#iwasalsoinnorway

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Better Late?

Hear ye! Hear ye! Here’s your Danish round-up! I am only one month in, and already three weeks behind in blogging, so LET’S. GET. INTO. IT.

To be perfectly honest, Denmark was a bit of a blur of old host families, friends, language, and memories. The weather was tremendous for my first week, and after a night out celebrating with my dear friend Eva (and perhaps a bit too much wine), the two of us took off the next morning for Aarhus, back in Jylland. There, we stayed with her mother (the lovely Berit) by the sea, and even got some sunbathing and swimming in. Eva was singing at a confirmation the second day, so I got to sit in on a very common Danish practice for teens making the commitment to Jesus (pronounced YAY-Suess). It was nice, if that’s your thing. What I was more tickled with, was the harbor-side lunch the three of us had afterward, during which I got a sunburn (in Denmark!). The next day, we drove back to Copenhagen and met the rest of Eva’s family on the beach for a barbecue. The weather was lovely, the company even more so. 

Unfortunately, Eva had to work much of the time I was visiting, but the plus side was that I got to explore Copenhagen on my own and do all the touristy things my heart desired. My first move was to take a canal tour, which strangely, I had never done, and which gave me a better sense of the layout of this beautiful city. Beer in hand, I took in every canal dotted with Danes with such wonder--people live like this! There is a concept in Denmark that strictly belongs to the Danes called “hygge.” To “hygge” is to spend quality time, or roughly translated, “cozy” time, with others, though that is a simplification that only scratches the surface. But to paint the picture, it was thirty degrees (Celsius, people), and Danes were out in droves drinking beer, talking, taking in the sun. It was delightful, not least because everyone in Denmark looks like a supermodel. 

After my canal tour, I wandered around Christiania, a self-sufficient city within the city that was originally re-appropriated by ex-cons and the homeless population almost forty years ago. Formerly empty military barracks, this part of the city is now a free society that is totally self-sufficient due to these overlooked Danes that had some wherewithal. Thank you, socialism. After strolling through what seemed like a little chunk of the Oregon-Country-Fair-In-Denmark, I climbed the famous Vor Frelsers Kirke (Our Savior’s Church), whose spiral staircase takes you all the way to the top, with magnificent views of Copenhagen. I then treated myself to ice cream. 

I allowed myself to wander, and in doing so, found Kongens Have, or the King’s Garden, a beautiful, ambling green space that, yes, used to be the King of Denmark’s garden. Gorgeous. By that time though, the sun was waning, and I had blisters, so I made my way home to Eva in Kongens Lyngby. 

The following day, it was time to head to Sweden to see my darling Kielmanns. My second host family had moved up to their summer house full-time since last I’d seen them, and after a six hour bus ride from Copenhagen, I was in Tanum, Sweden. Their home was a beautifully updated turn of the century traditional Swedish farmhouse set amidst lush nature, a little more wild than pristine Denmark, and Kirsten and Jan and Signe were gracious hosts, as always. Our first day was spent down by the lake, where Jan and Kirsten kindly gave me a tour of their ample inland sea, and then relaxing on the porch with a cup of tea and a good book. Perfect. The following day was for history, as was Kirsten’s and my tradition, but not before they took me to their little town center and showed me around. Strangely, Swedish people love American culture. I wandered through a store that was eerily identical to Bi-Mart, which are few and far between in Europe. A store where you can by potting soil, doilies, blue eyeliner, AND underwear? Talk about one-stop shopping. I think it’s because Sweden has much more space to work with, meaning much of their population is spread out and rural, that these Scandinavians feel a kinship with this idea of the Wild West. I could be wrong, but I did see a lot of dirt bikes.

Side note: when we stopped at a shopping center for groceries (Jan is the most excellent cook), I started buzzing upon entry and got pulled to the side where I was made to empty my whole purse and walk through the alarm system SIX TIMES. Even when I stopped buzzing and it was determined that I hadn’t, in fact, stolen any of their precious moments knock-off figurines, I still got Swedish side-eye and no “sorry.” Hmph. 

The more culturally significant stop was to see the petroglyphs near Tanumshede that have been there since approximately 1800-500 BC. The rock carvings are multitudinous and far-spread (covering 126 acres), and truly a sight to behold, though they are eroding at a dangerous rate due to tourism and acid rain. The truly curious thing is that we can only guess about their meaning. Are they recitations of Bronze Age lore? Information for travelers? Even the scientists studying them can’t be sure, but they are there for us to wonder at.  

It was wonderful to see the Kielmanns again after seven years, and after a brief two days, I was back on a bus for Copenhagen. Of course, the trip was overshadowed by the loss of Kirsten and Jans’ son Kaare, a wonderfully gentle and gracious man who is greatly missed. 

But my trip down memory lane did not stop there! The next day I caught a bus to Vejle, back on Jylland where I first spent time as an exchange student. My first host father, Ove, was there to greet me, and he promptly whisked me away to the family’s summer house. This house is like something out of a Hans Christian Andersen fairytale, all gingerbread trimmings and birdhouses, and loft beds and playrooms. It was always a special place for me, and I’m so grateful to be welcomed there still, as it was here I chose to bury a time capsule from that first year in Denmark. Ove pointed out where it was, but I think I’ll wait a little longer before I unearth that buried treasure.

The next day, we drove back to Ejstrupholm, the village where I lived ten years ago. Reentering that first home was odd--familiar but smaller, much like returning home always is. It was emptier, too, as Ove’s wife Susanne, who always filled the room with her smile, had also passed away in recent years. 

But Ove, not one to waste a moment, made an excellent tour guide and drove me back to Aarhus to see the Aros Museum of Art, with a fabulous color wheel installation that you can walk around to see the city, literally, in different lights. From there, we had lunch with his lovely daughter Anne and her family, and carried on to Moesgaard Museum, home of the Bog Man, and a startlingly huge collection of artifacts from throughout Denmark’s history. I could have spent three days in the museum--there was just so much to look at! I highly recommend a visit, should you find yourself in that particular corner of the world. On the way home, we drove past a deer park, and yes, it is what it says: a park, with no guards or rangers, that the public can enter, AND PET DEER. This sort of thing would never--could never--exist in America. Someone would try to shoot Bambi and it would all be over before it began. But this place was such an amazing sanctuary where nature and man commingled and agreed not to fuck with each other. Of course I made Ove stop.

I spent the following day with my fourth and final host family, the Christensens, and man, nothing makes you feel older than seeing the nine-year-old you remember asking you to play on the trampoline as a full-fledged man, driving you around in his convertible. I also spoke mostly Danish for seven hours, which was quite gratifying. 

On our last full day together, Ove drove me down to SønderJylland, the Southwest part of Denmark, and we stopped in Viborg (fairytale city), Tønder (which strangely boasts a huge collection of Henry Moore in a museum that also has a large Danish furniture wing, a teaspoon collection, and used to be an 18th century prison), and Rømø (a thin island that draws staggering amounts of kite and windsurfers, and people who just like kites). But the main attraction for me was actually the Emil Nolde museum, which is located in northern Germany, close to the border with Denmark. I hadn’t known much about the artist before, and though I don’t enjoy all of his work, most of it, I really did, not to mention his home, surrounded by gardens was some of the loveliest scenery I’ve seen in a while (see: Aventoft). It was an exhausting, but beautiful day.

I saw my third host family, the Kristoffersens, on my last day in town, and they, as always, had put out the best spread. We caught up and laughed, and promised to Skype. The only other thing I did that day was walk around Ejstrupholm Lake, thinking about the ground I’ve covered in ten years, everything that led me back to this place. And, corny as it sounds, I thanked this ground--thanked it for challenging me, pushing me out of my comfort zone ten years ago, and instilling in me a sense of strength in wanderlust as I step out into the world again. 

My few remaining days in Denmark were, luckily, spent with Eva. She and her lovely boyfriend, Nick, and others, took me out in such style and with such aplomb, that I remember only slivers, but I know we laughed a lot. The one afternoon she did have to work, I walked around her neighborhood and found--you guessed it!--another palace. I wandered around the grounds with classical music gently guiding my steps, as though I were a lady-in-waiting in the 17th century, and thought myself so lucky to be amidst such beauty. I spotted another palace up ahead, but as soon as I got up close, it was simply someone’s home. It seems my whole time in Denmark, I was exclaiming to myself: “People actually live like that!” I don’t think I will ever tire of the rich history and culture that surrounds most other places in the world. Having grown up in a place with a rich natural beauty, I do appreciate home, of course, but there is something more--a different smell, a feeling that seeps up from the ground that reminds one how transient we are in the grand scheme of things, but how grand man can be all the same.