When in Rome

The leading cause of death in Danmark is not heart failure. This used to entirely mystify me. Perhaps you have never been exposed to unadulterated Danish cuisine, but I have. It includes everything imaginable that can be concocted from lactose, and then some. To provide an example, a typical breakfast at Vejlefjordskolen will offer an array of yogurt, varying percentages of milk, one or two mats of butter, five kinds of spreadable cheeses, at least one block of solid cheese, a bowl of cottage cheese, and several cartons of sour buttermilk. This is to say nothing of the breads, chocolates, and pastries which are provided on Sunday mornings. Perhaps now you understand my mystification when I observed that the average Danish citizen was fifty pounds lighter than the average American. Oughtn't they to be rolling down the streets as bloated balls of blubber? But that is where I was mistaken: the very reason that the Danes are not bloated balls of blubber is because they are rolling down the streets. But it's not on the spherical shapes of their rotund forms; it's on the wheels of their bicycles. Everybody, from three-year old Jesper to eighty-five- year old Bedstemor, is cycling. Toddlers pedal off to nursery school on their tricycles. Grandfathers wheel their way home from the pharmacy. Mothers zoom in and out of city traffic, balancing grocery bags on their bike racks. Anxious to join the ranks of active Danes, I invested in a bicycle along with Maria, our Slovakian student missionary. We each payed for half of it and we each use it half the time. This week I decided to make a 20 km venture to Hedensted in order to purchase some necessary goods (Daugaard, which is only 4 km from the school, boasts a booming one-grocery-store selection). The air was crisp and autumnally clear, and the omnipresent gray sky seemed to be taking a much needed vacation. With nalgene in pack and windbreaker on back, I set off, feeling confident and pleased with myself for acting so very Danish. Nimbly I whizzed along, over slight rise and down into slight decline. Life was grand. This was the true essence of the phrase, "when in Rome, do as the Romans do." What pudgey, American couch potato would dare to mount his cycle for a 20 km trip? I was most obviously an exceptional representation of my race. I was making an effort to blend with the culture. I was being active, efficient, and speedy on my bike. Who'd ever be able to guess I was American? Wasn't I awesome? Well, you know what happened next. With no warning whatsoever, the chain flew off its gear and the rythmatic pumping of my legs transformed into a free-air flail. Entirely abashed, I tipped my bike upside down and began fiddling with the chain. I might as well tell you the truth: I'm far from mechanically minded. It took me a good fifteen minutes of wrestling with the thing before it settled into place again. I triumphantly wiped the grease off of my hands and fished in my bag for my camera. Such a momentous victory ought to be analoged for posterity. As I experimented with different angles and background scenery for the shot, a grandpa pedaled idly by on the other side of the road. He nodded "good day", and gave me a wise and knowing look: A young girl with a sporty windbreaker and half-empty nalgene lying askew on the wet grass while she studied the best way to photograph an upside down bicyle on the side of the road. Yep. Must be an American...