It’s been a pretty interesting few weeks in my personal life.  There was some romantic drama in Paris which only reminded me of why I’ve been avoiding real-life romance.  In my ideal world there would be no drama, and I’d rationalize everything out to its most logical conclusion with factual, egoless conversation.  But feelings are irrational and illogical and it’s important to listen to them, just not be consumed by them.

Every hiccup is an opportunity to learn and I think I tend to become strongest when I’ve had to question myself.  I try to work out what I’ve done to contribute to a problem in my life, then fix it.  Was I expecting too much or too little?  Did I give too much or too little?  

I had dinner with a former love in London.  He’s someone I still love to pieces but am happy to be doing so from a distance.  He’s getting married, he says.  He’s happy, he thinks.  He seems content.  I think I’m happy for him.  She’s a catch: beautiful, successful, says the right thing, lots of friends.  I should feel envious in theory but I don’t.  I know I don’t want that perfect life, I’ve had it and it made me miserable.  It’s good for him though, the structure of social rules, feathers unruffled, duty carried out correctly.  I’ve no doubt he’ll make a loyal husband and while his decisions are not all ones I’d agree with, I admire the emotional maturity with which he’s begun to live his life.  I don’t say this just because he’s getting married–I’m the last person to think that lifestyle choices inherently speak to character.  It just reminds me that it’s time to do a little more growing up myself.  

So, I return to New York with resolve and a smile, I’ve missed the Big Apple and its loud, crazy streets.  I’ve missed my dog, I’ve missed my friends and I’ve missed really great steak restaurants, Maze Grill notwithstanding.

Photo by Manual Mason for Cent Magazine

I’m learning about Kinbaku.  So far I’ve tried out my own knotting and tying skills but hope to find myself on the other side of the rope at some point…

Copenhagen–I’m here because I have some Danish ancestry (it’s a way back but still significant).  I wanted to get a sense of my roots and see whether the pragmatic Scandinavian ideal that has always appealed to me is as natural an inclination in reality. My initial impression had me wondering if there was a mix-up in the family tree.  Having been directed toward a very local establishment serving authentic smorasbord (open-faced sandwiches) I was immediately declined a coffee by the proprietress.  “Not with my food” she said.  I suggested a sparkling water, which was apparently more acceptable.  The other restaurant inhabitants were a surly lot, reminiscent of their viking past.  I know that sounds disingenuous but it was my honest (and surprising) first impression.   A friend once described two friends of his–sisters–as being so resilient they could withstand the full force of a tornado (they were tall women, Amazonian in appearance and temperament).  The Danes in the cafe reminded me of his metaphor–not just tall, they were large-framed and strong.  It turned out that coffee with very fresh smoked salmon and herring would indeed have been a gastronomical faux pas, and I thanked our hostess for enlightening me.  Meals at more cosmopolitan restaurants haven’t been as good but after Paris, it’s to be expected.  

I’ve found the Danes to be helpful and practical–if something can be done, they’ll do it.  Copenhagen is not bound up by beurocratic rules in the way that New York is.  People seem to feel a social responsibility at the same time as a healthy sense of self preservation.  

Everyone cycles–bike lanes are clearly delineated on almost every street and neither cars nor pedestrians block them.  There’s a newish metro system, which the locals the locals are still getting used to.  Here, escalators and moving walkways are for standing on–to Danes, walking up or down an escalator is a sign of stress, a completely unnecessary emotional state.  Everything has it’s purpose here and should be used as such!

The Danes whom I’ve asked for help have done everything they reasonably can to oblige, otherwise they seem to keep to themselves.  There’s a lack of pretense and self absorbtion in Copenhagen.  People are certainly expressing themselves in the way they dress and live but it just doesn’t seem like a big deal to do so here.  The lack of drama is refreshing but seems to go hand-in-hand with a lack of glamour, of joie de vivre.  Even those who are dressed up have considered the practicality of their fashion.  Having prowled almost every corner of the city, I’ve yet to find one super chic area.  Close to the royal residences however, is a row of furniture design showrooms which, should I ever find myself with an unlimited decorating budget, I will plumage with sheer joy.  The Scandinavian reputation for design ingenuity is not without good reason, the architecture and industrial design of the city has been the most interesting part for me.

Paris has been about eating, walking and exchanging once-overs with stylish French women. Actually, the Parisian once-over is more like being minutely scrutinized from head to toe, then back up again. As well-turned-out as many Parisians are, and although the average person is perhaps better dressed than his or her New York counterpart, I noticed less fashion risk-taking on the streets of The City of Lights. Strolling the Left Bank one day in a pair of yellow stockings (no, not just the stockings), I began to feel as though I had alien legs, never before seen on earth. I don’t think I’m particularly avant-garde when it comes to dressing, and colored legs are barely noticed at home.  The curiosity in Paris was amusing–one woman went so far as to point and exclaim something I couldn’t understand as I passed her on the sidewalk.

I didn’t get around to trying Chez L’Ami Louis–so many opinions, I wanted to make up my own mind–but did eat incredibly well.  The pride that waiters take in their jobs is inspiring–they’re the custodians of one of the basic tenets of French culture. It’s almost spiritual the way a good meal is presented and consumed, I really felt as though the meals I ate were feeding my soul as much as my stomach. Aux Charpentiers an old bistro which opened more than 130 years ago, is reminiscent of the Left Bank of yesteryear. It was once the rendezvous spot of master carpenters, whose guild was next door. Though the food isn’t imaginative, it’s well prepared in the best tradition of cuisine bourgeoise–hearty but not effete.

Le Pétrelle was an understated but exceptional gastronomical experience. In the south of Montmartre, this quaint little place is a hidden gem. The space is small and decorated with eclectic found objects, books and art-light. Antique French chandeliers hang above each table and the resident cat, Roxy slinks from table to table for a visit. She’s perfectly well-behaved and will eat foie gras if it’s offered, but she won’t pester you for it. When we arrived, Roxy was spread across the chair at which I was to be seated. Rather than disturb her, the waiter moved the chair and le chat to a spare corner and found one for me sans animal de compagnie. This gesture was an example of the homely atmosphere at Le Petrelle–a sophisticated homeliness offset perfectly by a little French quirkiness. Un repas fabuleux!

There wasn’t a meal or a snack I consumed in Paris that wasn’t prepared and presented with pride.  It made eating so much more satisfying than I feel it is at home.  The experience reminded me of Mireille Guiliano’s book, ‘Why French Women Don’t Get Fat’.  Along with the fact that the French lifestyle is probably less sedentary than the average American one, it occurred to me that the French approach to food is almost certainly a part of the reason.