Weekend update:

My room looks like a bomb went off in it right now. And one did -- a drunk bomb. Stuff is everywhere: coins and bottle caps cover my desk like spent shells, and clothing is strewn across the room like casualties of a particularly bloody battle. One of my particularly effective late night drunken bombing raids, I would say. Now, on to other things. There is a lot to cover.

1) I made an awesome, yet somewhat terrible decision last night. Luckily, it was completely unlike my typical bad decisions, but 'twas a bad decision nonetheless.

On my half mile walk from bar to bus stop last night, I ingested two "hotdogs with everything" and two hamburgers. Disgusting, yes -- but awesome? I think so. It was simple, really. It was late, I was hungry, and I had Danish Monopoly money to burn.

It started innocently enough. I went to one of Copenhagen's many sausage stands, and asked for a hotdog with everything -- technically, the "ristet hotdog," but I decided that in my inebriated state I would avoid any attempt of proper pronunciation. Plus, when I had tried to ask for one completely sober a couple days earlier, they still didn't know what I was talking about. Dutifully, the nice man working the stand began to prepare my dog. A "hotdog with everything" is a wonderful arrangement of the finest Danish junkfood delicacies. It starts with the 'dog itself, which is awkwardly long, and protrudes significantly on either side from the bun, which is correspondingly small. Next, the dog-bun arrangement is covered with a medley of substances: ketchup, mustard, some other mustard, some mayonnaise-like thing that is probably more mustard, diced raw onions, diced fried onions, and a blanket of pickles to keep everything in good order. It is quite delicious, and can be had for the tidy sum of 22-24 Danish kroner, depending on the stand (just over $4).
Back to the story at hand. I got my hotdog, and it was summarily devoured within seconds. Delicious, yes, but satisfying? Far from it. I kept walking, my hunger yet to be sated. Luckily, sausage stands are to Denmark what fat people are to America -- they're everywhere. Especially in touristy places. So within the space of maybe one hundred meters, I encountered another stand, where with no hesitation I got in line, got my dog, and dispatched another ristet hotdog directly to the gut.
I kept walking, but I was still hungry, so I made the executive decision that I would stop at every sausage stand I encountered on the walk back, until I either: a) arrived at my destination, b) ran out of money, or c) puked three different mustardy substances onto Copenhagen's cobbled streets. I was a man on a mission.

I got to another stand about a minute or two after leaving the last, and again waited my turn. This time I decided to go out on a limb and ask for the "bøf sandwich," or, in American, "hamburger." My request was granted, and for only a bit more money, I received a significantly larger portion of food -- a burger piled high with all of the accoutrements previously described on the ristet hotdog. It was quite good.

I kept walking, feeling around in my pockets for more loose change. I felt like a junkie looking for his next score -- stumbling, glancing around all shifty-eyed, not sure whether he'll have enough money to get what he needs. I think if my money had run out, I wouldn't have been opposed to selling my body on the street to pay for my next dog. Of course, in that case, I'd probably be getting enough sausage as is.

I finally arrived at the station, where I bought another burger at the last sausage stand on my walk. It was as good as the first. I waited a couple minutes for my bus, then wasn't sure whether or not I was at the right place, so I walked back up the station a bit. I tried to decide whether passing by another stand (it was probably fifty feet from the other one) as I walked through the station counted as part of my journey, but I refrained from indulging in another meaty snack. It was probably for the best.

While I had a great time and was, eventually, fully satisfied, by this morning I began to regret my culinary adventure. I awoke with the taste of three different mustards in my mouth, which is not all that delicious when not combined with a loaded dog or burger. Regardless, I wouldn't be opposed to embarking on a similar journey at some point in the future, and I might recommend my Sausage Stand Crawl to all my friends. It's like a pub crawl, but meatier.

2) An interesting article in the New York Times yesterday questioning the wisdom of America's abstinence-only policy towards sexual education. Notable, because of this information:

A 2001 Unicef report said that the United States teenage birthrate was higher than any other member of the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development. The U.S. tied Hungary for the most abortions. This was in spite of the fact that girls in the U.S. were not the most sexually active. Denmark held that title. But, its teenage birthrate was one-sixth of ours, and its teenage abortion rate was half of ours.

So while Americans are getting lectured in health class only to blow the whole thing later, the Danes are getting it on, but putting one on first.

3) My soccer club had a party last night. Dinner was served, the Danish national team was watched (a 0-0 draw with Hungary), and alcohol was consumed. After the game, everyone hung out and talked for a while, and it was nice to talk to the Danes about something other than where I should be on corner kicks. I ended up debating the merits of the US political system with two guys whose names I never actually caught, and it was a long conversation. Earlier, I had a long talk about American football with one of the Danes sitting at my table. He was shocked to hear that I'm from Boston and I've never been to a Patriots game (or a Red Sox game, for that matter -- sacrilege, I know). Apparently, he's an avid fan. The Danes watch football -- American football. Who knew?

I've noticed that in my conversations with the Danes, for some reason I take on this weird, quasi-Euro accent, as if to pretend that for me, too, English is a second language. Perhaps I've taken the Danish idea of equality in every aspect of life to heart, and have lowered my English speaking and pronunciation ability to their level. Whatever it is, at various points in conversation I realize that I'm speaking in some vaguely British accent, or that I'm using the intonation of someone uncomfortable with the English language. It's odd. Not sure why it happens -- it's not a conscious decision -- but I have found that observations about the American political system seem that much more insightful when delivered with an accent that says, "Why yes, I am a cultured, cosmopolitan European -- and did you know that we have universal healthcare?"