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.
Pernille's adorable row house. 
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