JSE in Denmark

[jseindenmark]

Jeg snakkede meget på dansk.

Back at Askov, when I was emailing Bo to coordinate when I was going to visit him, I decided to do so in Danish—which is scary! It’s seemed more likely that I would type the wrong day of the week, the wrong time, or even suggest that we drink some snail-flavored milkshake out of celery straws. There’s a level of trust you have in your ability to communicate that isn’t quite the same when you use a foreign language. Nevertheless, he showed up in Hornbæk at the time I expected on the day I expected. Success! But he also spoke a bunch of Danish at me all at once. He was accustomed to communicating in Danish—so off he went, asking if I had had lunch and making plans for the rest of the day—next level. 

There’s something about Bo—I don’t know what it is—I do not want to disappoint him, so I just did my best to keep up.We spoke Danish for the first three hours we were together. Sure there were some words I needed him to repeat, some words I needed explained, but for the most part I could follow his train of thought.

Granted, I’m not the best conversationalist in Danish. I talk very slowly—I grind to a dead halt when I stumble into certain conditional phrases—like Anne Katrine and I were going to meet last Monday, but Hugo had a fever. Not only is it conditional, it’s in the past and it didn’t even happen. It’s funny how everything stops as your trying to figure something like that out. And you're far more aware of the time that you’re silent when you’re just talking to a native speaker than you are when you're talking to one of your teachers. Bo was so patient. He just waited for me to work my way through it. Sometimes he’d correct my present tense verbs to past-tense, and sometimes he left them alone.

I did feel limited in my ability to reconnect with him though. I haven’t seen him in a year—there’s so many things that have happened since the last time I was in Denmark—but I didn’t dare tackle my graduation, leaving Los Angeles, or meeting Davia Nelson from The Kitchen Sisters. I have many words and a few short phrases in my little bag of language skills, but what I need to accumulate more phrases—longer and more complex phrases. You realize that you don’t consciously think about every single word you say, but you think in groups of words—common languages phrases—phrases that almost become like words themselves, so you don’t have to waste your energy arranging them over and over in your head.

With my bags still in the trunk of the car, Bo turned left into Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, one of my favorite places in Denmark. There was an exhibit of pieces from the documentary photographer Lauren Greenfield, a scathing critique on the growing obsession with wealth, beauty and status. Many of her photographs centered around Los Angeles, hyper sexualized preteen girls desperate for admiration, older women trying to imitate the preteen girls in an effort to hold on to their youth, ridiculously ornate homes resembling castles, and portraits of wall street criminals who not only escaped anything more than a slap on the wrist for their contributions to the financial crisis but who also are still admired today by those who wish they follow in their footsteps. It was the first time I had worn my UCLA hoodie, since Trump wanted to buy Greenland—and I wished I was wearing something different.

By the time we were at dinner, we finally slipped into some English and of course, talked politics. Bo knew quite a bit about Bernie Sanders, but not so much about Elizabeth Warren. “Bernie Sanders gets a lot of press here, because he often points to us as an example that the United States could aim for—and of course the Danes really like that,” he told me, but he does’t think that Bernie has what it takes. I started telling him about Elizabeth Warren—how she speaks—not like a careful and measured politician, but someone who’s given a lot of thought to the problems in the US. Anyway, he found what I had to say about her interesting and he’s going to look her up later.

Although Bo lets me slip into English when we talk politics or WWII—we talked a lot about war crimes and the events that lead up to war crimes—he still tries to get me to return back to Danish for the simpler talk. He’s almost insistent—which is nice. 

Until next time, vi ses.

[jseindenmark]

A super power at fifteen months

It’s my last day in Hornbæk and I’m feeling a slight pull at my chest, as I prepare myself to say farvel to this portion of my trip. It’s been quite a hyggelig week. Hyggelig is a more important word here in Denmark that its English translation, cozy, is in the states. It’s an important value in Denmark that you can see in their baking, coffee, dinnerware, dining rooms, living rooms, public parks and even playgrounds. They cook their food, design their objects and arrange their spaces to promote this warm feeling of community and connection. Just think of a nice pair of hand-knitted socks on a cold winter morning—that’s hyggelig.

You can see this reflected in Denmark’s attitude towards kage (cake); they really like their kager. Not only do they have a countless variety of traditional Danish cakes, but even the smallest cause for celebration will include eating some. If you’re entertaining guests, cake will definitely be included. Cake is your first resource, when cheering someone up. You might invite someone out for a piece of cake, like an American’s coffee invitation, if you want to catch up with a friend. Kage is just a piece of this larger hyggelig concept. 

In Hornbæk I’ve felt an abundance of this feeling—both in Rasmus and Helena’s home and within the one main street in town. I’ve been here just over a week and I’m already receiving hej from a few of the locals. As I say hej back, trying to place their face with a possible introduction, I think have I really met that many people here? 

When I first arrived, Astrid accepted me right away, but Julius wasn’t as sure. He’d eye me skeptically, as if he were thinking why is this stranger allowed in my house? If I laughed louder than a chuckle, it scared him, he’d burst into tears, and it would take several minutes to calm him down again. Honestly, I found this baby a little intimidating—but that’s all changed now. 

A few nights back, we were eating dinner. Rasmus would name a part of the body and Astrid and I would point to that part on ourselves—a great way to practice my Danish vocabulary. Rasmus said, “Næsen,” and Astrid and I put the tip of our finger to the tip of our nose. Julius did his best to follow suit, by shoving his entire finger straight up his nostril. And I started to giggle and he watched me with the finger still up his nose. I laughed harder.

Rasmus gently tried to curb my behavior, putting his hand on my shoulder and saying “Jodi, we don’t laugh at the kids, we laugh with the kids,” but this only sent me further into hysterics. The more I tried to stop, the harder I laughed. And Julius just sat there watching me, finger firmly planted in its new home; he was amused. The following day, Julius waited patiently to catch my eye, and once he got my attention, he smirked and shoved his finger back up his nose. I lost it again. “Don’t encourage him,” Rasmus tried to reason with me, so I covered my face with both my hands. Julius was thrilled. He thought I was playing the Danish rendition of peek-a-boo.  

And now, Julius knows he has this superpower. Sometimes he just lets his finger hover near his nose, looking me dead in the eye, almost as a little threat. Each time it’s funnier than the time before.

“I guess that’s your thing with him,” Helena teased me last night, “You play ukulele with Astrid and you pick your nose with Julius.”

“I would prefer a different thing,” I told her.

“Hey…at least you have a thing.”

It’s true. We’ve come a long way from that first morning—I was afraid to be in the same room as him. Afraid to laugh near him. Now we can spend thirty minutes playing chase around the house.

And yes! The birthday present—the ukulele—it was an even bigger suggest than I even hoped. The first several hours after she opened it, she wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. She just sat on the couch, strumming her own small fingers over the strings. I mean that’s the sign of a good gift—when nobody’s allowed to touch it! She finally let me show her a few things that could be played. She liked it when I sang to her, but we only have one song in common. We both know Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, so we sang that several times together. My Danish isn’t quite strong enough to teach her a simple chord or even how the frets work, but I think in another six month to a year, we’ll be able to talk about the basic mechanics of playing. Right now, she’s just happy to have it in her lap when Rasmus reads her a night-time story.  

I’m really glad that I had this time directly after Askov. I feel this huge leap in my Danish comprehension and my speaking. I mean, if only everyone had access to a native-speaking four-year-old while they were studying a language.

Bo picks me up tomorrow and it will be hard to say goodbye to Hornbæk. I hope it’s not too long before we all see each other again. I am looking forward to the final leg of my trip, though. Bo was my first introduction to Denmark and the Danish family. We met for the first time five years ago, when he picked me up from the Copenhagen airport. I had no idea what he even looked like, but he had googled me and recognized me from movie stills and a few public social-media-pics. Now, our email correspondence has been entirely in Danish. He has a sweet way of responding to my incorrect verb usage, by just using the correct verb in his reply. It’s the perfect gesture to illustrate how he’s always treated me, both with respect and gently. Denmark wouldn’t be Denmark without some good time spent with Bo.

[jseindenmark]

A bucket full of spiders

The other night I pulled out the pale pink ukulele from its matching gig bag. I wanted to tune it, but also, refamiliarize myself with it. The amount of reading and writing I had to get through at UCLA kept me from my own ukulele for a good six months. I wanted to make sure that I remembered a few songs, so Astrid could see what her new gift could do.

After everyone else made their way to bed, I sat crossed-legged on the old wooden floors in the gamle hus. I stared down at the ground—at an app on my phone—and adjusted the tension of each string accordingly. A dark black bug quickly scurried passed. After living in Los Angeles as long as I have, I first thought I was seeing a very large cockroach, but then I realized no, it was just a very large spider. 

They are everywhere in Denmark. In a single day at Askov, Maria found a spider crawling on her three different times. Here in Hornbæk there’s at least two on each window. And there’s a lot of windows! “They’re not poisonous,” Helena told me the other day. “We have a lot of snakes and spiders in Hornbæk, but they’re harmless.” 

As my late-night intruder scurried underneath the sofa, I reminded him of this: “Helena told me you were harmless.” Thank god the couch is on the other side of the room as the bed.

The next morning, I was coming home from my run to find an even larger uglier spider had built a web across the hinges of the door of the gamle hus. He had a bunch of yellow stripes across his body and I didn’t like that he was there. Pointing my finger at him from a safe distance, I said, “Just don’t come inside the house.” He didn’t. He kept himself stationed right at the entrance the entire day.

I spent most of my time exploring Hornbæk, the bigger beach, with its unusual (for Denmark) sand-dunes. I finished the first chapter of the Danish novella I’m reading at a sweet little cafe. Sure the chapter was only a page-and-a-half, and sure it took me two days to get through that much, but I still felt accomplished. Everyday I’m using more and more Danish with the strangers that I meet—the risk is fairly low, as they can easily switch to English if I don’t understand something. But that’s happening a little less each day.

I came back to the house around 4pm, to attend the kids' sommerfest—a summer party for the preschoolers and kindergartners, with some activities and games, ending with a large picnic spread across the large soccer field. The kids painted rocks and sprinkled them with glitter at a miniature picnic table. They wrapped dough around the tip of a stick, and held that tip over little fires. Once the dough became bread, they pulled it off and spread jam in the middle.

They also had a plastic yellow bucket on a table with live spiders inside, many crawling out over the top. One of the fathers casually picked up the escapees with the tips of his fingers and dropped them back in the bucket. Helena laughed as my jaw dropped. I was the only one there—and this includes small children—who was the least bit unsettled. They just had a bucket full of spiders—you know—for fun.

After the kids had gone to bed, the three of us were talking in the kitchen of the main house. “When I was a little girl and asked my dad to kill a spider in my room,” I confessed, “I was always afraid that the friends and family of that spider would come back as a spider-army and exact their revenge.”

“Well that’s what they’re doing right now,” Rasmus teased. “They just waited until you were in Hornbæk.”

I thought of that spider stationed at the door of the gamle hus, waiting in the dark for me, and I turned to Helena. She burst out laughing.

“Maybe you should go with her to the gamle hus,” she suggested to Rasmus, “and remove that spider from the door.” 

I threw my hand up. I’m a grown woman in my thirties. I should have the life skills required to maneuver around a spider—he’s not even poisonous—although he sure is ugly. I pulled out my cellphone to light up the short pathway between the two houses and when I got there, the spider was gone. So was his web. As if someone or something wiped it clean—and I know it was not me! Somehow I found this a little more disturbing. 

I checked the door. It was still locked, and I was the only one who had the key. I shined my cellphone light in the various crevices, but I couldn’t find him. He was big enough that if he was there, I would have seen him. He better not have packed his web in a little spider-suitcase and moved it all inside. 

I got ready for bed—did my best to forget about the bright yellow spider bucket and the laughing children around it—and attempted to fall asleep.

Didn’t our ancestors survive in part because of their fear of spiders? Haven’t we evolved to expect and maintain our distance from these creatures? And why doesn’t this seem to apply any of the Danes? Or their children? It’s a little disturbing.

Until next time, stay away from arachnoids. They’re not as harmless in California. Vi ses. 

[jseindenmark]

Sweden and the Pale Pink Ukulele

Yesterday Rasmus and I had a mini-adventure. We were on the quest for the perfect birthday present for Astrid. I had bought her a small-little-stuffed fox in Århus, but it was hardly enough. I wanted something more meaningful—memorable—something her four-year-old brain could hold on to through five and six. Realistically, that might be her age the next time we get to see each other, so I needed something that could last that long. I preferred something she could use—with her hands—an activity. “What I’d really like to get her,” I told Rasmus, “is a ukulele, but I’m not sure if she’s old enough for that.”

His face beamed at the suggestion. “I think that’s a fantastic idea.”

Basically, it would be something she could make noise with—maybe use as a prop in her make-believe—but if she decides she’d like to learn to make music, the toy would transform into a real life instrument for her. It might sit in the corner of her room for ten years, before she shows a more serious interest—or she may never have an interest at all. But if she does, this ukulele will give her the opportunity.

Rasmus had some calls to make that morning, so I took a run through the woods along the beach. I intended to go shorter than I had the day before, but those white trunks of the birch trees lured me all the way to the end again. I’m sure if the trail was longer, I’d go even further. It’s just that beautiful. 

After I got back, took a shower at the gamle hus, and made my way back to the main house, Rasmus was just finishing his last call for the day. He insisted that we eat lunch before we set out for the ukulele—which consisted of a dark-seeded rye, herring in curry, and cucumbers. 

The closest music shop happened to be in Sweden. “Do you have your passport,” he asked. Do I? I ran back to the gamle hus to retrieve it. You see, this is my third time across the Atlantic, and I have yet to step foot in any country other than Denmark. Making our way across the Swedish border morphed this simple errand into an adventure.

“The next train is in six-minutes,” he told me on our way to the station, “but I think we can make it.” We were still a good distance away, when we heard the train coming down the tracks, so Rasmus, the multi-ironman competitor, began to run. I trailed behind, my legs still sore from the morning’s long run, but I pushed myself to keep up. We just made it.

It was the smallest train I’ve seen so far in Denmark, maybe two or three short cars all together. “It’s one of the local trains,” Rasmus told me. It makes sense. Hornbæk isn’t much bigger than a few main streets.

As the train neared Elsinore, I recognized a cafe Bo and I went to when we had only known each other a day or two. I saw Kronborg—the castle Shakespeare wrote as Hamlet’s home—and the water behind it, stretching out to Sweden. I realized that we would be crossing that water to get to our music shop, and I admitted, “I’m a little nervous about the ferry. I get motion sickness real easily.”

“It’s a big ferry and the water is really smooth today.”

I told him about my trip to Catalina last summer—how sick I got—how I couldn’t shake that sickness for several hours after I got off that ferry, but he laughed shaking his head.

“That ferry ride is awful,” he told me. When they were in California in 2016, they also took a trip to Catalina, and Rasmus had the same experience I had. “This will be nothing like that. This ferry is much bigger, the water is calmer and it’ll only take twenty minutes.” Still, I insisted we sit next to a window, where I could watch where we were heading. He was right. I was fine.

“Welcome to Sweden,” he said, as we took our first steps off of the ferry. Even though we were nowhere near where either of them lived, I couldn’t help but feel a little closer to Hanna and Frida while we were there.

The music shop was only a block away from the ferry, and we saw brightly colored ukuleles hanging in the far corner of the window. Rasmus pointed to them and said, “I think we’ve found the right place.”

An older dog slept a foot from the entrance, with large white and red spots all over his body and smaller red freckles up his legs and along his nose. Rasmus nearly tripped over me as a knelt down to say hello. I scratched the top of the dog’s head lightly with my fingernails, barely rousting him from his sleep. He looked at me briefly—neither irritated or impressed—and settled his head back down. I could see a familiar look of patience cross over Rasmus’ eyes—the same look he gives to Astrid when she lays in the sand at the beach after he’s told her it’s time to go home. 

Without consistent canine interaction, I get four-year-old excited over every dog I see. I point them out. I talk about their little trot. Their expressions. Their paws. Nobody else has this interest, but they all generously listen. I’ll just say, I’m far less dog obsessed when I get nightly doses of my own dog—this behavior is really just a symptom of Olive withdrawals. 

The man behind the counter was just a touch too enthusiastic that we were there. He wanted to know everything. Where were we from? What was the nature of our relationship? Where did the child live that we were buying the ukulele for? Rasmus thought later that something seemed off about him, but I think the man was just incredibly lonely.

We had several bright colors to choose from: deep blue, bright red, orange, yellow, but the moment Rasmus and I saw the pale pink ukulele, we knew she’d be nuts for it. I didn’t want to get her a pink one, but I knew that was the one she’d like best. “I think I have a pink gig bag in the back that’ll match,” the man told us. It was perfect—the perfect cross between an actual instrument and a four-year-old’s toy.

While we were in Sweden, we stopped at a bookstore, so I could buy two notebooks: one to start my Danish diary—Bridget’s suggestion on our train ride to Copenhagen together—and another one to keep my Danish word definitions, as I make my way through my first Danish novella. The man behind the counter asked me something in Swedish. According to Rasmus, Swedish and Danish are enough alike for the Swedes and Danes to understand each other, but there wasn’t a single sound I recognized coming out of this man’s mouth. “He was just asking you if you wanted to get a third notebook,” Rasmus explained on our way out. There was some sort of discount if you bought three. “It’s actually a really high compliment. You look so Swedish that he mistook you for one.” Of course I take that as I compliment. I love that I can just blend into Scandinavia and am rarely thought of as a foreigner—that is until I speak. I’m also so grateful not to be identified as an American. Rasmus frowned when I told him this. “That’s a little sad. I mean, I get it, but it’s sad.”

There’s so many other things I could write about, like how my language is strong enough now for Astrid and I to discuss her favorite fairytales. Or how she asked to sit on my lap yesterday evening and cuddled her head into the crook of my neck. Or how she agrees now that she does have pancake feet and holds them out so I can pretend to nibble on them.

I have yet to explore Hornbæk’s downtown on my own, so I hope I get to that later on today—but of course I first have to take another run through those beautiful woods. Until next time—Vi Ses.

[jseindenmark]

Farvel Askov. Du skal altid være i hjertet.

I didn’t think I would abandon the blog for as long as I did, but I didn’t want to steal even an hour away from the people I met, in order to write about them. It seemed important to spend all the extra moments I had with my new friends, even if we were just sitting on the couches, delirious and tired, and pressing the tips of our fingers into each other’s shoulders. Or I would make Valerria say “wild” over and over again. With her Russian accent, the W had two sounds in it, like “wh-yild,” and I couldn’t get enough of it. Or Felix would do his best to get some George Michael song stuck in our heads, and for the next hour we’d be humming “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you took it away…” Or Hanna would express all of our distaste for the rude adolescent boys across the room in a single glance—a devastating look—a look that could declare war—with the smallest movement of her eyes—and we’d all crumple into each other, howling. I haven’t had laughs like those in years. I thought I had lost that level of silliness with the younger and sweeter person I was years ago, but this inspiring group of people helped me find her again.

I left Askov two days ago. Bridget and I bought our train tickets to Copenhagen together, and I suggested that we take the later train, so we could say goodbye to everyone as they left. In theory, it was a good idea, but in practice, it was brutal. We all clutched onto one another for minutes at a time. There were simultaneous drops flooding out from behind everyone’s sunglasses and knee-buckling laughs. Of course any unexpected laughter coming through a mess of tears shoots snot right out of the nostrils. I had to quickly yank away from Hanna’s embrace to protect her from that very hazard shooting out my own nose.

And it kept happening for two-and-a-half hours, as the waves of different people left: ten minutes of heart-wrench, followed by twenty minutes of recovery, and then back to the ten minutes of heart-wrench. By the time Bridget and I made it to our seats on the train, we were both exhausted and each got a little motion sickness, so we kept quiet for the first two hours of our ride. It was nice to not have to say goodbye to her with all the rest, but I think the other goodbyes might have been easier all in one go. 

“I don’t think I have another dramatic emotional goodbye left in me,” I warned her as we got closer to Copenhagen.

She shook her head and said, “Me neither.”

When we got to the central station, we were both looking for our rides, so we didn’t even have the luxury of the tears and such, even if we wanted to. But somehow, I think we both knew that it wasn’t “goodbye, but rather “vi ses” (I’ll see you later).

Thirty seconds after I parted from Bridget, I saw Rasmus’ face at the main entrance. I couldn’t ask for a better transition. I left all my new lovely inspiring friends and came to the kind face of my cousin. He has picked me up a few times from the airport, and I always get a rush of that familiar warmth of home when I first see his face. It still blows my mind that I met him for the first time five years ago, documented several entries ago on this blog, because spending time in his home with his wife and children, I feel the comfort of family. Yes! I know. He is family, but we’ve only actually been in each other’s lives now for a relatively-short time.

I didn’t really know where to begin to describe my experience at Askov, except to say “I met several lifelong friends there.” I brought it this repeating idea of belonging with Rasmus, as he drove me back to Hornbæk. “Why do I always feel more belonging in Denmark, then I do back in California?” Is it just the contrast to the sixteen years I spent in Los Angeles and any difference to that hostility will feel more welcoming, or is it that I actually belong here? For a few years, Rasmus has softly suggested the latter and quietly campaigns for a move. Every time I’m here, I’m always wondering, should I try spending a more concrete amount of time here?

That last night in Askov, after our final dinner, after we had made our bets of who might hook-up at the party afterwards, and after we abandoned those bets and came back to our rooms, Frida and I sat on the picnic-table with Hanna while she smoked. It was our last night together, so I asked Hanna, “How do I continue my Danish studies, if I’m no longer at a university?”

“Well, you said you’ll be applying to grad school soon, right?”

I will be, but Danish is not a popular foreign language in the states. There’s only a handful of universities that even teach it.

“Why don’t you come to the University of Stockholm? It’s a really great school. And no matter what you study, you can also take Danish classes.”

Now I don’t know if I could get a grant to go there or how I’d afford to live there. I don’t know if I could continue studying writing and storytelling there, as I have planned to do at the grad schools I’m looking at in the states. Yet, I haven’t been able to shake the idea since she suggested it. I mentioned it to Bridget on the train ride. I told Rasmus about it on the car ride, and once again yesterday on our walk along the water. 

“I think you’d fit in very well in Stockholm,” Rasmus told me. “They have a strong women’s studies program at the university. And it just makes sense to me that you’d get along with the Swedes.” Scandinavian women are strong women. 

So here’s what my brain has been working on the last few days. First off, I hadn’t really been able to connect my Danish language studies with my writing studies before—other than—you know—studying another language changes the way you look at your own language. But Bridget brought up something that makes perfect sense, although I hadn’t really thought of it before. She said that you can learn so much more about a person if you talk to them in their native language than you can through and interpreter or even a second of third language. And Valerria talked about when you bring all those different cultures, nationalities and languages together in a place like Askov, you realize there are far more similarities than there are differences.

In my own writing, I’ve been interested in exploring what connects different people. The altruism of storytelling stems from a desire to build empathy—a value I find lacking in many of the conversations about those who differ from us. I’m far more likely to discover people’s connections and similarities, if I interview people in their native language. What if I commit myself first to learning Danish—and then maybe Spanish—and German—or whatever other languages interest me and I visit these different cultures, interview them, learn their stories, and then produce pieces for an American audience to digest. I don’t know if it’s that exactly—but I could feel passionate about work like that. Maybe this is the path I’ve been looking for the last few years.

I’ll be in Hornbæk for the next week, in a small three-hundred year old house on the same property as Rasmus and Helena’s house. The beach is across the street. There’s a trail along the water and an adorable little downtown less than a kilometer away. I hope to relax a little, catch up on some sleep, finally get to some more serious writing, maybe do some grad school research and of course, play a lot with Astrid and Julius. 

Until next time, Vi ses!

[jseindenmark]

Language language language

While there are many German speakers, French speakers, and a few soulful voices exchanging some Italian sentences at the far end of the last few tables, I have yet to hear any Spanish. My “Hola, Como estas” was met today with a couple of long blinks followed by a giggle and a shrug. A “lo siento” or “por favor” or “no me gusta” that can be interchanged with their English counterparts in Los Angeles are received here in Askov with a short shake of the head. Do you guys realize the implications? I might have stumbled into some sort of bizzaro-world in which I speak more Spanish than those around me. It’s weird to be in an environment where Spanish is not a predominant language. I can’t get a “muy bien y tu” from anybody. And nobody understands my joke: “Mi corazón es chiquito, frio y negro.”

I’ve written here before that my Danish comprehension is often slower than the speed in which people talk. Even with Henning, who according to the more advanced speakers talks at an excruciatingly slow speed, I still struggle sometimes. I usually understand the gist of a conversation, and shuffle through the rest of class with nods and smiles—but that tactic does NOT work when we do dictation exercises. That’s right! Dictation! Henning reads a piece of text, only repeating a sentence once, just once, and we’re supposed to write it down exactly what he has said. I’m not familiar with most of the words he reads, with the exception of the pronouns and a few adjectives. He always asks “Var det svært,” was it difficult, and we all nod our heads in slow unison. “Godt,” good, he says, but sometimes I wonder if it’s really as hard for my classmates as it is for me. I always hide my pile of letters scratched out on my piece of paper, underneath all the other lovely looking paragraphs.

Today was a long day. We hardly had anytime to ourselves, so I’ll have to catch you all up with our adventures with the efterskole kids another time. 

Vi ses i morgen.

By the way, it’s a little embarrassing that our president is trying to buy Greenland. American? What me? I think you have me confused with someone else. Unfortunately, I’m the only one, so they all turn to see my reaction. Maybe I’ll keep my UCLA hoodie in my suitcase once I leave Askov.

[jseindenmark]

Århus and ARoS

I’m a paragraph shy of finishing a letter to the editor in a local Danish newspaper about how the immigration crisis happening now in Europe echos the plight of German Jews in World War II. Those people who cannot claim a country find themselves in a precarious position—heavy stuff—a complicated vocabulary for a nonnative speaker. It’s some reading I have to do for class. 

I looked up the word krudtbrænder and the definition was “weed burner,” which made absolutely no sense to me—especially in the context of the article. So I asked for Hanna’s help; she’s a professional translator and in the highest class level here at Askov. She had to read the entire paragraph before she could help me—basically a man had a mishap burning weeds from his garden in which he had some minor legal trouble for, and subsequently lost his chance at Danish Citizenship. 

Hanna squinted her eyes skeptically at me. “You’re in level two?” I nodded. She shook her head, handed the article back to me and said, “This is really advanced! It would take me an entire day to write a translation for this” 

Yeah! It really is! I’ve been at it for the last four hours and I still have a paragraph left. Sometimes I get discouraged when I look up and see how much of this mountain I still have left to climb. My successes are incremental and sometimes I wonder if it’s even possible to learn a new language at my age. I know those thoughts can only hurt my efforts—as they never help—so it’s best to just keep my head down and trudge my way on. One small step after one small step. If I just keep moving, I’ll get there eventually, right?

About a week ago, I asked one of the teachers for reading recommendations. I needed something simple. Something short. And something written for an adult. He gave me the names of three authors. Yesterday, in Århus, I had a mission to find at least one of them. We went to three different used bookstores and I found two! 

Here’s the thing about Danish books: they’re really expensive. If you think about it, it makes sense. There’s not a lot of people in the world who can even read Danish, so they probably don’t print that many. And limited printing means higher prices. I expected to pay maybe 25 to 50 kroner for a book at a used bookstore, but I bought the two for 150 kroner—which is roughly 24 dollars—I could buy two brand new books for that in the states. It’s not crazy expensive—but it’s a lot more than I had expected. I bought them anyway, because I need to build my Danish-reading-confidence.

We also went to ARoS, the oldest Danish Art Museum outside of Copenhagen. I absolutely loved it there last year and I was pumped to go there again. 

However, there was one exhibition that was a disappointment this time, Art and Porn. I’d say there was far less emphasis on the art and much more emphasis on the porn. I’d like to think of myself as a fairly open-minded-sex-positive-kind-of woman—but this was A LOT! There were explicit videos playing on the walls—in public—strangers experiencing them together. I couldn’t really look deeply into the statement they were trying to make with any particular piece, because I felt like my own reactions were also being observed by some of the other patrons. Was that part of the exhibition? People watching each other watch porn? It didn’t feel artistic. It didn’t challenge preconceived notions. It didn’t reveal the humanity of the participants in a way that you hadn’t considered before. It was provocative—exploitative—but nothing more than just that. I didn’t spend a lot of time in that exhibition.

I did spend quite a bit of time in an exhibition called Far from Home. It explored the idea of “home” as both a physical space and an emotional feeling. More and more young people are losing a sense of home, making the way for loneliness and depression to spread reside within them. As someone who is still searching for her place to belong, I found the pieces in the exhibition quite moving. And I might try and incorporate some of those themes into some my writing pieces.

Tomorrow starts our last week her at the højskole. I cannot believe it’s already gone by so fast. I’ll be so sad to say goodbye to all these lovely people, but it’ll be nice to slapper af a little bit. Vi see i morgen.

[jseindenmark]

Another Cold in Denmark

Between the KCRW radio race, writing this blog, talking to my inspiring new international friends, I’ve found little time left to study—the whole reason I came here! So when I get back into my room, I don’t sleep. I do my grammar exercises and I read my Danish texts. Needless to say, it’s impossible to maintain those priorities indefinitely.

Thursday morning, I woke up two hours before breakfast to finish the reading I was unable to get through the night before and I found “nostril gremlins” had made their way into my nose. (“Nostril gremlins” is a trademark phrase borrowed from Maria). As the gremlins grew in strength and numbers, I found my own strength depleting. They were taking over! “They’re going to think you’re some sort of sickie person,” my mom laughed over a recent Skype call, referring to the year before when I had my two ear infections.

But I’m not the only one who’s sick. Kosta, a young Serbian gentleman who sits across from me in class, struggled with his own “nostril gremlins” the following day.

A few days before I left California, my father bought me some Claritin D for my trip. It’s impossible to even get some Ibuprofen in Denmark without a prescription, so I brought my own, as well as some Claritin, just in case. Man, has it been a lifesaver! Between that and some marathon power naps (Unfortunately, I had to skip some afternoon lectures), I can safely report that I’m on the mend. I’ve shared some of my Claritin with Kosta and I think it’s working for him as well.

This is a pattern I tend to repeat over and over again. I try and experience everything I can and figure I’ll sleep once these opportunities are no longer available to me. I approached my studies at UCLA with the same philosophy, taking 20-24 units a quarter. It costed the same no matter how many classes I took, so I took as much as I could get away with. I wanted to learn as much as I could, but that often came at the cost of my own rest. My body is refusing to put up with such treatment here in Askov, so okay. I hear you body. I will try and be more mindful of your rest.

Last night we had an open-mic night, and Bridget took the reins and became our fearless leader. Not only does she speak a multitude of languages, but she also plays guitar, sings and writes her own music. I tried to get a song together, but the nostril-gremlins still had control over my brain function. I could not keep up with even the simplest chord changes. I also just don’t play guitar as well as I play my sweet ukulele. So Bridget played the easy chord progression to The Cranberries’ Zombie and the two of us sang the song together. As many of you who have karaoke’d with me know, I’m quite loud when I get into the chorus of that song. Undskyld!

Bridget also performed a Lithuanian number with all the Lithuanians at the højskole, as well as two more pieces she did on her own. Watching her, I was reminded of myself at her age—but then I needed to correct myself. Sure I might have shared a similar hunger for life, but I wasn’t nearly as accomplished nor confident. I had that fire though, a fire that has lied dormant in me even though it was always my favorite attribute. Somehow seeing it active in Bridget has awoken it in me again. That alone would have made this trip worthwhile.

I have yet to write about Felix—mostly because I’m unsure that I could accurately describe him. At first he seems to be a young soft spoken German, a quiet observer sitting in the corner, but his comedic timing is almost wicked. Several times he’s brought us to tears in laughter with only three or four soft words. His humor is simultaneously sincere and biting, and maybe it’s that unique mixture that has us clutching at our ribs minutes after he spoke.

Don’t get me wrong, time spent in conversation with Felix is never time wasted. He gives a great deal of thought to his opinions before he shares them, which isn’t always the case with the many colorful characters here at the højskole. I collapsed on the sofa next to him a few nights ago, when I was still in my sinus haze. Felix and I began to share some of our favorite quotes with each other, and he began to talk about the strengths and weaknesses of different languages. “We have so many words in German. There’s several different ways that you can say the exact same thing, but Swedish is much more streamlined. Without all those extra words, I find it easier to express myself emotionally. It forces you to be much more direct.” I’ve been thinking about that conversation for days now. Felix has a way of sharing an observation and it will stick with you long after he’s said it.

I’m writing this on the bus to Aarhus, to ARoS, the Museum of Modern Art. Lena and Martina are sitting to my left, the lovely two ladies from Bulgaria. Frida is asleep in the seat to my right. She’s a strong force from Sweden. I’m feeling quite hyggelig (cozy) amongst these lovely people.

Til næste gang, vi ses.

[jseindenmark]

Food for thought

I had a long talk with a young thoughtful woman named Lena from Bulgaria, and she was asking about my life in Los Angeles. “Every time I come to Denmark,” I told her, “I feel a belonging that I haven’t really felt in years. Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s that I do belong here, or that it’s just such a stark difference from the sixteen years I spent not belonging in Los Angeles.” It’s a hard city to find your place, your people or your purpose, and after years of striking out, you start to think that those simple things aren’t for you. At Askov those things feel within my grasp. “Los Angeles is only one city in the huge state of California,” I promised her, “It’s so much more.” I told her about the coast, the sequoias, the mountains, the Pacific Crest Trail, and all the produce they grow in the central valley. All of it is California. When I told her it took me seven-and-a-half hours to drive to my parents’ property, her jaw dropped.

“And you’re still in California?”

“Oh yeah, and it could take you another seven hours to get to the Oregon border.”

This idea blew her mind. She told me that it would only take five hours to drive through the entire country Bulgaria. I’ve noticed this about a few of the people here. I don’t think they really comprehend how far away I live from New York, and it surprises them that I don’t know the geographical details of the East Coast. But I told Lena that it was weird for me to imagine if each of our states spoke a different language. Can you imagine? What if Nevada, Oregon and Washington all spoke a different language? That’s what it’s like for Europeans, so they treat language study much differently than the US does.

Most students here start by speaking their native language and English. “We have to learn English,” Lena told me, “because nobody else speaks Bulgarian.” Then the go on the their first foreign language, which for Lena was Norwegian. Danish is almost always a second foreign language, because “Only Denmark and maybe ten other people speak Danish,” Lena joked. When I told her how regretful I was that I didn’t take more language classes, she guessed that I had more time for other electives. They take their language classes in a whole separate school. They arrived at 8am and didn’t leave til 6pm—studying the same language the entire time. I took high school French twice a week for an-hour-and-a-half. Lena laughed. Of course I wasn’t going to master a language that way.

“But you were able to pursue your acting, writing and art,” she pointed out. I hadn’t really thought about the amount of time it’s taken these people to learn these languages and compared it to how I might have spent that same time. Don’t get me wrong, I still wish I would have committed myself to language study earlier in life, but Lena brought a perspective that I hadn’t considered. First, American language classes come up far too short for any level of mastery, and students have more time to spend pursuing extracurriculars. God knows I had my fair share!

I’m going to cut this short, because I still have some homework to get through tonight. I can’t believe we’re almost halfway done. It’s going by too fast. Until tomorrow, Vi ses.

[jseindenmark]

The Radio Race in Denmark

There are three full Danish days I have yet to account for, but I have a really good reason for being away for so long. The KCRW radio race! As most of you know, I’m an aspiring podcaster, and I have this group of people I met a year ago through the Transom Traveling Workshop. Six of us out of the nine began to talk about this contest a few months ago and decided to participate. It basically worked like this: the folks at KCRW sent out a theme to all the contestants Saturday at 10 am PDT (7 pm in Denmark) and we had 24 hours to produce a radio story under four minutes long. That means interview a subject, write and record narration, and edit something that resembles a narrative. We have Sunday off at Askov, so I didn’t have to skip.

On Saturday, the bus left for Ribe at 9:30 am (twelve-and-a-half hours before the contest started), and Henning described the scenery as it passed by the windows. I’ve gotten to a point where I can understand a full sentence in Danish, maybe two, but when it’s much more than that, I cannot keep track of the thread. I sometimes feel like a toddler who’s hit her capacity for comprehension—I know the majority of the words being spoken—but they’re moving too fast for me to grasp onto any image.

When we got off the bus, Henning took us on the same tour he took us last year through the old city—Ribe is his hometown—and even though I understood what was going on far better than I did the first time, I could feel that frustrated toddler gain more and more control over my body. Bridget assured me that it was all part of the process—actually a sign that I was making progress. I felt the temper-tantrum faded away and I was a fully grown adult woman once again. Thanks Bridget.

Bridget, Maria and I made our way to a second-hand shop. Bridget bought a beautiful old book on Vejen, the closest town to Askov, and I bought a simply written Danish book that I might try reading and a colorful gauzy scarf. It was the first time I did a whole transaction in Danish. I mean sure, I’ve not spoken at all for some transactions and just handed the cashier a credit card, but this time the cashier told me how much I owed her. I understood, although I did struggle finding the right coins to give her. She asked me if I wanted a bag in Danish and I told her that I’d just put it in my backpack. I was so proud of myself. As Maria would say, “Big mood!”

She and I checked out some arts-and-crafty types of stores, as Bridget wandered down the road to another second-hand-shop. Maria fell in love with a bright pink little alien-looking toy, and for only twenty-five kroner, we had to get it, naming her “Bella.” We got caught in the rain a few times, ducking under eaves here and there. Here’s the thing about Denmark: If you don’t like the weather, just wait ten minutes. It’ll change. It always does. 

The whole group reunited at the bus. We ate our packed lunches, followed by some tea and biscuits. We always get the choice between coffee and tea—and much to everyone’s surprise—there’s been a few times I’ve opted for tea. I blame it on the influence of my new British friends.

We got back to the school around 3 pm (four hours before the contest started), and yes, I could have written a quick blog entry then. I thought about it, but I also knew that I wouldn’t get much sleep that night. I’d be interviewing, writing narration, and maybe even cutting tape, so I decided to nap. I hardly even said “farvel” to anyone. I just walked upstairs to my room, took off my shoes, and timbered my body onto my bed. I slept for two delicious hours.

Like we do everyday, we had dinner that evening at 6:15 pm (45 minutes before the contest), but at 7 pm, my phone started buzzing. My attention shifted from my international friends to my radio ones. 

“Well that’s a crappy theme,” Robert, one of my Transom buddies sent in the group text. “That IS HORRIBLE,” Natalie buzzed back. The theme was “Where the Sun Don’t Shine,” but I knew almost immediately what I wanted to do my story on. I remembered Bridget didn’t drink and her reasons were very similar to mine. You’ll have to listen to it to find out what that reason is! 

After a video-chat-meeting with my radio siblings, I went looking for my charismatic subject. Within an hour, I was in my room with my headphones on and my microphone pointed at Bridget, and the chaos began. The next 24-hours I only left my room for 30 minutes at breakfast. There were times I didn’t know what I should do. There were times I just wanted to throw in the towel and give up. But my Transom buddies kept me on track and I did it. I’m going to leave the link here and if you feel like listening, listen.

https://soundcloud.com/jodi-scott-elliott/invasive-species-final-entry

After I submitted my piece, I was physically and emotionally exhausted with this massive headache, so I didn’t write a blog entry last night either. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been able to squeeze out another sentence. My reserves had been spent. 

I did dance a little with Bridget and Maria in the grass, and then the three of us broke into Total Eclipse of the Heart. Clutching our chests with one hand and reaching towards each other with the other, we embodied the drama of that classic 80’s ballad. I can’t say we haven’t repeated similar behavior in the day since. We broke into Tiffany’s I Think We’re Alone Now over breakfast and both The Lion King’s I Just Can’t Wait to be King and Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody over dinner. We also broke into severe laughing—I mean tears were in my eyes and I was struggling to breathe—and Maria’s gasps for air just sent me further into my own laughter. We could not stop. It’s the best laugh I’ve had in quite some time.

Hopefully you find yourself in your own laughing fit in the next day or so. It’s good for the heart, we all decided. Until then, Vi ses. 

[jseindenmark]

Reacquainting Myself with Inspiration

Back in California, I’ve struggled to write more than a few hundred words a day in these past few weeks after graduation. Sometimes I couldn’t even get that out. I’ve been afraid recently that I have nothing of value to say. It’s a hard thing to admit publicly. I know it’s just a part of the writing cycle, the psychosis part, but it’s a rough phase. Although this blog takes quite a large portion of my time and effort each day, simply writing observations of my Askov experience has reunited me with my computer keyboard. But more importantly, my voice. Exposure to these unique people and languages changes you. I’m inspired constantly, and this just feels like a record of that inspiration. I’m consuming more than I’m generating, leaving little room for self-consciousness. It feels good.

Last night we had a party at Fengerhus, one of the oldest buildings on the campus. The teachers gave a few students the key and put them in charge of the bar, meaning those students have to run over to the supermarket across the street and buy alcohol to stock the bar. They are responsible for serving the other students and charging them accordingly. At the end of the night, these students also clean the place up. I guess they implemented the same system last year, but I was never privy to the partying details then.

There’s a not so subtle difference between this group and last year’s group. I don’t feel the necessity to drink in order to have a good time with them. I haven’t had a drink in about ten years, and more often than not I feel shut out from the fun in social situations. Certain types of people cannot separate intoxication with a good time, and they feel threatened when someone else tries to manage that separation. Bridget is also a nondrinker, which helps. (Forgive the difference in spelling. We have since become Facebook friends, and I realized that I had originally spelled her name incorrectly.) Last night, she sipped on some nonalcoholic beer she bought earlier in the day, but she was just as vibrant as her drinking counterparts.

Maria and I grabbed two chairs at an empty table in a quiet corner and fell hard into a heavy conversation. She allowed me to play big sister. After an hour of exchanging intimate anecdotes and tactics for managing our fears, she thanked me for listening. “I think it’s better than apologizing for going on and on, so thank you for listening to me.” I was grateful too. Honest exchanges like that aren’t as common or easy to come by as people tend to think, and it’s important to acknowledge its value. Bridget and Valeria joined us once Maria and I relaxed our intense vibe. And then of course, the serious laughing began. I love the laughing!

I don’t know. Maybe it’s the traveling these young women have done, the multiple languages they speak or their willingness to dive straight into introspection, but they have some wisdom well beyond their years.

I thoroughly enjoyed their company last night, but I did pay a price this morning for staying up so late. First off, I fell asleep with my contact lenses still on, so it felt like I rolled in a sandy beach, eyes first. And no, I did not get up early enough to go for a run. No, I did not get up early enough to practice my presentation on Area 51. I even came to breakfast a few minutes later than I usually do. Don’t worry, my presentation still went alright. And yes, you read that correctly, it was about Area 51. 

According to a Danish newspaper article, some US protesters are organizing, through a Facebook event page, a charge right into the military base, in an effort to discover whatever the US government is hiding there. It was the first I heard anything of the sort. For the presentation I had to learn words like ørken (desert), ufoer (UFOs), rumvæsner (aliens), and even caught the phrase Det amerianske luftvåben er altid klar til at beskytte USA og dets faciliteter. It’s a quote they translated into Dansk, meaning: The American Airforce is always ready to protect the USA and its facilities. Apparently the airforce won’t reveal what exact measures they will take to ensure that protection. My presentation got the most questions out of anyone’s. A German kid wanted to know if I knew anyone who worked at Area 51. Ha!

I did skip lunch again today to get in the run I missed this morning. Back in California, I’ve been using my parents’ elliptical machine, because—California summer heat and indoor air-conditioning—so my lungs are in shape, but my legs are not. And they’re sore. So sore. But they gave those of us who wanted it a yoga class, and that did the trick. My muscles relaxed, my brain mellowed and now I feel calm and refreshed. Every single time I go back to yoga or meditation, I ask myself “Why don’t you do this every day?”

I do need to get some more sleep though. I’m hoping tonight goes a little better in that department. Vi ses i morgen!

[jseindenmark]

A Room of One’s Own

I had to skip a day of blogging yesterday for a number of reasons, but mainly, I’m here to study and homework has begun. They have scheduled the majority of our days and it’s easy to spend the little breaks between classes, lectures and field trips chatting with my classmates. It takes a good deal of discipline to break away from the laughter to read. And I read meget langsom (very slowly). If I’m not a whole-hundred-percent sure what a particular word means, or what it might mean in a different context, I look it up. No exception. I have a nasty habit of doing exactly the same thing in English. A densely-written page from a Joan Didion essay can take me a good hour to get through, but Danish is so much worse. I need to be sure I understand the parts of speech and conjugations. An hour only gets me through a couple of paragraphs. Between my reading and grammar exercise, I didn’t have the energy to organize my day into a blog entry.

Yes! Energy. Jetlag is still a real struggle AND I started running yesterday. I skipped lunch yesterday to run the 3 kilometers to the train station and the 3 kilometers to get back. Waking up this morning at 5:45 am, I did the same. I feel a surge of energy immediately after my workout, but after I shower, head into lecture, and try to keep my comprehension up with the speaker, my jet lag begins to weigh my eyelids down. Hannah, a student from Stockholm told me it takes a day for every hour of adjustment—so nine days—so not until next Sunday—so not until I’ll be doing the 24-hour KCRW radio race (more on that later). Besides nodding off at inappropriate times and places, it’s been ideal.

There’s a young guy named Dash who always points at me and calls me “California.” I just point back and say “Australia.” I had to make a conscious decision to remember his name is Dash, otherwise he’d just be his country to me. He pals around with a British kid named Tristan. You can find them in the corner roaring with laughter between fits of the filthiest language I have ever heard, but they both assure me that they are representing their perspective cultures accurately. Even though they call each other “twats” and other things I won’t even entertain typing here, they are always having a good time. They can make me spit out my coffee in the morning with what they say, so naturally they like having me as an audience.

I haven't mentioned yet that they have given me a room of my own (echoing Virginia Wolf as it is the space I am writing this very entry) and it’s been lovely. I’ve always liked a fair amount of time alone. I share a bathroom with one other woman, Cristina. I love Cristina. Her English isn’t strong and I cannot speak more than “buon giorno” in Italian, so we speak to each other only in Danish. Today we took a field trip to Jelling and on the whole bus ride back, we got to know each other in Danish. And pretty soon we were giggling in Danish. You see, Cristina and I are about the same level in the language. We don’t get irritated or board when one of us can’t find a word. Also, our comprehension takes the same amount of time as our speaking. We talk slowly, but we also understand slowly. So it works!

I do have to cut this short, as I have to prepare a presentation tomorrow about Area 51. Vi ses.

[jseindenmark]

The placement test

When my train reached Ødense, I thought the Danish voice on the loud speaker instructed those continuing on their journey to move to the front cars of the train, but I understood him even less when he repeated himself in English. I still had an hour more to go before I reached the Vejen station. I asked some young women. They thought I needed to get out on the platform and enter the front cars from outside, but they weren’t sure. I was afraid to leave on a ‘maybe,’ so I asked a porter. He gruffly told me to get off the train and pointed out the open doors and vaguely towards the front. Was I supposed to go there? I followed his instructions, but the cars in front weren’t even connected to the rest of the train. Wasn’t it supposed to be the same train? I wasn’t sure if they were the right ones, but with no other options I shoved my bags and myself through at least fifteen people and into the car. There were no empty seats. I squeezed passed people and stepped over huge bags in the aisles, looking for any indication that I was were I needed to be.

I was surprised when I heard someone call my name from behind. Who did I know in Ødense? I had only been to the city three times my entire life. I turned around on saw Roody, one of the students at the højskole from last year. “Oh good, I’m in the right place,” and he assured me I was. We immediately began talking in English to catch up, but I promise you, as soon as we stepped off the bus, it was all Danish. 

Fifteen other højskole students waited with us at the station, but there were only eight seats in the van that came to pick us up. Roody and I offered to walk the three kilometers to the school, if the bus could take our heavy bags. A young woman named Bridget decided to join us. The three of us began to exchange getting-to-know you questions in Danish on our walk, and I held my own. Even back at back the school, three of the teachers commented on how much my Danish had improved. I understood so much more than last year.

On our walk Bridget and I became pals. She’s from the UK, but lives in France. She picked up Danish for fun as a teenager—just taught herself for kicks—also studies Lithuanian. There’s another language I’m forgetting that she’s fluent in—beyond those five languages, she has a handful of others that she can “order a train ticket or ask for directions in.” Watched her flip between English, Danish, Lithuanian, French, then back to English depending on the native language of the person she’s talking to. Oh, and she’s only twenty-two years old.

Maria, a young woman born in Poland, but spent most of her life in England, quickly befriended Bridget and I. Maria has been studying Danish for less than a year and she struggled to catch what was being said. “Don’t worry,” I told her, “I was in the same boat last year. I never really knew what happening.” She was stressing about the placement test. “If you’re in the beginning class, then that’s where you’ll need to be.” She was fine with that. I explained a few things that were happening for her, just as people did for me last year. 

Maria wasn’t placed in the first group, like we had expected, or the second group, which I had been. She was placed in the third group. “I only understood little of what was said in class,” she told me, “but I asked around, and it seemed the rest of the class understood the same.” She knew more than even she realized. I expected to take her under my wing, but I don’t think she really needs it. It’s funny how intimidating conversation can be and suddenly you forget that you actually know. It did not surprise anyone that they placed Bridget in the fourth group. A couple of students from last year were disappointed that they didn’t make it to that group, but apparently, this year’s advanced group is at an even higher level than they were last year.  

I love it, because I can just listen to them talk. For whatever reason, I find the advanced students much easier to understand than native speakers, maybe they talk slower or maybe they don’t mumble as much. At any rate, they’re a good stepping stone for me.

I’m happy with the group I’m in. I have Henning as my teacher, and I just adore the man. I feel on par with my classmates. It’s a lot of work learning a foreign language. I shouldn’t expect more from my two years of study. I think last year I was disappointed I had less access to my knowledge, while this year I think I’m more realistic in my expectations of myself. 

I do look at my fellow students that have five or six languages under their belt with a little awe. I wish I would have applied myself more in high school French. I wish I would have learned more Spanish in my ten years at Rosti. I can see that reading and writing in other languages improves storytelling, heightens empathy, and broadens your options to a global level. I am determined to see my Danish studies through though. Maybe I’ll pick up French or Spanish in a year or two. The people I meet here are so smart and accomplished. Just as it did last year, they inspire me to work for more.

This evening we wrote down some fears we had about starting this program, and I’ll share them with you here. I’m not going to translate, but if you’re really curious, google translate should give you a rough idea. 1) Jeg er bange for at det ville tage en længe tid til at tale dansk godt. 2) Jeg savner min hund. Hun er meget gammel og kunne ikke huske mig når jeg vender tilbage. And then added, 3) Jer er bange at jeg er for gammel til at lære sprog… It’s one of constant echo, a fear seems to recycle itself over and over in other areas of my life. I’ve been giving it some thought, and I think I need to use this trip to figure out a way to let that fear go.

[jseindenmark]

I cannot stay away

Once again, I’m on a three hour train ride, bound for the same Danish language program from last year at Askov. There’s a few distinct differences. First off, I had two horrible ear infections, both ears completely clogged. I couldn’t quite catch very familiar English words let alone the complex vowel differences of the Danish language. Second, I had only been studying the language for a year in a distance learning class, and I hadn’t had the opportunity to put it to practical use. So last year I found myself drowning in the strange sounds out of everyone’s mouths, and rarely had a solid grasp of what was ever actually going on. I just followed the crowds to different rooms, on buses, fields or wherever the confident student went. This year I plan to aim higher, as I come with healthy ears and another year of studying under my belt.

I arrived a day and a half ago and it’s the first time I’ve struggled so severely with jet lag. Although I was with some of my favorite humans, Rasmus, Helena, Astrid and Julius, I struggled to keep my eyelids parted during quieter parts of our day. I refused to indulge in a nap though, as I’m sure it would have only made my time-change  adjustment more of a struggle.

Rasmus and Helena have moved to Hornbæk, since the last time I’ve been here. It’s an adorable beach town and honestly slice of Denmark I have yet to experience. They now have a house literally across the street from the water, both a front and back yard and even a vegetable garden. We ate homegrown tomatoes and potatoes in our meals.  Rasmus showed me the two jars of water he’s germinating avocado seeds in, and I told him about the five I have lined across the sill of the kitchen window back in Greenwood. We talked seeds for longer than any non gardener would tolerate. I mean, you all know how much I love my plant-babies, and now Rasmus has plant-babies of his own.

I have many reasons to study Danish, but most importantly, I want to communicate better with Astrid. Although I still have quite a bit more to learn and practice, we were able to understand each other better than ever before. Even joke with each other. This morning I patted the bottoms of her feet, making a soft slapping sound, and told her “du har en pandekag fode,” you have a pancake foot. “Nej,” she laughed, but “ja” I reassured her. Last year I was spending minutes planning single sentences to say to her and now I have the beginning of a back and forth conversation. I can’t wait till I see her again after my three-week deep study of Danish. We’ll be the best of friends.

Clearly Rasmus and Helena regularly talk about me with her; she was so comfortable with me. On a walk yesterday, her little soft hand reached up for mine and held it for a good thirty-or-so minutes. I practically swooned. And this morning I saw a small stuffed animal horse I had bought her in California two Februaries ago. I asked her “Hvad hedder han?” what is his name, and she answered “Tuxedo,” the name of the horse I rode as a teenager. Another swoon. Her parents had told me that she named it that, but that was a while ago. She hadn’t forgotten.

Rasmus drove me to the train station this morning and in about an hour I will be back at the Askov. I’ll be reunited with a handful of teachers and maybe a few other students from last year. If you guys remember from last year, Henning, the man who drove me from doctor’s office to doctor’s office when my ears swelled shut, will be there. I’m excited to see him again. I’m a little nervous about struggling again the language—but I’m more excited to participate once again in this Danish tradition of the folk højskole.

[jseindenmark]

The descendants of two sisters

I know it’s been several days since I posted anything, but I couldn’t tear myself away from the family long enough to get something written.  Now that I’m waiting at my gate at the København airport, I need something to deflect this sinking feeling that I’m leaving too soon.  I’ve been exposed to several different cultures, broadened my world view, laughed with some beautiful new people, and shared some lovely moments with my Danish relatives.  A month’s time felt like only the beginning.  

Several people have reached out and let me know that they’ve been reading my posts.  I’m a little surprised.  I intended the blog as a means for my family in California to get a window into what it’s been like in Denmark, but far more than family are reading.  A writer will never complain about an audience.  I’m delighted.  

A red boat in the København Harbor.

I had nine days in Denmark after Askov and it wasn’t nearly enough time to soak in the family and practice my Danish.  Everyday I would hear a little more.  A phrase would hit my ear and I suddenly realized, “Hey, I know what that means.”  The other day, Astrid was squirming in the stroller Rasmus was pushing.  He looked down at her and asked “Hvad laver du?”  (What are you doing?). We practice this phrase a lot.  “Hvad laver du hverdag?”  (What do you do everyday?). “Hvad laver du fritid?”  (What do you in your free time?).  It’s a getting to know you verb, and it was the second or third question we’d ask in Askov, when we were getting to know each other.  Hearing it in an entirely different context, as a father addressing his daughter’s fidgeting, I had to smile.

And yes, I accomplished my first Danish speaking goal since I started studying the language.  I had a conversation with Astrid.  Helena told Astrid that I could read her a book now, and even though her books are written in relatively simple Danish, I found the task intimidating.  None the less, I tackled it.  Astrid ran to the shelf, grabbed a book, and handed it over to me.  I looked at the first sentence and all the words were the same as we spelled them in English and I was unsure how to pronounce them.  I turned to Helena and asked if I say them the same way.  She gave me a little smile.  “The book is in English.  It should be pretty easy.”  I blushed a little, but Astrid didn’t care.  She curled up next to me and I read her a story about a little blue truck.  We read it again and then a third time.

I began to ask her questions about the pictures in Danish.  I pointed to an illustration of a cat and asked, “Er det en hest?”  “Nej,” she gasped at me.  “Er det en ko?”  “Nej!”  Er det en Hund?”  “Nej!”  I feigned giving up, asking her “Hvad er det?”  She hardly could contain the answer, “En Kat!”  “Tak,” I thanked her.  Helena made small corrections to my enunciation, when prompted by a hesitation.  Astrid took little time do do the same and thought it was quite fun.  She no longer had the look of frustration she had when she visited California in February.  I remember all of us gathered around the coffee table, speaking in English, and Astrid couldn’t get a grasp of what was going on.  Instead, we understood each other.  She was quicker with a smile when our eyes met.  Had she been a little bit older, she might have grown impatient with my slow responses and repetitive questions, but a child her age loves repetition.  And I really didn’t need much more of a vocabulary.  She was my perfect conversation partner.  These are the moments I wish had a chance to get a little more of.

Tobias and Laura invited us to their house on Thursday for a beautifully prepared meal, a meal that rivaled my dad or uncle David’s.  Tobias knows food well, and his guests received the benefits.  Bo’s sister, Brigitte, was there.  It’s been forty years since my father and Brigitte last saw each other.  Rasmus and Helena came with Astrid and Julius and Brigitte’s daughter Anne Katrine came with her two boys.  Kids were running and playing in all directions.  Some of the little ones were Bo’s grandchildren and some were Brigitte’s.  It reminded me a lot of family gatherings in California, where my dad and his siblings gather with their children and grandchildren.  I said as much.  Although Helena only recently participated in such gatherings in California, she admitted she was thinking the same thing.  

Bo is the best tour guide in Denmark and tells you all the relevant history of each landmark.

I was also happy to see Anne Katrine again.  Four years ago, on my last visit, I knew I had to let something go.  I promised myself that I would use the trip to do just that.  I bought a ring to remind myself of that promise, during times I might waver.  Anne Katrine took me out for lunch one afternoon and listen to my heartbreak with a deep empathy.  I’ll never forget the expression on her face, when I told her my struggle.  Afterwards she took me to a Danish design boutique and helped me choose my ring.  Buying and wearing that ring was an effective ritual to let go of an unhealthy relationship, and I’m grateful to be free of it.  Anne Katrine will always be a huge part of that memory.  I only recently shared this memory with my mother, and once I did, she couldn’t wait to meet her.  Apparently, she was exactly as I described her.

In an effort to better understand our connection to our Danish relatives, I compared my Dad’s relationship to Bo with the relationship between Anne Katrine’s oldest Nor and Astrid.  It’s that same relation.  Or for my California family, Caden and Bailey have the same relationship as Bo and my dad.  Once I put it into this context, this seemingly distant relation felt more intimate.  “I guess we’re only distant in geography,” Rasmus said.  Spending time with their children, in their homes, sharing meals with them, they do feel like family.  Intimate family.  “But we are family,” Bo laughed when I told him.  But feelings don’t always follow the same rules as DNA.  Four years ago, I decided to get better acquainted with our relatives across the Atlantic, but four years is a drop in the bucket in the history of our families.

Min forældre med Rasmus i Tivioli.

A hundred years ago, two sisters, Karen and Ella, shared a great affection for each other.  Even when Karen immigrated to the United States, the two wrote letters and shared pictures.  This affection was passed to their daughters, to their daughter’s children, and their daughter’s grandchildren.  The descendants of both sisters value time with family in a such similar way that when we visit each other we recognize something familiar.  I cannot help but think that Karen and Ella would be so pleased that their love survived well beyond their deaths and across an ocean.    

[jseindenmark]

Skagen

I cannot find accurate words to describe the art work we saw at the Skagen Museum, but I can say that many of them nearly moved me to tears.  The artists of this community painted each other and their loved ones with such affection.  Only love could inspire the care they took to get such details right.  Each brush stroke had passion.  

My parents climbing the gigantic sand dune.  Doesn’t feel like we’re still in Denmark anymore.

And I’ve read about the beautiful light on the Skagen beaches that these painters did their best to capture, but they also tried to capture several other light sources, like a fire on a dark beach, the soft light shining through the panes of a window reflecting off the walls, or the dim lamp over a piano as a mother taught her children how to play.  They accuracy in which they captured all these light sources brought the paintings alive with such an intimacy.  Pictures on a computer screen do little justice to the art pieces themselves.

My cute mom.

Later in the day, we strode up the moving sand dune.  It moves from the west to the east 10 meters a year.  To call this thing a dune felt like an understatement.  We called it a sand mountain.  Our feet sunk into deep sand as we climbed to the top, so we tried to step where the sand was tightly packed, like you would do in the snow.  It was hard to believe that we were in Denmark.  As we turned and looked in all directions, all we could see was sand.  It was almost like the scene of a dessert.  From the top, we could see both the North Sea and the Baltic Sea.  

The church buried in sand.

Of course we had to see the church half buried in sand.  They cut down all the trees and the wind blew the sand enough to bury the bottom floor of the church.  We were a little amazed that we were all able to fit so much in and in a rainy day.

Today will have to be short.  I still haven’t told you guys about my dad’s first visit to Tivioli or my first Danish conversation with Astrid, but you’ll have to wait.  Sometimes you need to soak in the moments while they are happening and worry about the documentation later.  Vi Ses!

[jseindenmark]

From Askov to Skagen

There were still a few students lingering at the højskole, as my parents arrived.  The next adventure began before the previous one had finished, so I haven’t felt the absence of my new internationally friends as I would have otherwise.  Although I know the impression they made on my heart is immeasurable.  I was saying my goodbye to Henning and my parents pulled into the driveway.  I was happy that they were all able to meet.  

The house I had been staying in with five other girls only had my lonely luggage inside until my parents’ bags joined in the room next to mine.  Just hours before the house had seemed so public, now seemed intimate with just the three of us.

I caught my cute parents taking Roman Mars advise:  Always read the plaque.

Once they settled, we walked the three kilometers to Vejen and visited the artist museum.  The limited traveling I have done till now, I’ve done on my own.  It was nice to have some of these experiences with people I share a home town with.  I showed them the beautiful pedestrian path into town, pharmacy that I picked my antibiotics up at and the train station where I originally arrived.  We visited the art museum I was too sick to visit before.  It was impressive, although Danish art can be dark!  

Back at the højskole, we sat in the nearly empty dining hall and ate our dinner.  They met Maria and Roberto, and Maria sat with us for our meal.  Maria was in the highest level and it was comforting to hear her tell my parents that she still struggles with comprehension.  It’s tough developing that Danish ear.  “They swallow all their letters,” she told my parents.  It’s not just a hard language for me; it’s hard for everyone.

My mom and I looking towards the lighthouse.

I found it satisfying to show my parents the campus, as I explained the Danish attitude towards education.  Danes believe that education is necessary for all people to participate in the democratic process, so they afford their citizens every opportunity to learn.  It’s quite a bit different from the American attitude.  I used the opportunity to campaign a return—maybe for the longer program next year—maybe both the long and the short program—maybe a master’s program.  There seems to be quite a bit of opportunity here.  And I’ve only been homesick for one thing:  my dog, Olive.  The rest, I haven’t given much thought about.  My heart belongs to Denmark.  I just need to master the language.

Yesterday, we drove north to Skagen with a brief stop on Legoland on the way up, so we could tell the lego enthusiasts of the family, mainly Caden and Ian, all about it.  The sculptures were impressive and the park was fun, but a still little kitschy.  It’s the most commercial experience I’ve had in Denmark so far.  

I loved how many dogs I saw at the park.  Dogs everywhere!  Well-behaved.  Big and small.  I caught the eyes of most of them.  I’m really jonesing for some dog interaction.  The lego sculptures of the canines were of course my favorites.  I miss Olive.  It’s the longest I’ve ever been away from her.  I wish I had her with me at Legoland.

Henning had recommending a small little bed and breakfast in Skagen and were arrived just a few minutes after 6pm.  It’s supposed to rain all day, so I pushed for us to see the were the North Sea meets the Baltic Sea before the sun went down.  

The Baltic Sea meets the North Sea.

The two seas met in what looked like a cowlick in the water.  The light was as promised, golden and beautiful.  The three of us have gained another check on our bucket list.

We are about to visit the museum to see the famous painting of the Skagen painters, so I’ll have to cut this post short.  Vi ses!