It’s a good world

In a brief departure from my usual long-winded analyses of all things Danish, I just want to share a few stories that have made me really happy, starting on Friday afternoon:

I went exploring with two friends of mine, and we discovered a graveyard in the middle of the Nørrebro neighborhood, and it was beautiful. It was really more of a park than an actual graveyard–lots of trees; long, wide paths with lots of people walking or biking; graves heavily adorned with flowers and candles; wide open greenspaces to walk in. I was really impressed, because while the solemnity of death had not been replaced by people exercising, the graveyard was nevertheless a place to explore rather than avoid–I feel like it was a way to make death a part of life.

Death, be not proud

Continuing on with the awesomeness of the Nørrebro neighborhood, my friends and I wandered into the Landromat Cafe, which is a fairly well-known place in Denmark (at least, famous enough to be mentioned in my guidebooks), and it is exactly what it sounds like: a cafe where one can have a cup of coffee, take a paperback from the long, long shelves of books, and do one’s laundry. It is a very warm place, and remarkably practical if you ask me–you’d be sitting there with your laundry anyway, so why not have tea?

The washing machines are in back

I love the place. I plan on returning on my next trip to Nørreport, which will hopefully be soon. That whole neighborhood in general is pretty amazing, although apparently there were some youth riots there a while back. But then again, I’ve always wanted to see a riot happen (a summer in Boston, and NOTHING), so maybe…

Bidding Nørreport farewell, I took the train and then the bus back to my town of Greve. Now while I would love (and I mean REALLY REALLY LOVE) to use that segue to talk about transportation in Denmark, I’m not going to do so just yet. That day will come later, and it will be a beautiful day. But anyway. I was on the bus, which was just departing the train station. It is important to realize that buses in Denmark run on a pretty tight schedule, so once they are in motion, they generally do not stop (except for, you know, bus stops). But the bus had just started to pull away when it stopped suddenly. I thought there might have been a problem with the bus, but instead the driver opened the door to allow someone who had just gotten to the station to board. The door opened for an elderly woman with a cane. She boarded, smiling warmly and slightly out of breath, a bright blue beret on her head (AWESOME).  Now, another bus would have been along in about ten minutes, but the bus driver disregarded the rules to let this woman on board and let her get into the warmth and comfort that much earlier. That just made me smile.

When I got home, I found my host family in a wonderful mood–particularly, my host father. Now, this is easy to see–it was a Friday afternoon, everyone was home from work or school, and, for my family, it was the beginning of a week-long holiday that they will spend skiing in Sweden. Unfortunately, I cannot go with them (though they invited me) because of classes. To make up for this, I think, they decided to cook burgers–straight-up, smother-them-with-ketchup-and-mustard burgers, with a nod towards me. When I walked in and found them in the kitchen, my host father loudly announced “Welcome to McDonalds!” and handed me the (HUGE) bottle of ketchup to put on the table. The whole family continued to move about the kitchen with an energy that spoke of people with nothing on their mind but the good times ahead, even though they had an entire day’s worth of packing to do.

Shortly thereafter, my father asked his son to go out to the garage and bring in some beer, declaring “Drinking tonight! We shall get drunk!” I wasn’t quite sure if he was kidding or not, but just to be safe I started to prepare myself mentally for the challenge of doing a case-race with my family. But that didn’t end up happening–we had our beer with dinner (and with preparing the food, which may have been unwise considering it was my job to cut open the hamburger buns with a huge knife, but, ya know, you live and learn), and no drinking contests were called for or anything of the sort. It was, once again, the enthusiasm of my host father. But I still got the satisfaction of eating a burger with all the fixings (except onions–they have no place on my burger) and having a beer to wash it all down with. The only way it could have been more American would be if a bald eagle had flown in to open the beer bottles with its talons.

And for the last story to share, I went for a bike ride with my 12-year old host brother, finally putting my skills at biking to the test. Although “test” might not be the right word, given the fact that, rather than taking to the urban (yet cobblestoned) streets of Copenhagen, we biked around the bike paths of Greve Village. Despite the tranquility of this place, I still had my high-tension moments on the bike, like whenever we had to make a turn sharper than, oh, say, 45 degrees. I also thought that the ice that covered one muddly puddle was strong enough to support both me and the bike. It wasn’t, much to my brother’s amusement.

And speaking of my host brother’s amusement, he has also taken to watching me drink my morning shot of bitters every time my host parents encourage me to do so. The shot of bitters is, as you might expect, very bitter. And it has a powerful kick that comes a good couple of seconds after you’ve actually swallowed the drink. It is painful. Very painful. And apparently the faces I make reflect this fact, and do not do a good job hiding my… slow adjustment to the drink of bitters. And my host brother thinks this is hilarious.

It became clear to my host brother that I am not a regular biker. In fact, he informed me, he could tell simply by the way I sit on a bike that I am not a regular biker. I would like to defend myself, saying that this is because the bike seat was too high and my host father and I couldn’t wrestle the bike seat into a proper position, but I really don’t think I have much of an argument. I’m just a lousy biker. But today was the beginning, and I hope in time to be able to keep pace with the couriers of Copenhagen’s business district.

But it wasn’t the biking that makes it worth telling (although my absence of skill certainly made it amusing), it was talking to my host brother. We have a higher language barrier than most, but we still found things to talk about–he told me about his school as we biked past it, I told him about what it’s like to drive around in America. And talking while you bike beside someone is really enjoyable, even if your fellow biker is moving with significantly greater ease than you.

So, yeah. Wrapping up, it’s a good world. I’ll be on my own for the next week, so we’ll see what comes.

What Do You Go Home To?

Right now, I’m in my room, waiting to go shooting. I will go with my host father and my 12-year old host brother, who, on our last foray down to the shooting range, shot 17 bullseyes in 20 attempts. This has lent my host brother a certain authority whenever he and I are both reaching for the jar of honey. And for the record, this shooting range, belonging to a competitive shooting club, is held in the basement of a local school. This puzzles me to no end, especially since my host father has talked about how there really isn’t a gun culture in Denmark. It’s very difficult to own a gun, and rates of gun violence are very low in comparison to the US–in fact, my host father was very surprised to find out that no one in my family owns a gun. Of course my whole family has been surprised to see that I don’t smother everything in ketchup before eating it (and in all honesty, I feel a little badly about it. My family bought this HUGE thing of ketchup for me and had it prominently on display for a good two days before mentioning that it was there for me). I think I’m a pretty lousy American in their eyes–no ketchup, no firearms, no cowboy hat…

But in turn, I’ve been surprised to see that my host family does not drink like someone just shouted “FREE BEER!” and that members of my family do not walk around the house naked. You may wonder where these perceptions are coming from (other than the fact that people confused Germans with Danes and, c’mon, Germans. You know how they are), but they were two of the more prominent cultural trends that DIS (my study abroad program) described to us shortly after our arrival. Specifically, they said “You should not be surprised if you walk into the living room to find your host parent ironing in his or her underwear.” So far, I haven’t encountered this, but I get a little wary every time someone comes in with an ironing board in one hand and a couple of nice shirts in the other.

This, I think, has been one of the greatest things about living with a host family, for me and the other students with whom I’ve discussed the matter. Having such close interactions with our families, we’ve had the opportunity to erase the idea of a truly monolithic culture. While all of our families seem to enjoy meals together as a family or show a concern for energy use or sit down to talk, each student has found exceptions to the general rule. One of my friends lives with a family who doesn’t eat fish (which is a bigger deal than it sounds, trust me). Another family doesn’t drink. Other families go to bed early, or snack often between meals (we were warned about that, too).  While I don’t believe that anyone who visits another country would assume that every person they encounter in the foreign land would behave in EXACTLY THE SAME MANNER, our comparative experiences create a very conscious reminder that there is only so much a guide book or welcome speech can tell you.  I think that these experiences remove the surprise that accompanies any unorthodox behavior, at least a little bit.

I am writing about my host family not only because they’re awesome but because my host father and I finally had The Talk that every host family American eventually has with the family. While no American has yet to be educated by his or her host family on what it means to become a man or woman, most of the students I’ve talked to wonder why it is that our host families took us in.  My conversation with my host father started when he and I were riding the train into Copenhagen.  We had been talking about Sweden when my host father asked why it was that I chose Denmark out of all the Scandinavian countries. When people ask why Denmark, I usually answer that Copenhagen came highly recommended to me as a beautiful, accessible, and friendly city (three for three on that assessment) and that the Danish welfare state really interested me. But those apply to all of the Scandinavian countries. So my answer for Denmark was that I thought that being more directly connected to mainland Europe would expose me to a more dynamic and international culture, and I added that Copenhagen is supposed to be more affordable than Sweden, which was my other alternative.

Interesting fact, though–the joke was on me on that one. Sweden has been hit harder than Denmark by the financial crisis, due in part to the fact that Saab and Volvo, two major automobile manufacturers based in Sweden, are now owned by GM and Ford, respectively. The losses from those two companies have hurt Saab and Volvo, which means lots of Swedes have been laid off, putting a greater strain on the generous welfare system, leading to higher public expenditures etc. etc. Denmark, on the other hand, has been largely insulated against the financial crisis, in part due to its largely service/information-based economy and the fact that DENMARK DOESN’T DO STUPID THINGS. For example, my host father works for a Scandinavian bank. When I asked him about the financial crisis, he said that his bank hadn’t been hurt that much because his bank is conservative with its investments, meaning no jumping on the housing bubble bandwagon.

He also added that the executives at his bank did something utterly revolutionary, nay heretical–they willingly gave up their huge bonuses in order to keep the company stable! Who would ever think of doing something so UTTERLY LUDACRIS?! But I’m going to stop now and get back to my conversation with my host father, namely because he just knocked on my door and asked me to stop pounding my fist on the table.

So anyway, I said I chose Denmark for its connections to mainland Europe. I then asked him why he and his family chose to take in an American student. He explained to me that it sort of came to him unexpectedly–he saw an advertisment for hosting American students on the train (which, if advertising is the standard by which goods are judged, puts me on par with energy bars, cell phone service providers, and day-time television).  But he also said that he was very curious to know how Americans live–he and his family have been to the United States a few times, but he never spent that much time with Americans, despite his exposure to their culture and his knowledge of their politics (seriously, he’s on top of things–he asked me about Daschle stepping down the other day). He’s certainly been following through on that curiosity–we spend a lot of time comparing life in Denmark to life in the US in so many ways–food, sports, family life, movies, transportation, education, how we pass the time…it’s really incredible. I really enjoy the conversations that we have.

But he also said that he wants his kids to be able to see what other cultures are like and improve their English (I feel so USED!), saying that he thought it would be better for them to a more complete understanding of the world. And I really respect this–I think it’s so admirable that he thought of his kids when he made this decision and thought what my time here could be for them. This has, however, created the flip-side situation of the “how you say…” phenomenon, in which my father and my two brothers try to catch each other on their mistakes in English (which, as I said before, are few and far between). Whenever one corrects another on his pronounciation or diction, there’s a moment of triumph that really makes me smile. The competition gets kind of intense, though. When my 15-year old host brother corrected my father on his pronounciation of the word “herbs” and I said that my father was actually correct, my host father whapped my brother on the head with a bag of ground coffee. It’s a tense situation here.

Thinking about what his kids could learn from having an American in the house, he extrapolated that perhaps his kids’ peers could learn a lot from having an American in the classroom, and so my host father asked if I would come in to my brothers’ respective English classes to talk to the students–I don’t know what about, maybe it’s just going to be a Q&A session? Maybe I’ll have a slideshow of life in the US? Maybe I’ll drive through the classroom windows in a hummer, a BigGulp from 7-11 in one hand and a copy of the “Transformers” DVD in the other? The possibilities are endless, but I’m frankly kind of nervous. I need to simultaneously live up to stereotypes so that I don’t seem like some Canadian they bribed into wearing a cowboy hat while breaking the stereotypes so that I can merit some forgiveness for the Bush Administration and some patience for the next few years while we straighten things out back in the States. I do plan on telling them that I know Barack Obama, though. I figure that should count for something.

Oh, and by the way, at this point in my writing I’ve returned from shooting. My host brother got 16 out of 20 bullseyes and he shot a quarter out of my hand at 15 yards. I got a couple of bullseyes, having learned from last time that you do better if you actually prop your arm on a table and don’t hold the gun at waist level and fire willy-nilly, pretending that you’re John Wayne. So maybe I did live up to Danish expectations.

And the post title comes from the Explosions in the Sky album All of a Sudden I Miss Everyone. It’s an excellent album.

How You Say…

My experience with the Danish language (and the language itself) is something I’m going to want to spend more time writing about, but for now I really want to address the language barrier that exists in Denmark. Namely, the fact that there isn’t one.  Seriously. I have yet to encounter any Dane who is unable to converse with me in near-flawless English, and shift from Danish to English without any sign of discomfort or, more interestingly, frustration.

While I’ve found that Danes usually assume you speak Danish, it usually only takes one “I’m sorry?” (or in other cases, one blank stare like a deer before headlights) before the Danish person nods politely and instantly switches to English. I even had a shopkeeper at a (REALLY AMAZING) tea house tell me and my friend that he would be happy to translate the menu for us before we ordered. This flexibility and proficiency may be due to the fact that I’ve mostly encountered Danes in Copenhagen, a city with a lot of international traffic where English is the common currency.

I’ve even heard from my host father that he speaks English with his Swedish and Norwegian co-workers (he works for a Scandinavian bank), since it’s easier to speak the one common language than attempt to synchronize three different Scandinavian languages that are, according to him, very different from each other. And apparently, I shouldn’t even get him started on Finnish. But perhaps if I ventured into the countryside, I would find more resistance from Danes when I stared blankly and, in a low voice hiding my monocultural shame, asking that they speak in English.

Yet what strikes me more than the Danes’ proficiency with English is the extent to which they feel they are bad at the language, apologizing for mispronouncing or mistranslating a word. But the thing is, THEY’RE NOT BAD AT ENGLISH. Sure, they may not know how to say “olive” or “semifinal” in English, but considering that I can’t say “grocery store” or “why” in Danish (but I’m learning, I swear), I can’t really get angry about it. I think, in some ways, this apologetic impulse stems more from a overall combination of humility and respect for a spoken language that I’ve seen among the people here. It is worth mentioning that Danish is spoken only within the nation of Denmark, which itself is a fairly homogenous society (one of the books I’ve read about Danish politics describes Denmark as a unique case in which the nation, the state, and the people share the same identity–more on that another time).

As such, the language is a great source of pride and identity. While I know (and the Danes know) that English extends outside the borders of the United States, I still think Danes regard English as important to Americans (and for reasons extending beyond the fact that it’s the only thing we can use to get to the bus station), and so want to show a respect for the language. And part of this respect may be apologizing for what one feels is an imperfect knowledge of the language. That being said, my mind is still blown when a museum tour guide will summarize the entire 1000 years of Danish history for a group of American students and then apologize for not speaking English very well.

And for those who would point out that this respect for language contradicts the use of English among my host father’s co-workers, I would make the argument that English is used in that context for the sake of business efficiency and clarity in communication. I would also smack you for talking back to me.

I can count on one hand the number of Danglish (isn’t that a great word?) creations that I’ve come across, and they’ve never hindered actual communication. For example, my Danish Politics and Society professor uses the word “humoristic” instead of “humorous”, but it’s not as though we couldn’t figure out what he meant. But of course, this professor is something of a celebrity among his students (and, I’ve come to learn, fellow professors) that he could tell me that “codfish” really means “friendship” and I’ve actually been wrong all along and I would have no problem accepting his translation.

Actually, I can think of one time where a mistranslation created confusion. When my host family took me to visit Roskilde Cathedral, where every Danish king and queen has been buried, they pointed out the tomb of a king (and as I type that, I can’t help but marvel how awesome it is to have kings’ tombs around here. It’s like Lord of the Rings) that was built outside. My host mother told me how this king was a salesman. This instantly made me think that the Danish royal linneage somehow followed the plot of a Kurt Vonnegut novel, in which the king goes door-to-door in the Danish countryside, peddling the wares of a constitutional monarchy.

But my host mother obviously meant “sailsman” as in “a man who sails”, a meaning that became clear when she added that his tomb was built outside so that he could look upon the sea, which he loved. So the confusion lasted about five seconds, and the mistake actually made sense in its context. So I was in no position to scoff or mock.

In my continual (and near-obsessive) drive to become more multicultural (I ate pickled herring, for God’s sake), I’ve been trying to practice the handful of Danish phrases that I’ve learned after two classes of “Survival Danish” and two classes of Danish Language and Culture. My stock phrase is ordering food (either tea or Middle Eastern food so far. Mmm, chicken shawarma). And while I can say that with confidence and begin a basic interaction in Danish, the feeling of “I’M SO AWESOME” drops like a stone as soon as I realize that it’s about all I can say and the business transaction has more steps than that. For example, I can order a chai tea. But I can’t say whether or not I want it “for here” or “to go”. So when the person preparing the tea asks me that (or I assume I’m being asked that), I switch to hand gestures and hope this comes across as an expression of cool, confident silence rather than quiet, internal panic.

Yet even then, this panic comes from realizing that my charade is up and I’m not actually Danish, rather than coming from a fear that I will not be understood when I switch to English. Which has happened, and made me feel like a fool. But here again, when it happened, the waitress switched to English with no hesitation and no open display of scorn.

So here, at long last, has been my discussion of panicked ignorance in unfamiliar territory. Sure, I wasn’t lost and cold and looking for the last bus out of town, but, you know, it’s scary sometimes, ordering tea. Yet the catharsis of my confession is robbed from me by the fact that language barrier in Denmark is really more like a language pillow-and-sofa-cusion fort.

It must be an acquired taste

They say that part of a study abroad experience is pushing boundaries and trying new things. They also say that one of the best ways to learn about a people is to share a meal with a people. And while I’ve had meals with my wonderful Danish host family every day this week, I feel like today was my first…engagement with true Danish cuisine, and the learning opportunities contained therein.

The question is, what have I learned about Denmark from a shot of bitters with my breakfast tea and toast and, at lunch, an open-faced sandwich consisting  of dark rye bread pickled herring in curry sauce and a hard-boiled egg with pepper, eaten in small slices with a fork and knife, and a roll spread thickly with brie and jam of black currants taken from the garden? I’ve learned that the Danes fear NOTHING, and that curry sauce makes even the weirdest stuff taste absolutely delicious.  Although in all fairness, the pickled herring by itself wasn’t too bad, but that may just be the morning shot of bitters talking.

Pickled herring is a food that I’ve been regarding with a mix of open-minded curiosity and unapologetic dread ever since I read about it in my Copenhagen Travel Guide. I’ve also been putting up with jokes about it from my parents since then as well. It’s a very Scandinavian dish, what with all the ocean surrounding us and the need to keep food around for a while, back before the days of refrigeration (a side note about olden times: the church in my host family’s town is somewhere between 700 and 900 years old. It blows my little mind). It is eaten frequently on open-faced sandwiches as a staple for lunch, and it comes in flavors so numerous that I need to sit down every time I look at the herring aisle in the supermarket (I’m joking about the aisle, but only slightly). I’m almost surprised that it took me nearly a week before I sat at the same table with the stuff, but I’m even more surprised to find that it wasn’t that bad–if anything, it was a bit bland. But that’s why there is curry sauce in this beautiful, beautiful world. Curry sauce is what it sounds like, but I think I can safely say that I would eat my backpack if it somehow ended up being covered in curry sauce.

I’ve also learned that the Danes take what I would describe as a very experimental approach to food. Contrasting flavors are frequently blended together, and it’s rare that anything is eaten just by itself. As my Danish host father said, “This is Denmark! Sauce is for EVERYTHING!”  And that’s a wonderful thing, as it means that a meal of sandwiches has a lot of potential, based on what you mix-and-match. Food is also something to be carefully regarded and enjoyed, although that may be the general European ideal.

Despite what my crash-course-to-Danish-culture study abroad guide told me, we haven’t had any multi-hour meals. But a brief meal is still very well thought out and never simple, and the food is to be thoughtfully enjoyed. My host family takes pride in making their meals and growing lots of their own food–the black currants mentioned earlier, tomatoes, potatoes, etc. I found out that public schools here include cooking classes, and I guess the students learn more than how to cook a steak or steam vegetables. My 15-year-old host brother made this very impressive (and quite tasty) pork and olive loaf earlier this week. At 15, I think I knew how to use the microwave, but hadn’t advanced to boiling water on a stove.

Given that I’ve been trying new food, I thought it was appropriate for me to learn how to say it in Danish. My host family speaks very good English, and has encouraged me to help them learn new words. So today, I tried learning to say black currants (solberr) and herring (sild) in Danish. This has led to the expected result of my Danish family appreciating my efforts but being very amused at them nevertheless. This is my greatest moment of American Ignorance since last night, when I was trying to count out Danish kroner (a devlish system of currency if there ever was one–so many coins! So illogically shaped! Why in God’s name is the 20 kroner coin smaller than the 5 kroner coin?!) at a pub and the bartender laughed at me and mentioned how no American can ever count coins properly. I felt like a fool, but the bartender’s laugh was so warm (and his criticism so accurate) that I laughed along with him.  So learning the Danish language remains an uphill battle. But thankfully I had some time to hone my Danish skills this afternoon, when I watched the last half hour of “Pirates of the Caribbean At World’s End” with my host brother, subtitled in English. “Yo ho” in Danish is “hei ho”.  This is valuable.

And on an unrelated note that I will later expand on, my classes are really awesome, and I’m really excited about my professors. Danes are known for having a very dark sense of humor, and my professors seem to be no exception. My Nordic Mythology professor mentioned how he wants to be contradicted because it will make for better learning, but he’ll still despise whoever contradicts him. My Danish Politics and Society professor made several sarcastic comments about the Swedes, and only afterwards asked if anyone in the room was Swedish. When a few students raised their hands, the professor said “Well, you know why I do this then.” It’s also worth mentioning that my Danish Politics and Society professor was once the Danish Minister of Transportation. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW EXCITED THIS MAKES ME?! I honestly had to fight the impulse to raise my hand when he took questions and ask “Can you tell me everything you know about transportation?”. I figured such a display of blatant awe would appear unprofessional.

Quiet applause in a Danish bar

I suppose I haven’t been in Denmark long enough to feel that I’ve forgotten my American roots, but Obama’s inauguration speech still made me wish I had a little red-white-and-blue flag to wave.

A group of DIS students and I hit the streets of Copenhagen after the Immersion Fair, which brought back the fond memories of freshman year in which I thought about joining twenty different clubs, oblivious to the fact that there are only so many hours in the day. Of course, I failed to learn from my past and still took about eight pamphlets for everything from building bikes for poor people to getting involved with a handball team (handball is awesome. I can’t stress this highly enough. Look it up).

But that is largely irrelevant. I simply needed a context and a background for my story. There were five of us, and we had ourselves a mission. The time was 5 pm in Copenhagen, and we knew that ceremonies started in half an hour. We had to find a bar that was cheap enough for backpacking students, had a television, and had patrons who were few enough (or patient enough) that five young Americans could burst into the bar and demand to put CNN on because, dammit, didn’t they realize that a new era of change and hope was about to begin?

To our great fortune, we found a place that met these standards with relative ease. The bar was subterranean (I love looking at people’s feet as they walk past. I feel sneaky), and interestingly enough, I think it was owned by some Americans. At the very least, when we walked in and said “Do you have CNN?”, the bartender responded, in accent-less English, “Yeah, I’m hoping our satellite kicks in and we can have it up.” Since the status was so uncertain, we stood around awkwardly, jackets and huge IKEA bags of textbooks still on. Once CNN was on TV, one of us was proactive enough to say “So, we’re staying, then?” and sit down. We ordered a round of Carlsberg (Danish beer–pretty standard, and probably played into the “American student backpacker ignorant of all other ways and cultures, but, well, if the glove fits…I learned how to count to ten in Danish! That should count for something) and became glued to the television. We made comments about what each former president or statesperson was thinking as he or she walked on to the stage, but by and large we were pretty quiet.

The bar was largely empty. There were the three bartenders, the five of us, another American trio, and two Danes. Admittedly, the bar could probably only hold about thirty to forty people, so “empty” might not be the term. But the quietness made the space feel large. We laughed when Obama bungled the oath and Chief Justice Roberts had to repeat himself, and correctly predicted that the news coverage would show that particular moment again and again (at least two or three times on the Danish news channel), but we were captivated during the speech. I know many things will be written about Obama’s eloquence and force, about how he promised too much but still symbolized hope and ambition, about how it’s not quite the immortal speech we wanted but it was awfully impressive, and there is little I can add to this dialogue. But it was stunning to feel everyone in that small bar get wholly enveloped by this man’s conviction.

There were moments when the bartenders behind us would clap for Obama, usually during his policy goals, like reforming health care, rather than his rhetoric about beginning anew, and somehow that quiet affirmation moved me more than the two million people applauding in Washington. This recognition from across the ocean, even if it came from Americans, made me feel like the world was willing to look at the United States with something other than scorn or embarassment.  It was a small sign of appreciation, but it felt good.

And while I cannot believe that the era of small interests and politicking has come to end, I want to believe that there is a drive in this man, and this administration, to make things better. I, for one, really want to believe that the administration will focus on the question of whether government works, rather than whether or not it should be working. I think that speaks to the very heart of public policy, and it really makes me smile.

After the speech, the five of us realized that this was our first trip to a Danish bar (I hope that legitimates our purchase of Carlsberg–really, I don’t know how to feel about buying the quintessential Danish beer in a Danish bar. I think it’s like buying a Guinness in Ireland–a sign of respect. But maybe it’s also giving in to a stereotype? I do not know). We commemorated the moment by asking one of the bartenders to take our picture, and that felt good too. I liked combining some grand historical moment with a simpler moment in some Americans’ study abroad experience. Contrasts are interesting.

On the train out of Copenhagen, one of the Americans and I discussed what it means now that we have a new president and how the world will change in response to the transition. Perhaps our shrewdest observation was that we have no clue how anyone put in charge of representing a nation like the United States could ever sleep at night.

But I think I like best what my Danish host father said about the matter. He said that despite his optimism that Obama will bring about good things, Obama is still an American.  He is a symbol and force of change, but he has American sensibilities and beliefs, and I believe that such things are hard to drastically change for one person, let alone for a nation. And I wonder how these beliefs will hold up in a world confronted by so many ills.

We shall see. In the mean time, let’s hope I can learn how to ask for directions to the library in Danish. Given the complexity of the Danish language, comprehensive health care reform might come first.

First Day on the Ground

So originally, I had planned to write a pre-departure blog post about how I was sitting in the Logan Airport as a mix of nervousness and excitement weighed down with a backpacker’s backpack and a lot of heavy thoughts. But most of my nervousness vanished at 8:00 a.m. (Amsterdam time) when I saw a woman in the Amsterdam airport (which is GORGEOUS. Picture a very pretty mall filled with sidewalk cafes and grocery stores) wearing a knitted sweater that featured a dinosaur smoking a pipe. I figure any place that has a person like that in it can’t be anything to fear.

Which is not to say that the challenges I was expecting to face have evaporated. I had a long talk with my host parents tonight about navigating around the city. And while public transportation looks like it’s going to be extraordinary, it will still be a hassle to make train schedules and figure out what goes where and when. Although it’s worth mentioning that the house I am in is bordered by farmlands and STILL I’m ten minutes away from a train station where the train runs EVERY TEN MINUTES. This fact, in combination with the fact that Copenhagen has protected bike lanes (i.e. the cyclists have a part of the road designated for parking spaces or green space so that the cyclists aren’t inches from the sideview mirrors of passing vehicles) makes me SO THRILLED ABOUT GETTING AROUND THIS PLACE.

My battery is about to die (my damn converter doesn’t work with laptops–new challenge! yay!), so I’ll mention two things quickly. There is a popular type of tea in Denmark called “universel te” (I’m probably butchering the spelling), which is called “universal” because it’s made from whatever herbs and plants grow in the area. It’s very minty, and naturally sweet, and it’s DELICIOUS. My host family has a jar of the stuff sitting on their kitchen counter, and I can’t wait for that to become attached to me at the hip. The other thing I need to mention is that my youngest host brother knocked on the door of my room (which is really lovely–very tasefully and Ikea-y decorated) and invited me to install CounterStrike on my computer so that I can play against him and his brother. That, in combination with the key that my parents handed over to me (it’s attached to a Smiley Face keychain–oh Worcester [which invented the smiley face], how global you are!), really made me feel at home.

It’s good to be here.

A Song For Our Brothers

One of the details about my trip to Denmark that had been floating in the shadowy unknown has been unveiled this evening: I finally heard from my host family! Granted, I found out at the appropriate time–the DIS program told me that I would hear from them ten days before my departure, so technically the family is even a bit ahead of schedule. (Which highlights the shocking fact that I leave for Denmark in eleven days) I like the thought that the family is on top of things like this–it will hopefully compensate for my initial difficulties getting by in a foreign nation, and especially getting by outside the city.

I’m excited to be living outside of the city, as I like the thought that I have a place to escape to, rather than going to sleep to the sounds of traffic (bikes make noise too). However, living outside the city raises questions for me–are the suburbs as navigable as the city? Is the transportation between the city and the suburbs reliable and efficient? What are the differences between suburban culture and urban culture? I should clarify that these are questions, not fears. I don’t think I’ll approach Danish suburbs like I approach the bedroom communities and McMansion housing complexes that I see in the suburban U.S. (that is, with open scorn).

But enough talk of the place. What of the people? The family sounds lovely–my host parents have four sons, two of whom live with them. And based on their e-mail, they speak very good English (so check off one of my bigger fears) The thing that excites me the most about living with the family is that they have two sons who are younger than I am. For the first time in my life, I get to be an older brother. I am very excited about this, but I don’t quite know what to expect. I don’t know what the dynamics will be like, but I hope to be able to spend time with them. Actually, I think I’ll stop reflecting on this topic. There are far too many unknowns to try to comprehend to possibly make any forward thought on the matter, but I like that. I want to be surprised and unsure and left guessing. If a quiet sense of terror and dread in otherwise friendly circumstances (those being the suburbs of Copenhagen) doesn’t build character and make for good blogging material, I don’t know what will.

p.s. post title is a spin-off of an Explosions In The Sky song, “A Song For Our Fathers.”

But restlessness has seized me now, it’s true

Well, so begins a blog about my life and times in Denmark. But because I like to get a jump start on things (that’s actually at least partially a lie, I’m a pretty bad procrastinator), I’m going to start my blog while still in the United States (which I already refer to as “The States” because I feel like that’s a more worldly thing to do). It’s a little bit silly, but I stand by my decision.

A brief run-down, for the curious and uninitiated: starting January 18th, I will be living in Copenhagen, taking classes at the Danish Institute for Study Abroad and living with a host family (I don’t know who they are yet). This will be my first experience away from the North American continent. I’m very excited, but clearly in over my head. Considering I’ve never set foot in a land that did not have English as a primary language, this will be intimidating, and I’m sure one of my early blog posts will include me shamefully confessing an incident in which I yelled “I’M AN AMERICAN! I DON’T SPEAK DANISH! HELP ME FIND A BUS STATION!” at some friendly Dane. But largely, I welcome the challenge.

The title of the blog, Learning to Bike, comes from the fact that Copenhagen has a transportation infrastructure that really promotes bicycle use (that last sentence should signal to the reader that I like public policy. Be warned). Apparently, it’s one of the most effective ways to get around the city. But the problem is, I am not a very good bike rider. I can peddle around a suburban community and keep pace with friends, but I think my most strenuous bike ride was this one time in eighth grade when Sam Ostrow and I biked about six miles (round trip) to a convenience store. This hardly makes me an urban cyclist. But I want to embrace the experience as much as I can, so this means I will try to adapt to biking around a city, going over cobblestone roads on two narrow wheels.  So I will be learning how to bike like a champion in my time abroad.

I am full of hope for what lies ahead, and I know I’ll adjust soon enough (but seriously, I’m glad I picked an Anglo-friendly nation). So I warmly invite you, dear reader, to follow the adventures (and misadventures) of a college student (and policy wonk) as he navigates foreign lands.

p.s. post title comes from Belle and Sebastian’s “Asleep on a Sunbeam”.