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.
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