I have mentioned before how hardy the Danes are. Many of them, anyway. My son hates gross overgeneralizations – reminding me that my initial perfunctory characterization that ALL Danes are blond, is in fact completely incorrect. Which is true. I stand corrected. Today my estimation of a certain segment of the Danish population ticked up a few notches.
Color me shocked. Drawn to the rich, but muted winter tones of this beautiful building on the water in Charlottenlund, I pulled right on over and set outside to capture it for my Scandi palette collection. What I did NOT expect to capture was the pale flesh tones of stark naked bathers dipping into the freezing cold Øresund. It was 0°C outside when I took this photo. I do not even want to know what the temperature of the water could have been.
A wee bit taken aback, I instantly took down my long-range lens feeling very much more than slightly stalkery. I did a quick look about to make sure I hadn’t been witnessed “spying” like a common paparazzi and then snapped this quick pic with my iPhone, which is where I edit all my photos anyway. Not so unhurriedly, I scuttled back to my car and continued up the road to my original destination – Bellevue Strand in Klampenborg (Bellevue Beach.)
A popular swim beach (I’m told it gets PACKED) in the summer months, Bellevue Strand is quiet and peaceful in January. Could have sat and listened to the lap, lap, swell, lap, whoosh, lap of the waves on the shore for a long time. Caught ‘gramming (again) by a woman and her 20-something daughter moving out to the pier where I had concentrated, they smiled and I got up to move on down the beach to the next pier. As soon as I stepped onto the sand, the daughter gracefully removed every stitch of her clothing and went into the water. Need I remind you? IT IS KOLDT HERE! There is no warm sauna or steam room or hot tub with which to warm up into immediately following this Baltic dip. It doesn’t last long and soon she is dressed again and on her way with her mother. No way. Doesn’t compute.
Farging KOLDT.
I put my hand in to reach for a shell washing in and out with the soft tide. Mere seconds are required to freeze my skin to a perfectly painful and prickly state. I can not even process a full body dunk. The shock to your system must be intense. Apparently this is normal regular everyday behavior for a certain segment of Danes. Wow, color me impressed. I will say it again. These Danes are HARDY. I am in awe. Enjoy the photo gallery from Bellevue Strand and have a happy Fredag!
Today the temperature wavered between 0 and 2°C. That’s hovering at freezing for those who don’t automatically correlate to the metric system employed here in Denmark. Employed pretty much everywhere else in the world save for the United States and four other small mostly Caribbean nations (all of which I have been too weirdly – ‘cept not Palau.) Here in Denmark, the temperature is the only thing that I have not used an app, device, Google function, etc. to convert. I regularly convert prices in shops from Danish Kroner (DKK) to U.S. Dollars ($$$) to try and keep a healthy perspective on what feels like (and usually is) ridiculously high price tags for nominal goods and services. I convert street signs, parking signs, shop signs, directions, washing machine instructions, food labels, recipes, ingredient lists, menus, bank notices, post office announcements, furniture advertisements – basically everything… from Danish to English. But I don’t convert the weather. Why?
It is what it is. I cannot control the weather anymore than I can control the unwavering and inexplicable popularity of black licorice here in Denmark. Seriously – they put it in, on and with EVERYTHING. Licorice candies come in more shapes than you can imagine. There is chocolate licorice. Licorice ice cream. Licorice gum. Alcoholic licorice. Cocktails with licorice candies in them (I did not try that, but witnessed many being ordered.) Licorice cakes. Chili-spiced sour licorice gummies. Um, eww (those were on sale by the way, maybe I wasn’t the only one who thought as such.) I digress. Out of my control.
Weather is something you have to feel. Does it feel cold? What temperature is that? 2°C? 8°C? It’s all relative right? A Southern Californian comes north and wears her sweater on a summer eve in Oregon when we might be rocking our sundresses and sandals. Michiganders don’t stop when the temps dip into negative Fahrenheit parameters. Nor Minnesotans, or Kansans, or North Dakotans or anyone else who lives in those states where Polar Vortexes exhibit icy wintery tentacles of horribly long winter-ness. Nor Danes apparently for that matter. Upon initial assessment, I will admit that they are a pretty darn hardy bunch – biking in all sorts of weather. Although I have yet to see it get REALLY upper Midwest cold here yet. But, I may have just jinxed myself.
Vinter Swans don’t mind the koldt.
My point is – how will you get to KNOW what a Celsius temperature is, if not by feel. So converting it all the time actually defeats the learning process. This is what 2°C feels like. This is what 20°C feels like (although I don’t know that feel yet – I’ll have to get back to you.) Does that make sense? Sure. So why all this about the weather? About as interesting as my dear Grandma’s annual birthday cards dutifully describing the latest in south-eastern Kansas weather along with my anniversary wishes. I can’t control the weather.
It’s vinter. Winter in Denmark. I know I keep saying that – but it is. It’s dark. Getting lighter everyday though – we can all feel it’s incremental progression like pebbles being dropped into the bucket. It’s cold. I don’t care where you are from and what is relative to you, but 0°C is cold. I know – it can be colder, wind chill, lake effect, tree-boring insect killing vortexes and such, etc. etc. yada yada… Bottom line, 0°C is cold. And it’s precipitous. At least today it was. Rain turning into snain turning into fluffy white puffs gently falling and all is quiet for a few minutes – BEEEEEP, repeat cycle. Rain into snain into fluffy white puffs. All day. Nothing sticks, but those few minutes of fluffy puffy are lovely. But koldt.
It’s koldt!
Winter is a difficult time to expatriate. There is a reason bears hibernate in the winter. It’s cold. (Please just give me the simplicity of this example for sake of theorizing here.) Back home in Oregon (plus years spent at college and beyond in Seattle) we know winter has its propensity towards impacting one with a certain Seasonal Affective Disorder. It’s truth ink. It’s called S.A.D. People have their own ways of combatting winter blues. Some use light therapy (I think that is big here too.) Some use drug therapy. Some use pre-planned vacations to warm tropical destinations as therapy. Myself – I always have allowed winter to be a down time. Keep schedules to a minimum, plans light. Consciously saying that it is ok to hibernate to an extent. It is ok to succumb to the down cycle. Knowing the up is coming, it is a veritable emotional hibernation of sorts. A recharging and recouping and renewing hibernation.
“Uuaah, the cold! Come in and get warm!”
Why then – wouldn’t I do the same here in Denmark? Aha moment. Actual Edison light bulb went on yesterday near a lake near a palace alone with the birds. I have been feeling a self-imposed pressure to connect, to “get out there”, to recreate the social networks and circles I miss from home. I should be doing x. I should be doing more y. I should. I should. There is a lot of pressure in SHOULD. Yesterday, I gave myself an out. I will allow myself the space to internalize right now. Circle the wagons. Bring it on in to family-ville. Cozy up on the couch with Master Chef Australia and Cake Boss. Emotionally hibernate. This doesn’t mean putting all emotions on hold by any means – we are as a family definitely still all feeling BIG emotions. FULL of BIG emotions. Every day. Even on Lørdags. But what it does mean… is that it is saying it is ok to take this expatriation slowly. Adjust. Learn on our own terms. Experiences, social circles and networks will evolve. They always do.
Speaking of social, I’m no recluse, not in my nature. In fact – I had coffee with my one Danish friend today. It was needed, entertaining and delightful. While recanting my “aha” moment – she nodded and enlightened me to a lovely Danish saying. I wish you could hear her say it – because it rhymes. “Burde er lig med byrde.” It means Should = Burden. Exactly what I was feeling. What a validation and heavy sigh of relief. Now I SHOULD go to bed. 😉
WHEN a foreign language makes even simple tasks difficult
I have a friend named Fran. Fran and I have not been getting along lately. She is helpful, but only on her terms. She blurts out and interrupts me all the time and in an extremely whiny annoying voice. She will start a job and then stop right in the middle. I tolerate Fran because she is the only one who can help me with one specific task.
Fran is what I have named my clothes dryer. Meet Fran. Fran – these are my friends, friends – this is Fran.
Meet Fran
So Fran works hard enough. I am grateful for Fran – don’t get me wrong. There are many apartments in Copenhagen that don’t have a Fran. They hang their clothes to dry both inside and outside their apartments. I can even say there is a charm in watching neighbors from the adjacent building’s courtyard shake out their sheets carefully placing them on the communal drying racks. If I had to air dry my clothes – I would love one of these beautiful functional racks. (I am adoring Scandinavian design.)
Dryp from Skagerak
But that’s Dryp, not Fran. Upon our initial arrival, we made use of several airbnb temporary apartments. Most had no Fran. Their towels were scratchy and almost hard from air-drying. If you are used to this, it’s not a big deal. I guess we’re wimps when it comes to our towels. Or just used to a softer fluff. It is what it is. When we moved in to our own place, I was quite pleased to meet Fran. Initially. There she was. New, shiny, clean and mine. Our towels would be soft. Isk (that’s Danish for “ish”).
Three children exude much laundry. I use Fran often. She is difficult to understand. Maybe because she is German. She is Bosch. Bosch is a popular brand here. There are many great neon signs that decorate the Copenhagen skyline attesting to this.
Bosch neon lights up Copenhagen night sky
I know this is a German company. But I know what German looks like and Fran’s words are not German. So when I set Fran to what seems a middle-isk setting and she calls to me with an insistent BEEEP, I assume that she has completed her task. And my clothes should be dry. That is her task. WRONG. What? What are you BEEEP’ing for? Lint? No. Cleared that. Oh. In these washing machines – you have to empty the water. Did you know that? Luckily one of the former airbnb hosts showed this to me. Ok Fran. Water emptied. Start. Again. 5 minutes in. BEEEEP. WHY Fran WHY? I don’t know. In attempt to move forward in my relationship with Fran, I call in help. Google Translate. Moving abroad? Engelsk is not the primary language? Google Translate. Life saver. Don’t know what the parking sign says? Google Translate. Don’t know what that meat is at the grocery store? Google Translate. Don’t know which is the mens room or the womens room? Google Translate. Get it immediately. So I bring G.T. in to assist with Fran.
The app is very user friendly – just type in the Dansk word and it translates for you to Engelsk. Only this is what G.T. tells me.
My own private translator in my pocket – meet G.T.
Hunh. So syntet was probably the only word that I could have figured out myself. Yep. Thanks. What the heck is “synthetic mycket torrt?” Meanwhile. BEEEEP. Dryer stopped again. Clothes not yet dry. Fait no accompli. Boo. Come on Fran. I have other things to do. Like visit a slot or a museet or a kunst galleri. (art gallery.) Many days go by. BEEEEP. Check. Restart. BEEEEP. Check. Restart. Feeling like I am being hung out to dry. Pun intended.
Unknown foreign word in bold, below English translation. Hunh?
So G.T. has another function that had yet to make itself aware to me. Detect language. Why would I need to detect language? I’m in Denmark. Isn’t it in Danish? No, as a matter of fact. Fran is not Danish at all. Born to German and SWEDISH parents. Fran speaks SWEDISH! Is this what you have been trying to tell me Fran? Its been a misunderstanding the entire time! BEEEEEP. Clothes dry. Mama is happy. BEEEEP. Sigh. Restart. At least she isn’t as mean as my oven who calls me names.
Everyone around you is speaking a foreign language. Normal looking people – living normal looking lives – just foreign. But wait, we are the foreign ones here. Alien. Officially we are aliens in Denmark. They gave me a card showing this – it has my “biometrics” on it – no really, not only does it show my official photo, but my fingerprints are stored on a chip held within that card. We had to fly on a plane from Portland, OR to Sacramento, CA to have our “biometrics” registered with the Danish Consulate in America before we could move here.
We were also granted the special CPR number that unlocks many aspects of Danish life. They gave it to us. Without it – you can do very little here. Can’t open a bank account without it (which means you can’t get your contractually agreed upon relocation funds without it.) Difficult to sign a lease without it. Can’t get a mobile phone without it. I can rent a car, but I can’t lease a car without it. But. What we can get is free medical care with that card. We can now go to the library with that card (and they do have some books in ENGLISH). My children could go to university for FREE with that card. It’s a good card. It was quite a process to get it. No one told us the process. We may or may not have done it correctly. But we have that darn card now.
Does it make me feel less like an alien? Maybe? Minutely. I will admit that when I am out and about, I don’t speak much. Everyone speaks English perfectly enough, but only if you do first. “Hej!” Traditional Danish greeting. It is pronounced exactly the same as an American “Hi!” Be wary of using it if you want to be understood. To immediately announce oneself as a non-Danish speaker upon entering a specific establishment when greeted – you say “Hello!” not “Hej!/Hi!” This is a sure-fire clue for the purveyor to use English to ask if you need any help or assistance. I feel a sense of sheepishness for employing this entrance and absolutely do not enjoy admitting that I have no idea what they are saying. Most of the time my deer in headlights expression is clear enough for them to switch over to English. Sometimes I muster an “Engelsk?” and they flip right over. Other times I just smile and nod, smile and nod and hope I am not agreeing to something ridiculous. This tactic usually horrifies my eldest who already feels quite conspicuous as an outsider that me feigning some sort of understanding is abhorrent to him. There is a claustrophobia in my muteness and not understanding. If you know me – muteness is not my natural state and is somewhat challenging. I like to talk. Talking is therapy to me. I work through things by talking. Everyone speaks perfect English, but only if you do first.
Looking at the cup half full – muteness does afford a heightening of alternate senses. I listen. And the sounds can be deafening. I live in the city again. I have not lived in the city for twenty years when I was living in a “garden level studio apartment” on Capitol Hill in Seattle, Washington. It was nowhere near a garden. It WAS subterranean. My tiny kitchen looked out at the sidewalk and onto the bus stop. The city sounds (even the horrible brake squeals of the metro bus out my window) were my white noise. Those noises fill my window again. Fill my life again. The police cars sound different, like a European movie that I am suddenly living. The church bells tolling. Children laughing. There are not so charming sounds as well. The garbage trucks that seem to take an eternity to move down the street. The raucous young folk returning from a late evening whose peels of laughter and boisterous language seem to echo through the street bouncing between the buildings. I can’t even describe to you the level of noise on New Year’s Eve. Like Denmark had started another World War. I listen to it all. I hear.
I look. There is so much to see. My camera roll is filling up again with all the looking and seeing. This is bucket filling for me as I am very visual and love to take photographs. This is good. The light here is amazing. I will dedicate another post solely to the Nordic light alone. When there is light that is. It is winter in Denmark. I observe. I watch people. What they wear. What they buy at the grocery store. How they ride their bikes. In furs and heels and cute scarves. How they chat with their children in their cargo bikes – pedaling along. In the dark. In the rain. In the wind. In the SNOW. So much to see. I look at it all.
Riding bikes in the snow – I have seen little that stops the Danes
What I know is that I want to be a part of it all. I will use my special Alien card and sign up for those free Danish lessons. Will it help? I don’t know yet. Will time help? Probably. In the meantime – I will take my brother’s advice upon leaving Oregon – learn something every day. Get out there and experience it. I’m trying bro. I’m trying.
Bakeries Around the World You Have to See Before You Die. By definition, I don’t like bucket lists. Why does impending death have to be motivator to seek out the new or unique. Nomenclature aside, these lists can be a good reference point for said seeking, whatever IT is that you are seeking. It is not difficult for me to seek out bread, anywhere I go. But if I am going to ingest all that gluten, I would prefer it be the tastiest darn gluten around. Did you look at the list? If you live in these cities or have visited these cities – you may contest their selections by pushing for your own local favorite. Please, feel free to share yours in a reply below. Personally I loved La Pâtisserie des Rèves (literally pastry of dreams) and everyone must see the iconic pastel macarons at Ladurée in Paris (J’adore the St. Germain location). The best darn baguette we ever ate was from Le Grenier à Pain, located a block-ish from the Abbesses Metro stop on Montmartre, near our flat we had taken for my birthday trip in 2010. In Portland, Oregon, my go-to is St. Honoré, not only because it was walk-able from my house, but the bread is superb – warm, fresh chouquettes by the bag please. You will notice a pattern here. Your favorites are all FRENCH bakeries, you may be thinking. It’s because I didn’t know DANISH bakeries before coming here. I have not yet been to the Copenhagen contingent from the above list – Conditoriet La Glace – but it is definitely a priority now.
One of the things that I love about Danish bageri’s has to be all the good grains and seeds they use. While you wait for your coffee at the little Meyers Bageri outpost on Classengade in Østerbro, there is a window where you can watch the bakers calmly working down below. On the board is large smiley face and the list of all the breads they must bake that day. As I watched, the baker scooped healthy quantities of oats, seeds, grains and gracefully spread them down on his work surface, as if painting his canvas. Into the bed of crunchy goodness he plunk a soft-ish lump of leavened dough – it seemed much looser than I would have deemed easy to seed. Rolling and scooping and prodding, he covered that loaf in the grains and oats and seeds – carefully picked up the seeded goo with his hands and placed it gingerly on a board, which was then in a turn, swifted directly into the large ovens behind him. I imagined my epic Pinterest-fail efforts to do the same – envisioning flour, seeds, grains and goo all over the counter, floor, oven AND myself. His performance was impressive. Bottom line. He must have felt my semi-tranced bread awe because he self-consciously looked up at the window and nodded. Oh – coffee’s ready, time to go. Probably best.
Meyers Bageri on Classengade in Østerbro
If you follow food shows or food culture, call yourself a “foodie” perchance? then you are probably familiar with the name Meyers from Meyers Bageri. None other than Claus Meyer, self-labeled gastronomic entrepreneur and co-owner of #1 restaurant in the WORLD – Noma. No, ma… I haven’t eaten there yet. Have to save half our salary and book months in advance – besides, I’m waiting for you! Just kidding – I’ll take you to the bakery though! No wonder the bread is good.
But Classengade, while in my ‘hood, is not as close as a block away (anything that ends in “gade” means street here, for those who don’t know). And why tromp all the way down there, when just a block away is a bageri equally as yummy and just as organic with a cozy place to sit and watch the bikes and people and ever-changing weather through the window. Det Rene Brød. Their classic pretzel shaped neon illuminates the block – calling to you… come here, it’s warm, it’s cozy, it smells fantastic, it’s delicious. It will probably be my undoing.
Det Rene Brød’s red neon bageri sign illuminates Rosenvængets Allé
Det Rene Brød means “The Pure Bread.” They are 100% okologisk. (Organic – it’s big here, really big. I thought it was big in Oregon. Easy to find an excellent selection of okologisk produce, meats and BREAD.) Back when we were first in our unfurnished flat with no wi-fi, we would come connect at Det Rene Brød and enjoy a kanelsnegl (direct translation: cinnamon snail aka cinnamon roll), or a frøsnapper (twisty, flaky, poppy and sesame-seeded, lightly sweetened deliciousness), or a pretty pink hindbær snitte (raspberry chopper = best darn spelt-flour pop tart in the world) or just a simple pain au chocolate. A cortado espresso to balance the sweet and life is good. This is one of my definitions of happiness in Denmark.
Enjoying her favorite – the Hindbær Snitte – we call it a “spelt pop tart”Hindbær Snitte
Bon Appetit!
Both Meyers Bageri and Det Rene Brød have amazing frøsnappers.
