Every Danish class is required to have a hyggeaften— basically a night where a movie is shown and some sort of Danish food is consumed. The assigned days for Charlotte’s classes were last night and tonight; I signed up for tonight.
The film we watched was Bænken (The Bench). I’m not sure if the program dictates which movie we watch or if our teacher does, but let’s just say it wouldn’t have been my first choice for an evening that was supposed to be “cozy”. I have heard that Danish films tend toward the heavy side thematically (and apparently their comedies aren’t your typical brand of humor either), but still— when trying to have a nice night in, your first instinct usually isn’t to watch a depressing movie. Charlotte even prefaced it by saying, “This film is not a comedy.”
Bænken is the first in a series of three films by director Per Fly (the other ones being Arven and Drabet), each one about the social classes in Denmark: lower, upper and middle. Bænken is about the lower class, and that’s pretty much all I can say without having to explain the entire plot. The mood of the film oscillated between hopeful and fantastically depressing. My friend’s boyfriend was there too, and the first thing he said upon seeing the end credits roll was, “I’m kind of… traumatized….” Yup, that about sums it up.
Charlotte reappeared after the film (she’d been running back and forth between the movie room and the room next door preparing the food and the atmosphere) to formally invite us into the next room and to tell us to put ourselves in a different mood. And so everyone shuffled glumly next door.
The classroom was more hyggeligt than I thought a classroom ever could be; the lights had somehow been dimmed, and she had moved the desks so that they formed one long table in the center of the room. On the table she’d placed a golden paper tablecloth and groups of little votive candles. Each napkin was adorned with the pattern of waving Danish flags, and there were abundant bottles of beer and soda. I took a seat across from my friend’s boyfriend (my friend has a different teacher for Danish) at the end of the table and we were somewhat unexpectedly joined by Charlotte, who had forgotten to set a place for herself.
We ate traditional Danish smorrebrød with a fork and knife (the Danes eat everything with a fork and knife; my host family even goes so far as to eat hamburgers that way). Conversation was awkward at first— hindered on our end both by everyone being preoccupied by his or her food, and by our teacher’s presence (Danish teachers lack the formality of the teachers back in the States; they are always addressed by their first names and frequently wear jeans to class— so while Charlotte may be quite used to socializing with her students, it took us a while to loosen up in front of her). Once everyone had finished eating though, people were more than willing to talk.
Conversation ranged from a discussion of how seriously Americans take Thanksgiving (before coming to work with the program, our teacher had barely been aware of it), various drinking cultures (the Danes drink quite heavily, the Chinese barely touch alcohol, and the Italians take a more leisurely approach), the set nature of the American college system, and what led us to choose this particular program. I think our end of the table was slightly disappointed when, cued by the far end of the table, everyone started leaving (Charlotte had just opened herself another soda). But, I think it’s safe to say that everyone hyggede sig.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
Mortensaften
November 10th is Mortensaften in Denmark— the evening before the catholic Saint Martin’s Day (Sankt Morten is the Danish name for Saint Martin of Tours). Not being religious, and being barely aware of Christian religious traditions, I had never heard of St. Martin’s Day, or of the tradition associated with the evening before it.
As the story goes, Martin (Morten, if you’re Danish) was a follower of Christianity during a time when the religion had barely been made legal by the Roman Empire (if you’re interested in all the gory little details, I suggest you go to Wikipedia). In 371, he was (rather unwillingly) acclaimed bishop of Tours by his parishioners. So unwillingly in fact, that he ran away and hid himself in a stable full of geese. Turns out that wasn’t such a bright idea on his part— as soon as his followers started looking for him, the geese began to make a dreadful racket, almost immediately betraying his location. Needless to say, Martin was found and reluctantly dragged off to become a bishop.
What does this have to do with Danish traditions? Well, as “revenge” on the offending poultry, the Danes traditionally eat duck on Mortensaften. Yes, I know logically they should be eating goose, and in Skåne (which was at one point part of Denmark) they do. Apparently, the Danes think duck is tastier.
For the occasion, Morten (20th Century Danish Architecture Morten) gave us one of his usual anecdotes: back before the Avian Flu scare, geese used to be kept on large open fields close to where he lived. There were so many that the fields were almost white. And every year, on St. Martin’s Day (the day after Mortensaften), the only things left in the fields would be feathers.
As the story goes, Martin (Morten, if you’re Danish) was a follower of Christianity during a time when the religion had barely been made legal by the Roman Empire (if you’re interested in all the gory little details, I suggest you go to Wikipedia). In 371, he was (rather unwillingly) acclaimed bishop of Tours by his parishioners. So unwillingly in fact, that he ran away and hid himself in a stable full of geese. Turns out that wasn’t such a bright idea on his part— as soon as his followers started looking for him, the geese began to make a dreadful racket, almost immediately betraying his location. Needless to say, Martin was found and reluctantly dragged off to become a bishop.
What does this have to do with Danish traditions? Well, as “revenge” on the offending poultry, the Danes traditionally eat duck on Mortensaften. Yes, I know logically they should be eating goose, and in Skåne (which was at one point part of Denmark) they do. Apparently, the Danes think duck is tastier.
For the occasion, Morten (20th Century Danish Architecture Morten) gave us one of his usual anecdotes: back before the Avian Flu scare, geese used to be kept on large open fields close to where he lived. There were so many that the fields were almost white. And every year, on St. Martin’s Day (the day after Mortensaften), the only things left in the fields would be feathers.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
What Would Morten Do?
My teacher for 20th Century Danish Architecture is a peculiar man named Morten. If you were acquainted with him, you would know why I use the term “peculiar”; he’s not crazy enough be termed “eccentric” and he’s not unconventional enough to be termed “weird” or “bizarre”. No, there’s nothing particularly strange about Morten— just slightly… off.
It’s something I’ve come to expect from teachers that have anything to do with the arts— architects especially. I’m guessing it has something to do with the way their chosen profession requires them to think and view the world; you know something’s not completely normal in your brain if you can look at a crumpled ball of paper and see a building (Frank Gehry, I’m talking to you…). It's something that has me worrying whether I’m going to end up just as odd as the rest of them after years exposed to the profession (although I suspect it's already started).
The thing about Morten isn’t really anything he does per se, but rather the things he says. He’s one of those people who has somehow managed to absorb an entire encyclopedia into his brain and therefore knows something about everything. Consequently, he’s prone to random tangential, well, not outbursts so much, but rather wanderings.
For instance: he’s telling us about the old Kastrup Airport— a very nice building designed in 1936 by Vilhelm Lauritzen— when he mentions how in the old days, airports used to have grass runways. “How did they maintain them?” he asks us rhetorically. They used to keep sheep on the runway. And when the planes came, the sheep would simply run away. “It was very economical,” he adds jovially, clearly enjoying the mental image of sheep grazing as planes swoop in above them. Meanwhile our entire class is struggling not to burst out laughing.
Morten is also a subscriber to the, as our TA puts it, “As Far as You Can” Rule. Meaning, when visiting a building (or doing anything, really), go as far as you can before getting chucked out. He’s regularly advised us to jump fences and ring doorbells (completely unannounced) of strangers in order to visit good architecture— even if the building is governmental property. He’s a man that seems completely oblivious to trespassing laws. And really, if you talk to him, you are left with the impression that he never believes that anything he does is wrong— not in a scary self-righteous kind of way, but rather in a naïve, child-like way.
There’s really no other way to explain how, some years ago on a school sponsored field study, he wandered right over the perimeter of (what was at the time) a German missile silo, and, instead of being arrested by the guards, somehow wound up having a pleasant and in-depth discussion about the architecture of the building and of the site.
His ability to get out of trouble is so absurd that it has therefore become a running joke within our class to ask ourselves, when faced with a particularly strange or difficult task, “What would Morten do?”
It’s something I’ve come to expect from teachers that have anything to do with the arts— architects especially. I’m guessing it has something to do with the way their chosen profession requires them to think and view the world; you know something’s not completely normal in your brain if you can look at a crumpled ball of paper and see a building (Frank Gehry, I’m talking to you…). It's something that has me worrying whether I’m going to end up just as odd as the rest of them after years exposed to the profession (although I suspect it's already started).
The thing about Morten isn’t really anything he does per se, but rather the things he says. He’s one of those people who has somehow managed to absorb an entire encyclopedia into his brain and therefore knows something about everything. Consequently, he’s prone to random tangential, well, not outbursts so much, but rather wanderings.
For instance: he’s telling us about the old Kastrup Airport— a very nice building designed in 1936 by Vilhelm Lauritzen— when he mentions how in the old days, airports used to have grass runways. “How did they maintain them?” he asks us rhetorically. They used to keep sheep on the runway. And when the planes came, the sheep would simply run away. “It was very economical,” he adds jovially, clearly enjoying the mental image of sheep grazing as planes swoop in above them. Meanwhile our entire class is struggling not to burst out laughing.
Morten is also a subscriber to the, as our TA puts it, “As Far as You Can” Rule. Meaning, when visiting a building (or doing anything, really), go as far as you can before getting chucked out. He’s regularly advised us to jump fences and ring doorbells (completely unannounced) of strangers in order to visit good architecture— even if the building is governmental property. He’s a man that seems completely oblivious to trespassing laws. And really, if you talk to him, you are left with the impression that he never believes that anything he does is wrong— not in a scary self-righteous kind of way, but rather in a naïve, child-like way.
There’s really no other way to explain how, some years ago on a school sponsored field study, he wandered right over the perimeter of (what was at the time) a German missile silo, and, instead of being arrested by the guards, somehow wound up having a pleasant and in-depth discussion about the architecture of the building and of the site.
His ability to get out of trouble is so absurd that it has therefore become a running joke within our class to ask ourselves, when faced with a particularly strange or difficult task, “What would Morten do?”
Saturday, November 8, 2008
The Cleanest Clothes in the Land
Europeans, I’ve found, like their laundry clean. Like so clean you can eat off of it, completely sterilized clean. It’s the only explanation I can find for why they would ever need to wash their clothes in water that’s 90ºC (for those of you unfamiliar with the metric system, that’s 194ºF and very close to boiling). It’s a phenomenon that we were warned about last summer in Berlin, and one I thought only applied to the Germans.
Not so, apparently. The Danes, too, like their clothes absurdly clean. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for the existence of my host family’s washing machine.
From appearances, it doesn’t look particularly different from other European washing machines that I’ve encountered; the coldest setting is 30ºC (86ºF) and the hottest is 90ºC (194ºF). There’s a knob, with a couple of indecipherable numbers (which evidently isn’t particularly important, as it has never moved from it’s current position), and an on/off switch.
No, the unusual thing about my family’s washing machine is the ungodly amount of time it takes to complete a wash cycle— namely, two hours. Back home, I’m completely done with all my laundry within this time (I admit I am aided by the fact that I can use more than one washer at the same time, but still— 1 hour and 38 minutes are all it takes to completely wash and dry a load of laundry). The school washer takes precisely 38 minutes to complete a cycle; the one in my house takes about 45 minutes. So I can’t for the life of me figure out what the one here is doing to my clothes that would require two hours. Added to the fact that the dryer takes upwards of an hour and a half, it means it takes me about six hours to wash and dry one load of darks and one load of lights.
I suppose, at the very least, I can rest easy knowing that— between the machine’s inability to wash anything in less than scalding hot water, and its extremely long wash cycle— should the need ever arise, my clothes are most likely sterile enough to perform surgery in.
Not so, apparently. The Danes, too, like their clothes absurdly clean. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for the existence of my host family’s washing machine.
From appearances, it doesn’t look particularly different from other European washing machines that I’ve encountered; the coldest setting is 30ºC (86ºF) and the hottest is 90ºC (194ºF). There’s a knob, with a couple of indecipherable numbers (which evidently isn’t particularly important, as it has never moved from it’s current position), and an on/off switch.
No, the unusual thing about my family’s washing machine is the ungodly amount of time it takes to complete a wash cycle— namely, two hours. Back home, I’m completely done with all my laundry within this time (I admit I am aided by the fact that I can use more than one washer at the same time, but still— 1 hour and 38 minutes are all it takes to completely wash and dry a load of laundry). The school washer takes precisely 38 minutes to complete a cycle; the one in my house takes about 45 minutes. So I can’t for the life of me figure out what the one here is doing to my clothes that would require two hours. Added to the fact that the dryer takes upwards of an hour and a half, it means it takes me about six hours to wash and dry one load of darks and one load of lights.
I suppose, at the very least, I can rest easy knowing that— between the machine’s inability to wash anything in less than scalding hot water, and its extremely long wash cycle— should the need ever arise, my clothes are most likely sterile enough to perform surgery in.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Gasp Like You Mean It
There are certain things that are bound not to translate when living in a foreign country. Of course there are words, like the aforementioned hygge, that have no English counterpart— but I’m referring to non-verbal forms of communication. They’re things we take for granted: gestures or exclamations that make sense to us, but will completely blindside a foreigner. The Danes have such a quirk that continues to startle me every time I encounter it: a sudden, sharp intake of breath.
Yes, my friends— the Danes gasp.
Although it is, essentially, a gasp, it doesn’t seem to mean what it does for those of us in the English-speaking world. More often than not, it doesn’t mark any kind of surprise or intense emotion. Nor is it the result of running out of breath. It happens so randomly, that I can’t figure out a solid pattern for when “gasping” is appropriate. I’m not even sure the Danes themselves are aware that they’re doing it.
The most obvious “gasper” I’ve encountered is my studio teacher Pernille— a small and frenetic woman who ingests entirely too much caffeine than is appropriate for her size. Whether or not this excessive caffeine consumption has anything to do with her gasping is unknown. What is known is that she will gasp— at least once— during any conversation held with her.
I’ll be talking about my ideas for a project, when I hear the characteristic intake of air. I’ll pause, waiting for her input— expecting, as one usually does when one hears such a reaction, criticism— but she’ll just remain silent, waiting until I’ve finished talking to tell me that my ideas are fine and I should continue doing whatever I’m doing.
Or she’ll be giving us a lecture in my Visual Journal class about the effect light and shadow have on an object, when she’ll pause to consider something. There’ll be a moment’s silence as she thinks to herself, when suddenly she gasps as if she’s had some sort of epiphany. But she hasn’t— she’ll just continue along the same vein as before.
I’m not the only one to have noticed; an acquaintance of mine in the Pre-Architecture program has mentioned that her studio teacher gasps as well, and one of the program assistants has made the observation that about 40% of Danish women, and 20% of the men are gaspers. Certainly Pernille isn’t the only one— I’ve noticed both my host mother and Charlotte gasp (though both do it much less frequently than Pernille; my host mother tends to do it only when she’s listening to others talk, while Charlotte tends to do it only when she’s thinking to herself).
But what does this gasping mean, and how did it come to ingrain itself in the Danish population? The world may never know.
Yes, my friends— the Danes gasp.
Although it is, essentially, a gasp, it doesn’t seem to mean what it does for those of us in the English-speaking world. More often than not, it doesn’t mark any kind of surprise or intense emotion. Nor is it the result of running out of breath. It happens so randomly, that I can’t figure out a solid pattern for when “gasping” is appropriate. I’m not even sure the Danes themselves are aware that they’re doing it.
The most obvious “gasper” I’ve encountered is my studio teacher Pernille— a small and frenetic woman who ingests entirely too much caffeine than is appropriate for her size. Whether or not this excessive caffeine consumption has anything to do with her gasping is unknown. What is known is that she will gasp— at least once— during any conversation held with her.
I’ll be talking about my ideas for a project, when I hear the characteristic intake of air. I’ll pause, waiting for her input— expecting, as one usually does when one hears such a reaction, criticism— but she’ll just remain silent, waiting until I’ve finished talking to tell me that my ideas are fine and I should continue doing whatever I’m doing.
Or she’ll be giving us a lecture in my Visual Journal class about the effect light and shadow have on an object, when she’ll pause to consider something. There’ll be a moment’s silence as she thinks to herself, when suddenly she gasps as if she’s had some sort of epiphany. But she hasn’t— she’ll just continue along the same vein as before.
I’m not the only one to have noticed; an acquaintance of mine in the Pre-Architecture program has mentioned that her studio teacher gasps as well, and one of the program assistants has made the observation that about 40% of Danish women, and 20% of the men are gaspers. Certainly Pernille isn’t the only one— I’ve noticed both my host mother and Charlotte gasp (though both do it much less frequently than Pernille; my host mother tends to do it only when she’s listening to others talk, while Charlotte tends to do it only when she’s thinking to herself).
But what does this gasping mean, and how did it come to ingrain itself in the Danish population? The world may never know.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Vi Har Det Hyggeligt
The Danes have an interesting concept that can’t be directly translated into English. If you’re familiar with German, you might have encountered a similar thing. In Danish, it’s known as hygge, in German, gemütlichkeit. The closest we get in English is cozy or coziness, but those words can only express a portion of what hygge really encompasses. According to the texts Charlotte assigned us to read, you can’t be consciously aware of hygge; once you are, then it can’t be qualified as hygge anymore.
Now, there are all sorts of things that need to happen for a situation to be qualified as hyggeligt. Not all of it happens simultaneously, but the Danes agree that there are usually one or two things needed for hygge to appear: a dinner table, low lighting, and good friends. I should also mention at this point that the Danes mean business when they set about having a good time; perhaps it’s a product of the long dark winters, but when they decide to have a party, it’ll last for hours. Charlotte told us that the party for her own wedding went from three in the afternoon ‘til eight in the morning the next day! I can’t even begin to speculate on what, exactly, they were doing for seventeen hours straight, but she assured us that a good time was had by all.
But what is hygge actually? Hygge, or at least my understanding of it, is that feeling of pure contentment and belonging that occurs when you’re having fun with people you like. Like when you’re having dinner with your host family and the Spice Girls’ “Say You’ll Be There” comes on the radio, much to your, and your two elder host sisters’ amusement. The youngest host sister is too young to properly remember this phenomenon (she was probably two or three at the time), but the three of you that do remember are doubled over laughing and reminiscing about the silly things the Spice Girls craze of the late 90s enticed you all to do.
Or it’s that feeling that comes as you sit in your studio teacher’s tiny but adorable apartment in one of the row houses at Svanemøllen— eight twenty-something girls and thirty- or forty-something Pernille, who’s just cooked traditional Danish frikadeller for you all, even though she didn’t have to. Everyone’s crowded around the dining table, fully sated from a good meal, and Pernille is giving an impromptu lecture, showing off pictures from her recent trip to the Netherlands with the Danish Design Council. Somehow, the conversation wanders, and suddenly she’s talking about the Danes’ collective addiction to coffee, and how they leave their babies outside for their afternoon naps regardless of weather, and everyone from the class collectively chimes in with their own cultural quirks and experiences.
Now, there are all sorts of things that need to happen for a situation to be qualified as hyggeligt. Not all of it happens simultaneously, but the Danes agree that there are usually one or two things needed for hygge to appear: a dinner table, low lighting, and good friends. I should also mention at this point that the Danes mean business when they set about having a good time; perhaps it’s a product of the long dark winters, but when they decide to have a party, it’ll last for hours. Charlotte told us that the party for her own wedding went from three in the afternoon ‘til eight in the morning the next day! I can’t even begin to speculate on what, exactly, they were doing for seventeen hours straight, but she assured us that a good time was had by all.
But what is hygge actually? Hygge, or at least my understanding of it, is that feeling of pure contentment and belonging that occurs when you’re having fun with people you like. Like when you’re having dinner with your host family and the Spice Girls’ “Say You’ll Be There” comes on the radio, much to your, and your two elder host sisters’ amusement. The youngest host sister is too young to properly remember this phenomenon (she was probably two or three at the time), but the three of you that do remember are doubled over laughing and reminiscing about the silly things the Spice Girls craze of the late 90s enticed you all to do.
Or it’s that feeling that comes as you sit in your studio teacher’s tiny but adorable apartment in one of the row houses at Svanemøllen— eight twenty-something girls and thirty- or forty-something Pernille, who’s just cooked traditional Danish frikadeller for you all, even though she didn’t have to. Everyone’s crowded around the dining table, fully sated from a good meal, and Pernille is giving an impromptu lecture, showing off pictures from her recent trip to the Netherlands with the Danish Design Council. Somehow, the conversation wanders, and suddenly she’s talking about the Danes’ collective addiction to coffee, and how they leave their babies outside for their afternoon naps regardless of weather, and everyone from the class collectively chimes in with their own cultural quirks and experiences.
Pernille's adorable row house. Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Malmö, the... Not So Interesting City
Lilla Torg
Central SquareMy friend from German class popped over from Amsterdam (where he’s working for a stock-trading company) this weekend to see Copenhagen. His friend suggested that he pop over to Malmö, Sweden (note the umlaut— that’s Swedish spelling!) while he was here, as it’s only about a 40-minute train ride from the center of the city. Having also heard good things about Malmö, I endorsed the idea. And so bright and early Saturday morning, we met at Nørreport Station to make our way to the land of Ikea and H&M.
The train system in Europe makes it incredibly easy to get around, unlike in the US, where a ride with Amtrak will either take longer than driving or end in some horrible crash. We bought our round-trip ticket (it was cheaper if we bought one jointly than if we each bought one separately) at the automated kiosk for DKK 256—about $25 each—and then hopped aboard the next train (they came every twenty minutes), and made our way over the Øresunds Bridge, where we could see the wind turbines in the Sound.
We arrived in Malmö a little after 10, and found that much to our surprise, the city was pretty much dead. Well, I suppose neither of us really should have been that surprised, as the Europeans like to lie low on the weekends. Stores in general open at 10 and close at 5 on Saturdays, and don’t reopen until Monday mornings. We figured the locals were probably sleeping in, so we picked the time-honored tradition of wandering aimlessly. Eventually, I pulled out my pathetic little map—it was a side note on the Copenhagen city map I’d been given— because we hadn’t run into anything particularly interesting, and were getting stared at by the locals for taking pictures of mundane things, like the ivy-covered police station.
Now armed with the knowledge of where to find something interesting, we made our way to a park on the map that held a medieval castle and museum. Only to find that the castle was the last thing anyone would think of hearing the words “medieval” and “castle” together in a sentence (it was boxy and made of red brick), and that is possessed the most bizarre castle courtyard either of us had ever seen; all it contained were a well, a tree, and a piece of abstract sculpture that vaguely resembled one arm of a starfish. Intrigued, but undeterred, we made our way inside. And promptly came back out. Apparently, it wasn’t really a museum dedicated to the history of the castle, but Malmö’s general museum. The large fake-and/or-badly stuffed giraffe in the lobby told us that much. Along with a sign labeled “Jätte gamla grejer”— inexplicably translated as “Really Old Stuff”. I have no idea how accurate that translation was.
There was one upside, though—we managed to snag a more detailed map of the city. And it came labeled with attractions! We simultaneously picked the Chocolate Museum as our next stop, as he had missed out on a previous chance to see a chocolate museum, and I… well, who’d say no to a chocolate museum? What we found though, was a pathetic little café that just happened to contain glass-cases full of Swedish chocolate from past decades. It was sad.
We made our way back to the city center and started looking for lunch, marveling at the fact that between our aimless wandering and our half-hour trek to the so-called Chocolate Museum, we’d actually managed to see most of the city. We’d seen almost everything there was to see, with the exception of the church (which we’d somehow completely missed, despite it being right next to the central station). Pretty much demoralized and thoroughly tired, we ended up sitting at the lunch café for quite awhile, before making our way to the church— only to find that someone was getting married, and we couldn’t go inside quite yet. We wandered around aimlessly for another hour or so, walking out to the harbor and staring at the jellyfish in the harbor, before finally coming back to the church. We did our thing, and then gratefully hopped aboard the train back to Copenhagen. Needless to say, if you indeed plan on going to Malmö, a half-day should do it. More than that and you’ll run out of things to do.
However, there was one bright spot— we couldn’t resist buying two cartons of raspberries from the vendor in the town square. And they were hands down, some of the best raspberries either of us had ever had.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Café Night
Our last act as a Survival Danish class was a mandatory “Café Culture Night”, the point of which was… well, I’m not sure entirely. I assumed that it would be some kind of test— that we wouldn’t be fed unless we could order our food in Danish, but as that didn’t happen, I’m left to wonder. I should point out that it has been a week since our last Survival Danish class, and at this point, those of us taking Danish have been dispersed into our regular class sections. For me, it doesn’t matter either way; my Survival Danish teacher is also my section teacher, Charlotte (pronounced shar-lot-eh). Charlotte is a tall, trim woman of indeterminate age (her face looks rather young, but her hair is graying slightly), whose accent makes her sound vaguely Australian.
The café we were assigned to (each group was assigned to a different café) was on Landskronagade in Østerbro, the eastern part of Copenhagen, about a ten minute train ride from the station closest to the DIS center. Because the weather is still moderately nice in Denmark (i.e., not raining), my friend from studio and I decided to walk to the café in order to see the city better. Google Maps said that such a journey would take a little over an hour, and so we left DIS at 5:30 in order to be at the restaurant by 7:00.
Østerbro can be considered Copenhagen’s “ethnic” area. I say this lightly, because although there are a fair number of immigrants in the city, their numbers are few when compared to New York, or even Boston, both of which have areas that are filled with nothing but immigrants from a certain area. Østerbro by comparison has a mix of different people from all over— we saw Mexican food, Chinese food, Japanese food, Thai food (the Turkish food is out west in Vesterbro)— the biggest compilation of foreign food either of us had seen since coming to Denmark. And it all smelled delicious!
By the time we arrived at the restaurant, we were both starving… and it was only 6:34. The entire journey, even with stopping for photos of swans gliding through the canal, had only taken an hour and four minutes— just as Google Maps had said it would. We sat down in the side street, feeling it would be sketchy to walk into the café half-an-hour early.
At about a quarter-til, other people from our group started showing up. Feeling that there was safety on numbers, we all ventured hesitantly into the restaurant, only to find that the proprietor happened to be a British ex-pat. We sat down, six to a table, and started chatting, waiting for the stragglers and our teacher to show up. As it neared seven, a one more boy entered the café.
“I thought she would be here early,” said the girl across from me, referring to Charlotte, “so we would know if we found the right place or not. And I mean, aren’t Danish people anal about being punctual?”
“Yeah, but that just means they show up exactly at that time— not earlier, not later,” explained another.
“Here she comes,” said a girl from another table. Sure enough, Charlotte could be seen with her white coat and backpack striding down the street toward the restaurant.
“Is it exactly seven?” quipped a guy. There was an uproar of laughter from the tables. The Danes in the café looked up curiously.
“Way to stereotype,” laughed the girl, as Charlotte stepped into room.
I looked down at my watch; it was seven on the dot.
The café we were assigned to (each group was assigned to a different café) was on Landskronagade in Østerbro, the eastern part of Copenhagen, about a ten minute train ride from the station closest to the DIS center. Because the weather is still moderately nice in Denmark (i.e., not raining), my friend from studio and I decided to walk to the café in order to see the city better. Google Maps said that such a journey would take a little over an hour, and so we left DIS at 5:30 in order to be at the restaurant by 7:00.
Østerbro can be considered Copenhagen’s “ethnic” area. I say this lightly, because although there are a fair number of immigrants in the city, their numbers are few when compared to New York, or even Boston, both of which have areas that are filled with nothing but immigrants from a certain area. Østerbro by comparison has a mix of different people from all over— we saw Mexican food, Chinese food, Japanese food, Thai food (the Turkish food is out west in Vesterbro)— the biggest compilation of foreign food either of us had seen since coming to Denmark. And it all smelled delicious!
By the time we arrived at the restaurant, we were both starving… and it was only 6:34. The entire journey, even with stopping for photos of swans gliding through the canal, had only taken an hour and four minutes— just as Google Maps had said it would. We sat down in the side street, feeling it would be sketchy to walk into the café half-an-hour early.
At about a quarter-til, other people from our group started showing up. Feeling that there was safety on numbers, we all ventured hesitantly into the restaurant, only to find that the proprietor happened to be a British ex-pat. We sat down, six to a table, and started chatting, waiting for the stragglers and our teacher to show up. As it neared seven, a one more boy entered the café.
“I thought she would be here early,” said the girl across from me, referring to Charlotte, “so we would know if we found the right place or not. And I mean, aren’t Danish people anal about being punctual?”
“Yeah, but that just means they show up exactly at that time— not earlier, not later,” explained another.
“Here she comes,” said a girl from another table. Sure enough, Charlotte could be seen with her white coat and backpack striding down the street toward the restaurant.
“Is it exactly seven?” quipped a guy. There was an uproar of laughter from the tables. The Danes in the café looked up curiously.
“Way to stereotype,” laughed the girl, as Charlotte stepped into room.
I looked down at my watch; it was seven on the dot.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Musti, Get Off My Bed
This is Musti. On my bed. Instead of hers.
She's pissed at me because I couldn't find another can of wet cat-food in the house, and so I gave her dry food for dinner. It's not like she's the only one; I couldn't find any meat in the host family's fridge besides hot-dogs and lunch meat. So I made a free-form omelette (free-form = basically scrambled because their skillet is enormous).
She'd better move by the time I want to go to sleep, that's all I'm saying.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Counting Like Retarded Children
We had our second “Survival Danish” class today— it’s part of orientation so that the people who aren’t taking Danish can at least buy groceries and order food with some degree of certainty of what they’re getting themselves into.
On today’s roster were numbers— always a favorite when teaching language at a beginner’s level. Normally, learning to count in a language isn’t really a big deal; the problem usually comes trying to identify the numbers quickly enough when someone is actually saying them to you. However, because of the aforementioned schism between how Danish words are written and how they are pronounced, counting just got a lot harder.
The numbers are like so:
Now those numbers in and of themselves aren’t so bad— after all, our numbers have some demented spellings as well (anyone care to explain to me why “eight” has an e an i a g and an h?). The problem is that as the numbers get higher, not only does the spelling convention change, but the pronunciation convention does as well. To wit:
11 elleve (ellvah)
12 tolv (tol)
13 tretten (tratten)
14 fjorten (fiorten)
15 femten
16 seksten (seisten)
17 sytten (soutten)
18 atten
19 nitten
Then things go off the rails once you hit twenty:
20 tyve (touveh)
30 tredive (tralveh)
40 fyrre (fuoure)
And above that? Well, they’ve got a method that sort of goes by twenties:
50 halvtreds (haltres)
60 tres
70 halvfjers (halfeers)
80 firs (feers)
90 halvfems (halfems)
100 hundred (hunnard)
At least in English, you can still mostly see the root number— and then if not, you can hear it.
So to make sure we learned our numbers, our teacher decided to play a little game: we had to stand up and count off around the room, and if we couldn’t remember or got it wrong, we had to sit down. I imagine it sounded something like this to our teacher:
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Forn?” Close enough.
“Five.”
“Six.”
“Uh…” Nope. On to the next person. And the next, and the next. Seven kills a good five people.
“Oat? Eye-t?” Eight, she corrects
“Nine.”
“Ten.”
“Elven?” Again, close enough, and she corrects.
“Er… thirteen?” Nope. Twelve takes out another four, and by twenty, there are only about four people standing. We’re counting by tens now.
“Thirteen? Tardy?” Try again. This one’s almost impossible. “Dirty!” I can see the hint of a smile at she tries not to burst out laughing. She nods— she’ll allow that.
“Um—farty?”
By one hundred there were only two people left standing. She reviewed the numbers with us once more, before making us play again.
On today’s roster were numbers— always a favorite when teaching language at a beginner’s level. Normally, learning to count in a language isn’t really a big deal; the problem usually comes trying to identify the numbers quickly enough when someone is actually saying them to you. However, because of the aforementioned schism between how Danish words are written and how they are pronounced, counting just got a lot harder.
The numbers are like so:
0 nul (nool)
1 en/et (in/eh)
2 to (toe)
3 tre (trey)
4 fire (feer)
5 fem
6 seks
7 syv (souveh)
8 otte (oddeh)
9 ni
10 ti
1 en/et (in/eh)
2 to (toe)
3 tre (trey)
4 fire (feer)
5 fem
6 seks
7 syv (souveh)
8 otte (oddeh)
9 ni
10 ti
Now those numbers in and of themselves aren’t so bad— after all, our numbers have some demented spellings as well (anyone care to explain to me why “eight” has an e an i a g and an h?). The problem is that as the numbers get higher, not only does the spelling convention change, but the pronunciation convention does as well. To wit:
11 elleve (ellvah)
12 tolv (tol)
13 tretten (tratten)
14 fjorten (fiorten)
15 femten
16 seksten (seisten)
17 sytten (soutten)
18 atten
19 nitten
Then things go off the rails once you hit twenty:
20 tyve (touveh)
30 tredive (tralveh)
40 fyrre (fuoure)
And above that? Well, they’ve got a method that sort of goes by twenties:
50 halvtreds (haltres)
60 tres
70 halvfjers (halfeers)
80 firs (feers)
90 halvfems (halfems)
100 hundred (hunnard)
At least in English, you can still mostly see the root number— and then if not, you can hear it.
So to make sure we learned our numbers, our teacher decided to play a little game: we had to stand up and count off around the room, and if we couldn’t remember or got it wrong, we had to sit down. I imagine it sounded something like this to our teacher:
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Forn?” Close enough.
“Five.”
“Six.”
“Uh…” Nope. On to the next person. And the next, and the next. Seven kills a good five people.
“Oat? Eye-t?” Eight, she corrects
“Nine.”
“Ten.”
“Elven?” Again, close enough, and she corrects.
“Er… thirteen?” Nope. Twelve takes out another four, and by twenty, there are only about four people standing. We’re counting by tens now.
“Thirteen? Tardy?” Try again. This one’s almost impossible. “Dirty!” I can see the hint of a smile at she tries not to burst out laughing. She nods— she’ll allow that.
“Um—farty?”
By one hundred there were only two people left standing. She reviewed the numbers with us once more, before making us play again.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Silent What?
For anyone who’s never heard Danish before, it’s a very difficult language to phonetically describe. People have said that the Danes sound like they’re speaking with their mouths full of potatoes, which I can sort of understand (the Danes, by comparison apparently think the Dutch are the ones that sound like they’re talking with their mouths full of potatoes). The best comparison I can think of is to imagine a Frenchman attempting to speak German with most of his mouth anesthetized— that should give you the gist of it, more or less.
Unlike certain Germanic languages, which are spoken exactly like they appear (German, Dutch), Danish has the distinction of being one of the two languages in Western Europe with the biggest differences between spelling and pronunciation; the other one, naturally, is English (enough, through, dough— think about it, people).
The Danes share our bizarre predilection towards silent consonants that no one else in the world would consider making silent (because, hey! They’re consonants!)— and they do it with a certain regularity that makes me unsure of whether the letters can actually be considered silent, or whether the Danes just fanatically abbreviate all of their words. For example: h and d are silent a lot, d almost anytime it’s in the middle of a word (and if not, it’s this strange, soft d that sounds like something between th and l). Then there’s g and v— g basically disappearing at the end of a word, and v functioning almost like a u if it’s anywhere except at the beginning of a word.
Additionally, their r is not pronounced by flicking the tongue, but rather by some uncomfortable contraction of the throat that, when attempted simultaneously by eighteen American students, sounds as if we have all just gagged on the pieces of wienerbrød our teacher gave us to eat.
Thus, the deceptively simple phrase "Hvor kommer du fra?" (where do you come from?), while actually easy to pronounce, is very misleading, because it actually sounds like it's written. Much more confusing are "Hvad hedder du?" (what is your name?), pronounced something like "veh hither du", “Hvordan går det?” (how are you?), pronounced “vor-dan gor deh”, "Hvad med dig?" (how about you?), pronounced like "veh meh dye", and all the other phrases with the three vowels that I can't explain how to pronounce, because I can't do it myself.
However, the Danish way of saying "hello", which is "hej", pronounced almost identically to our "hi", except with a shorter and quicker i sound. And their way of saying good bye is quite cute: "hej hej". That's right, it sounds just like "hi-hi".
Unlike certain Germanic languages, which are spoken exactly like they appear (German, Dutch), Danish has the distinction of being one of the two languages in Western Europe with the biggest differences between spelling and pronunciation; the other one, naturally, is English (enough, through, dough— think about it, people).
The Danes share our bizarre predilection towards silent consonants that no one else in the world would consider making silent (because, hey! They’re consonants!)— and they do it with a certain regularity that makes me unsure of whether the letters can actually be considered silent, or whether the Danes just fanatically abbreviate all of their words. For example: h and d are silent a lot, d almost anytime it’s in the middle of a word (and if not, it’s this strange, soft d that sounds like something between th and l). Then there’s g and v— g basically disappearing at the end of a word, and v functioning almost like a u if it’s anywhere except at the beginning of a word.
Additionally, their r is not pronounced by flicking the tongue, but rather by some uncomfortable contraction of the throat that, when attempted simultaneously by eighteen American students, sounds as if we have all just gagged on the pieces of wienerbrød our teacher gave us to eat.
Thus, the deceptively simple phrase "Hvor kommer du fra?" (where do you come from?), while actually easy to pronounce, is very misleading, because it actually sounds like it's written. Much more confusing are "Hvad hedder du?" (what is your name?), pronounced something like "veh hither du", “Hvordan går det?” (how are you?), pronounced “vor-dan gor deh”, "Hvad med dig?" (how about you?), pronounced like "veh meh dye", and all the other phrases with the three vowels that I can't explain how to pronounce, because I can't do it myself.
However, the Danish way of saying "hello", which is "hej", pronounced almost identically to our "hi", except with a shorter and quicker i sound. And their way of saying good bye is quite cute: "hej hej". That's right, it sounds just like "hi-hi".
Monday, August 25, 2008
Navigation 101
Imagine if you will, upwards of five hundred foreign students converging on the streets of Copenhagen. They have been armed only with DIS marked messenger bags, and the kind of cryptic directions that you can only understand if you are familiar with the area: “Locate the 7-11 when you exit the station.” Now, that’s all well and good if you come out the main entrance. The only problem is that Nørreport Station has at least three different exits, only one of which will allow you the required view of said 7-11 (whose storefront is currently covered with scaffolding anyway).
Imagine then, the confusion at being told to keep walking, and that you should pass Gammeltorv and Nytorv on your right. Never mind that the map you’ve been given shows no such places— you’re more concerned about the fact that Copenhagen appears to lack street signs of any kind. It is only after an intense ten-minute search of the area, that you discover not only that Copenhagen does indeed have street signs (they are brown and plastered about twenty feet up the side of a building), but also that Gammeltorv and Nytorv are not, in fact, streets.
Factor in the fact that this is happening from all sides of the city, with students who don’t know each other. There are, of course, clumps of students who do know each other, and sometimes, one of them is even carrying the DIS bag. Most often though, you can only identify them by the fact that they look as clueless as you do— and the fact that they are the ones getting run over by absent-mindedly standing in the bicycle lane. The Danes, for the most part, seem to take this all in stride. Whether they are used to this happening, or have simply been trained to display nothing but complete impassivity on their faces as the herds of bewildered and oblivious foreigners pass is not known. What is know, however, is that this means none of them feel particularly obligated to help out (understandably , considering the sheer volume of confused students).
The frustration is such that you give up and latch onto a fellow student, who’s lucky enough to be guided to the meeting place by an actual Danish person.
Imagine then, the confusion at being told to keep walking, and that you should pass Gammeltorv and Nytorv on your right. Never mind that the map you’ve been given shows no such places— you’re more concerned about the fact that Copenhagen appears to lack street signs of any kind. It is only after an intense ten-minute search of the area, that you discover not only that Copenhagen does indeed have street signs (they are brown and plastered about twenty feet up the side of a building), but also that Gammeltorv and Nytorv are not, in fact, streets.
Factor in the fact that this is happening from all sides of the city, with students who don’t know each other. There are, of course, clumps of students who do know each other, and sometimes, one of them is even carrying the DIS bag. Most often though, you can only identify them by the fact that they look as clueless as you do— and the fact that they are the ones getting run over by absent-mindedly standing in the bicycle lane. The Danes, for the most part, seem to take this all in stride. Whether they are used to this happening, or have simply been trained to display nothing but complete impassivity on their faces as the herds of bewildered and oblivious foreigners pass is not known. What is know, however, is that this means none of them feel particularly obligated to help out (understandably , considering the sheer volume of confused students).
The frustration is such that you give up and latch onto a fellow student, who’s lucky enough to be guided to the meeting place by an actual Danish person.
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