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.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
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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