my IM history shows that I told him the following:

Ganesh Ramanarayanan: 15:57:27

What lessons have you learned so far?

Terese Damhøj Andersen: 16:01:58

That it is possible that some people could find me wortwhile for me, and not just by default/for the way I look.

That when I really try I don’t come across as hostile and indifferent

That I seem stronger outward than I am on the inside

That I can live alone and enjoy it at least partly

Who the important people in my life back home are.

Things about American culture

That religion is not necessarily something to hide and not be talked about/be ashamed of…

Terese Damhøj Andersen: 16:09:06

… the list is missing one important item: I am slowly and sometimes learning to live right now, not worrying excessively about tomorrow/next week/things to be done and things to come.

Especially my first month here and this last month. Not being able to imagine where, how and around who I’ll be in a couple of weeks can give a feeling of Continuous Now.

I can not recreate it on purpose, but I am beginning to recognze it when it is in me. To fluid and fragile to capture and hold. I sometimes dare to hope I’ll eventually learn to keep it with me.

Terese Damhøj Andersen: 16:09:54

…. allthough that is a lot to ask for.

Primarily I am slowly beginning to learn that when I really try, I can do more than I think I can, that I can adapt. That when more is put on the line and only I am there to make it work I vaguely glimpse some sinuous, persevering inner strength. I remember my Grandmother saying “One gets far with stubbornness” It seems to me there is a lesson worth taking to heart somewhere in this.

I dare to imagine – not expect! – to someday learn to actively access that strength.

Firm in my memory are the people who made me feel so astoundingly welcome here. The alleged friendliness, consideration and openness of the Americans is no rumor but fact, at least in Ithaca. Warm and considerate people – some I know, some strangers – have offered help, given advice, made available their contacts to me and even invited me into their homes and families to share the holidays with them. Amazing and humbling.

I came here expecting interesting work and hopefully pleasant colleagues and acquaintances. I did no expect to also find friendship. This seems to indicate that sometimes, when I really try, some people can find me worthwhile just for me. Not surprisingly my inner self finds this unbelievable and waves away the empirical evidence as pure luck 😉

The work. Having a go at SML, playing with the intricacies of algorithmics, being wide awake and very alert in Japanese class under Nakanishi-sensei’s watchful eyes, ears and mind focused on her rapid speech. (Oh if I could be a teacher like that.) Reliving the joy of pair programming and joint problem solving. It is so good to be studying again.

The land itself. Green-in-green in summer, warm and luscious, always the sound of running water from a gorge nearby. All the hues of fire in fall, the rounded mountains set ablaze with color. The stars, so many stars in Ithaca.

New York in the snow storm, the bustling gray city gone quiet, the streets empty but for the wind, all the grayness hidden under a foot of snow.

Daylight at 4:30 in the afternoon on Winter Solstice. Cicadas when I just arrived. The moon in the backyard on my birthday. Bare feet in the first snowfall. A view over the hills of Pennsylvania from the trampoline the morning of the third day of Christmas. Rain pelting down in October, the puddle outside my door becoming a lake. Stewart park the last warm Friday afternoon in fall, reading a book at the edge of Cayuga Lake. A wind chill of -30 C on a beautiful, snowswept January morning…

This land has many faces and they are all beautiful to me.

Can a place one is leaving not to come back be home?

Rejser • Skrevet 05. February, 2005 • Ingen kommentarer endnu

Det er sært trist at flyve natten i møde. Den sidste røde solnedgangsglød har sluppet os, og skyhavet nedenfor blåner og bliver mere tågeagtigt. Varmen bløder ud af udsigten, og mine fingre og tæer ved at jeg er på vej tilbage til vinteren. På vej til en kuffert der skal pakkes og bittersøde farvel der skal bydes. På vej hjem, omend kun kort. Jeg må se at mestre kunsten at få en dag til at synes et år.

Jeg må jo indse at jeg ikke får skrevet så meget uden min trofaste laptop og med begrænset netadgang – det er ikke just befordrende for skriveriet at skulle dechifrere og lynindtaste krøllede lapper med min mestendedels ulæselige håndskrift mens en halvtræt hotelskrankepave holder øje med at jeg ikke overskrider mine tildelte 10 minutter.

Så nu hvor jeg sidder i flyet, nu mere end halvt opslugt af natten, kommer her en gengivelse af noget at det jeg ville have fortalt jer de sidste par dage.

Getty Center: Form over indhold.



Verdens rigeste museum,det påstår guidebogen i hvert fald. En vision af hvide kuber, firkantede søjler og bløde 60er-rumskibsinspirerede kurver draperet over toppen af to bjergkamme vest for LA, med egen sporvognslinie fra gadeniveau og de 10 minutter til toppen. En rig mands drøm om et kunstmuseum.

Vi så det en smilende varm sommersøndag i januar, solen bagte blødt og en kølig brise fløj over landskabet og løb i cirkler mellem søjlerne. Eller rettere sagt: Vi så 1½ af kunstudstillingerne og var mildest talt ikke imponerede – ikke efter The Metropolitan og LACMA. (Det eneste lyspunkt vi kom forbi var et lille rum med terrakottaskulpturer og forklaringer om hvordan de brugtes som forstudier til marmorudgaver og forskellene i de to materialers muligheder.Herfra en buste af en fransk kvinde (hvis navn jeg har glemt) der bjergtog mig med sin karaktergengivelse)



Derefter rettede vi opmærksomheden mod det der _var_ imponerende: stedet selv. De 6 bygninger nøje placeret i det bakkede terræn så hver en udsigt, hvert glimt af de grønne bjerge hele vejen rundt og LA i horisonten ses nydeligt indrammet af de hvidkaklede mure i en serie af imponerende udendørsrum – som enorme panoramavinduer i en kæmpes hus.

Haven må også nævnes: Anlagt af en billedhugger, ikke en haveplanlægger er den et studie i overflader, form og farve. Så strengt geometrisk som en slotshave fra 1700-tallet men ganske anderledes opbygget. Om hvert et hjørne en overraskelse i form af lyd, lugt eller udseende. Og fra bunden af haven, det eneste sted i hele centret man (bevidst) berøves udsigten over landskabet, et intenst udsyn til haven og museet, de hvide søjler knejsende nærmest klassisk til trods for deres rå og firkantede ydre, bibringende de kubiske kolosbygninger en overraskende lethed.

Hvis jeg var museumsansat var det helt sikkert der, i fokuspunktet for al stedets ikke ubetydelige energi (luften var tyk af den!) jeg ville udføre mine bønner og ritualer.

Interstates: I toget på vej til LAX. Hen over landskabet, omkring og over perronerne bugter de sig som enorme pythonslanger, motorvejene. Ofte 6 spor i hver retning, utallige forgreninger, broer, tunneller. Store hvidgrå slanger, tunge og dovne. Udspyende mængder af køretøjer i søgen efter steder at parkere. LA er i sandhed en by befolket af bilejere. De fleste af de steder vi kom var havdelen af hver blok parkeringsplads. Til mellem $5 og $9 i timen! Jeg forstår ikke hvordan folk har råd.

Den offentlige transport forbløffede mig med sin kvalitet. En ren ny metro med farverigt dekorerede stationer, utallige lettilgængelige busruter og direkte metroforbindelse mellem downtown (hvor vi boede) og lufthavnen. Og det var billigt! $3 for en heldagsbillet gældende i alle busser, selv til fjernere destinationer som Getty og Santa Monica. Hjemme i Århus kan man vist ikke engang få en enkeltbillet til de penge længere.



Santa Monica: Den berømte mole med halvhjertet tivoli og urimeligt dyre snacks gik vi hurtigt ned fra igen. Men spadsereturen langs stranden, lunt sand mellem mine bare tæer, at soppe i havet i januar 😉 det var ikke så dårligt. Vandet var koldt – en påmindelse om at det ikke er et lunt og beskyttet lille hav som derhjemme men det store, sultne Stille Ocean jeg dyppede tæerne i.



Senere en gåtur langs den lige så berømte Promenade hvor jeg grumt lod mig friste af en fuldfed varm, blød hvidløgspretzel og et flammefarvet puslespil udformet som en drage.

Pretzlen er i det mindste spist og skal kun bæres med videre som fedtpolstring på min bag. Puslespillet grubler jeg stadig over – så meget plads er der heller ikke i min kuffert, for slet ikke at tale om prisen for at sende det hjem. Men mit barnlige hjerte glædes hver gang mit blik falder på æsken med billedet af dens drageformede indhold, så helt spildt er det vel ikke. Bare fjollet.

Måske skulle jeg sende den hjem til Christoffer til låns indtil jeg selv kommer tilbage. Jeg spår den en fremtid hængende over min seng, beskyttende min søvn.

Inden vi tog til Getty og Santa Monica spiste vi amerikansk morgenmad på “The Pantry”, et gammeldags morgenmadssted der ikke har været lukket en eneste gang siden det åbnede i 1920erne. Ikke engang under jordskælv eller urolighederne i 1992. Vi fik the, jeg fik boghvedepandekager og Nis bestilte hvedepandekager, frisk appelsinjuice, brasede kartofler og æg. Enten ser han vældig godt tilfreds ud i al almindelighed, eller også morer han sig på min bekostning idet jeg efter at have gjort kål på broderparten af mine egne pandekager, en hel del smør og 1/3 flaske sirup lystigt fortsatte med hans efterladte kartofler og hvedepandekager. Jeg forstår ikke hvordan nogen der kender mig kan undres herover 😉

Under alle omstændigheder synes jeg det er et godt billede af ham.

I mandags var vi i Universal Studios, en slags sammenblanding af et tivoli og en demonstration af hvad der foregår i filmstudier.

Her er en typisk amerikansk forstadsgade – har du set den før?



Den har nemlig været både i Buffy, Desparate Housewives og adskilligt andet. Spøjst som øjet ikke opdager den slags.

Som I kan se regner det også i det solrige Californien – i hvert fald på disse 50 meter mexikansk landsby i Universal Studios, hvor det tropiske regnskyl laves af sprinklere der kaster vand op i luften og springfloden slippes fri omme bag hjørnet.

Rejser • Skrevet 03. February, 2005 • Ingen kommentarer endnu

I La Brea ligger Page Museum der udstiller diverse af fundene man har halet op af tjærepølene. Blandt andet adskillige sabelkatskeletter som dette.

Her kan I se at små sabelkatte har sabelkattemælketænder inden de får deres blivende sabeltænder:

Rejser • Skrevet 30. January, 2005 • 1 kommentar

Warmth on my upturned face, uncovered hair and bared arms, the light red-golden filtered through eyelids. The hot wide smell of tar from the pit on the other side of the path.

Cool moist grass beneath me, the low stone wall at my back reaching body temperature and giving off a faint rock scent mingling with that of sun-touched skin. A tiny bug tickling as it crosses the strip of back between jeans and brown sweater.

Noon approaches, my hair approaches 120 F and I ponder converting neck scarf to hijab against the sun.

Children running, families pushing strollers, the breeze rustling oak leaves and a book forgotten in my lap, its appeal unable to compete with the sun for my attention.

Summer in the midst of winter.

Rejser • Skrevet 30. January, 2005 • Ingen kommentarer endnu