If you’ve travelled abroad before, you probably know that it’s nice not to stick out as a tourist any more than necessary (that’s one of my goals here, so it’s nice to at least physically blend in well). A few times now, locals have come up to me and started speaking in Danish, so I think I’m doing relatively well. One thing that makes me feel bad, though, is that Danes all speak English – they speak it better than a lot of Americans, actually – and I don’t speak any of their language besides “thank you” and a few expletives. Why is it that expletives are so frequently among the first words you learn in a new language?
While I’m on the subject of language, grocery shopping is an adventure when you can’t understand any of the words on the food you’re buying. “Excuse me, is this milk?”
The place I’m living is, to put it charitably, cozy. But I don’t particularly need a lot of space (I don’t have much stuff here, after all) and the location can’t be beat, so I’m happy. The Nyhavn, for instance, (the “y,” for some crazy reason, is pronounced “oo”) is the requisite picture of Copenhagen. I’m two-and-a-half blocks from that.
I’ve been here in Copenhagen for two-and-a-half weeks now. I have a local cell phone. I’ve climbed two church spires to get nice views of the city. I’ve stolen things while drunk (at the time, I thought I really needed that lantern). In short, I’ve fully assimilated as a local and am now thoroughly qualified to speak on locals, tourists, and the cultural differences between here and home.
Before coming here, the only encounter I’d had with anything that could be called “Danish” involved pastries. Based on that, I had expected Danes to be doughy and flaky, but sweet. They are sweet – just about the nicest people I’ve ever met, besides Scottish – but the doughy and flaky things proved way off. For one thing, there are no fat people here. Well, there are, but they’re tourists (USA! USA! USA!). I’ve never seen so many bicycles in one city before. And yesterday – I’m actually serious about this – I saw three people using unicycles for transportation. And as for flaky, let me just say: all the Danes I’ve met speak at least 2 languages. On the other hand, guess the nationality of the person who thought Los Angeles was the capital of the United States… I’ll give you a hint: she’ll (disturbingly) be able to vote for our next president.
The Danes aren’t entirely superior, though. They smoke. A lot. They drink a lot, too, though the presence of the aforementioned lantern in my room prevents me from criticizing too harshly.
Ever since I got my cell phone, I’ve felt entitled to look down on other tourists. Actually, I only look down on the ones who walk right in front of me while I’m obviously trying to take pictures. Strangely, tourists in Seattle never bother me. Once I get into another country, though, the bile starts spewing forth. I guess it’s because I know they, on some level, represent me (both as “Americans” and as “Morons With Cameras”). Honestly, though, if you were this guy:
Wouldn’t you hate these people?
And my concern is that this poor guard’s dislike of the plaid-wearers will translate into a dislike of me.
I climbed Vor Frelsers Kirke the other day. The stairs spiral around the outside of the spire and don’t really reach the top so much as they just disappear into nothingness once there’s no further up you can go, like the escalator to nowhere in the Simpsons. There are amazing views of the city from the top of the spire. It was a clear day, so I could even see Sweden in the distance. But at the top some idiot had written his name. And the “187” reference makes me pretty certain it was an American. Maybe someday the reputation Americans have abroad won’t be so deserved. For now, though, I’ll continue to be happy whenever someone assumes I’m Danish.
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