1. January
Hygge & Home
Something cold and soft is falling on us as we stand in darkness on a silent runway, wondering what happens next. Before we’d boarded the flight it had been muggy, bright and noisy. We’d been pushed and barged by other passengers, ushered onto buses and shuffled around by ground staff. Mid-air, we’d been looked after by stewards in smart navy uniforms, plying us with miniatures and tiny cans of Schweppes. But here we are on our own, left standing on the frosty tarmac in the middle of nowhere. There are a few people around, of course, but we don’t know any of them and they’re all speaking a language we don’t understand. The whole place glistens like it’s made from soda crystals, and the air is so cold and thin that it catches in the back of my throat when I attempt to fill my lungs.
‘What now?’ I start, but the sound is muffled by snow. My ears already hurt from the chill so I cover them with my hair in lieu of a hat. This is surprisingly effective, though now I can hear even less. Lego Man’s lips are moving but I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, so we resort to hand signals.
‘This way?’ he mouths, pointing to the white building up ahead. I give him an 80s high school movie-style thumbs up: ‘OK.’
A woman with a wheelie bag appears from behind us and moves decisively towards a small rectangle of light up ahead, so we follow, crunching compacted snow as we go. There’s no shuttle bus or covered walkway here – Vikings, it seems, make their own way.
My husband squeezes my near-frozen hand and I try to smile, but because my teeth are chattering so much now, it comes out as more of a grimace. I knew it would be cold here, but this is something else. We’ve been exposed to the Baltic air for all of 90 seconds and the chill is gnawing at my very bones. My nose threatens to drip but then the tickling sensation stops and I lose all feeling in the tip. Oh God, does even snot freeze in Denmark? I wonder. I’m relieved to get inside to passport control and my toes and fingers burn with relief at the relative warmth.
We pass a giant sign advertising the country’s most famous beer that reads: ‘Welcome to the world’s happiest nation!’
Huh, I think, we’ll see.
We know no one, we don’t speak Danish, and we have nowhere to live. The whole take-a-punt, ‘new year, new you’ euphoria has now been replaced by a sense of: ‘Oh shit, this is real’. The two-day hangover from extended farewell celebrations and our boozy leaving lunch probably isn’t helping either.
We emerge from arrivals into a frozen, pitch-black nothingness and go in search of our hire car. This isn’t as easy as it might be since all the number plates have been fuzzed-out by frost, like in a police reconstruction. Once the correct combination of letters and numbers has been located, we drive, on the wrong side of the road, to Legoland. After several wrong turns due to unfamiliar road signs, partially whited-out by snow, we reach the place we’re to call home for the next few nights.
‘Welcome to the Legoland Hotel!’ the tall, broad, blond-haired receptionist beams as we check in. His English is perfect and I’m relieved. Christian had assured me that most Danes were proficient linguists, but I’d been warned not to expect too much in rural areas, i.e. where we are. But so far, so good.
‘We’ve put you in The Princess Suite,’ the receptionist goes on.
‘“The Princess Suite”?’ Lego Man echoes.
‘Is that at all like the presidential suite?’ I ask, hopefully.
‘No, it’s themed.’ The receptionist swivels around his monitor to show us a pastel-coloured room complete with a pink bed and a headboard made from plastic moulded castle turrets. ‘See?’
‘Wow. Yes, I see…’
The receptionist goes on: ‘The suite is built with 11,960 Lego bricks—’
‘—Right, yes. The thing is—’
‘—and it’s got bunk beds,’ he adds, proudly.
‘That’s great. It’s just, the thing is, we haven’t got any kids…’
The receptionist looks confused, as though this doesn’t quite compute: ‘The walls are decorated with butterflies?’
I fully expect him to offer us a goblet of unicorn tears next and so try to dissuade him gently: ‘Really, it sounds lovely, but we just don’t need anything quite so … fancy. Isn’t there anything else available?’
He frowns and taps away at his keyboard for a few moments before looking up and resuming a wide smile: ‘I can offer you The Pirate Suite?’
We spend the first night in our new homeland sleeping beneath a giant Jolly Roger. There is a dressing-up box and all manner of parrot and pieces-of-eight paraphernalia. In the morning, Lego Man emerges from the bathroom wearing an eye patch. But things seem better by daylight. They always do. We draw the curtains to reveal a bright, white new world and blink several times to take it all in. Fortified by an impressive breakfast buffet, which includes our first encounter with the country’s famed pickled herring, we feel ready to begin ticking off the various items of ‘life admin’ necessary for starting over in a new country. And then we step outside.
The snow has shifted up a gear, from gentle, Richard Curtis film-style flakes into snow-globe-being-shaken-vigorously-by-angry-toddler territory. The sky empties fast, dumping its load with urgency from all directions now. So we go back inside, put on every item of clothing we have, then emerge an hour later, looking like Michelin Men but better prepared to start the day.
In the hire car, I try to remember that the gear stick isn’t on my left and that I need to drive on the right, while Lego Man reads from the to-do list that his new HR manager has thoughtfully emailed over. This comprehensive document extends to an alarming ten pages and is, we are informed, only ‘phase one’.
‘First off,’ Lego Man announces, ‘we need identity cards – otherwise we don’t technically exist here.’
It turns out that the ID card scheme that Brits railed against for years before it was scrapped in 2010 has long been integral to Danish life. Since 1968, everyone has been recorded in a Central Population Register (CPR) and given a unique number, made up of their date of birth followed by four digits that end in an even number if you’re female and an odd number if you’re male. The number is printed on a yellow plastic card, which is ‘TO BE CARRIED AT ALL TIMES’ (the HR man has emailed in shouty capitals). Our unique numbers are needed for everything, from opening a bank account and healthcare to renting a property and even borrowing books from a library. (If only we could read books in Danish. Or knew where the library was. Or the word for ‘library’ in Danish.) I will even have a barcode that can be scanned to reveal my entire medical history. It all sounds very efficient. And I’m sure it would be relatively straightforward, too, if only we knew what we were doing, or how to get to the bureau where we’re supposed to register. As it is, this task takes all morning. Even so, we count ourselves lucky – new arrivals from outside the EU have to wait months for their residency cards and these need renewing every couple of years. Being an immigrant is not for the admin-phobic.
Next, we need a bank account. A smart-looking man with closely cropped hair and distinctly Scandinavian-looking square glasses in the local (and only) bank greets us warmly and says that his name is ‘Alan’, before pointing to a name badge to reiterate this. I notice that it’s ‘Allan’ with two ‘l’s, Danish-style. Allan with two ‘l’s tells us that he will be managing our account. Then he pours us coffee and offers us our pick from a box of chocolates. I’m just thinking how civilised and friendly this is in comparison with my dealings with banks back home when he says:
‘So, it looks like you have no money in Denmark?’
‘No, we only arrived yesterday,’ Lego Man explains. ‘We haven’t started work yet, but here’s my contract, my salary agreement and details of when I’ll get paid, see?’ He hands over our documents and Allan studies them closely.
‘Well,’ he concedes eventually, ‘I will give you a Dankort.’
‘Great, thanks! What is that?’ I ask.
‘It’s the national debit c
ard of Denmark, for when you have some money. But of course it will only work in Denmark. And there can be no overdraft. And no credit card.’
‘No credit card?’
I’ve been batting off credit card offers in the UK since leaving school without a penny to my name. Global financial crisis or otherwise, credit cards have been akin to a basic human right for my generation. Putting it on plastic is a way of life. And now we’re being made to go cold-hard-credit-card-turkey?
‘No credit card,’ Allan restates, simply. ‘But you can withdraw cash, when you have it,’ he adds generously, ‘with this!’ He brandishes a rudimentary-looking savings account card.
Cash! I haven’t carried actual money since 2004. I’m like the Queen, only with a blue NatWest card and a penchant for impractical shoes. And now I’m going to have to operate in a cash-only world, with funny green, pink and purple notes that look like Monopoly money and strange silver coins that have holes in the middle? I don’t even know the Danish numbers yet! But Allan with two ‘l’s will not be moved.
‘With this card,’ (he waggles the plastic rectangle in front of us as though we should be very grateful he’s trusted us with anything at all) ‘you can log on to internet banking and get access to government websites.’ This sounds very high-powered. I wonder whether we’re talking CIA-Snowden-style info before Allan clarifies: ‘You know, to pay bills, things like that.’
Bank account in place (if empty) we can now officially begin looking for somewhere to rent. A relocation agent will be assisting us with our search but with a few hours to kill until we meet her, Lego Man suggests a recce around the nearest normal-sized town in case we decide that toy town isn’t for us.
Driving through Billund’s uninspiring streets of identikit bungalows, like some sort of play-inspired military base, I have already decided that toy town is not for us and so I’m hoping that the next place is an improvement. Things start encouragingly enough with attractive red-brick mansion blocks and municipal buildings, cobbled streets and interesting boutiques nestled between big high street stalwarts. The place looks a lot like a Scandi version of Guildford. But after a couple of laps of the ‘high street’, we’re left wondering whether perhaps there’s been some sort of nuclear apocalypse that’s only been communicated in Danish, meaning we’ve missed it.
‘We haven’t seen a single soul for…’ I consult my watch, ‘…twenty minutes.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘In fact, the only things resembling human forms we’ve encountered are the life-size sculptures of naked bodies with horses’ and cats’ heads on them in that weird water feature a few streets back.’
‘The sort of porny pony version of Anita Ekberg in the Trevi fountain in the “town centre”?’ Lego Man makes a bunny ears gesture to indicate that he didn’t think much of the thriving metropolis.
‘Yep. That’s the one. The porny pony and the cats with boobs.’
‘Huh.’
This particular statue, we later learn, was intended as a tribute to Franz Kafka. He must be very proud, I think. We pass more shops that are all either closed or empty and houses that look unoccupied save for the dim flicker of candlelight burning from within.
‘This isn’t normal, right? I mean, where is everyone?’ I ask.
‘I … don’t know…’
I check the news on my phone: there have been no atomic incidents. World War III has not been declared, nor has any alarming viral outbreak been announced. The threat of imminent death having been ruled out, Lego Man suggests going for a drink to wait for the place to warm up. Only we can’t find a pub. Or a bar. Or anywhere that looks a) open and b) isn’t McDonalds or a kebab joint. Eventually, we locate a bakery that also sells coffee and I suggest to Lego Man that we order ‘one of everything’, in the hope that carbohydrates might cheer us up.
The place is empty, so we stand expectantly, waiting to be served. But the woman behind the counter remains expressionless.
‘Hi!’ I try, but she averts her eyes and busies herself rearranging a crate of buns. Lego Man tries pointing at various things with his eyebrows raised (the universal symbol for ‘please may I have one of those?’) until eventually the woman cracks and makes eye contact. We smile. She does not. Instead, she points to an LED display above her head that shows the number 137. Then she points at a deli-counter-style ticket dispenser behind us and says something we don’t understand in Danish.
I’m not trying to buy ham from a butcher in the 1980s. I just want buns. From her. In an empty shop. Is she seriously telling me that I have to get a ticket? Or that 136 people have already passed through here today? Or that there even are 136 people in this town?
Bakery woman has now folded her arms resolutely, as if to say: ‘Play by the rules or no buttery pastry goodness for you.’ Knowing when I’m beaten, I turn around, take three paces to my right, extract a small, white ticket with the number ‘137’ on it from the machine, then walk back. The woman nods, takes my ticket, and uncrosses her arms to indicate that normal service can commence.
Once we’ve ordered, Lego Man gets a call from his overly keen HR liaison officer. He steps outside to talk, away from the racket of the milk frother, and I pick a table for us and our gluttonous selection of pastries. ‘Don’t start without me,’ he says sternly, hand over the mouthpiece.
His caution isn’t unfounded. I have form in this area and can’t be trusted within a hundred-metre radius of a cake. I can feel my stomach knotting with anticipation and don’t know how I’m going to keep from taking a bite until Lego Man is back. To distract myself, I Google ‘new country, Denmark, culture shock’ on my phone and drink coffee furiously.
I learn that Danes drink the most coffee in Europe, as well as consuming eleven litres of pure alcohol per person per year. Maybe we’ll fit in just fine after all. More helpfully, I also come across the website of cultural integration coach Pernille Chaggar. Deciding that a cultural integration coach is just what I need to start my year of living Danishly and buoyed up by a second cup of strong Danish coffee, I call and ask Pernille to take part in my happiness project. She kindly agrees – and doesn’t make me take a ticket to call back later.
After expressing surprise that we’ve moved from London to rural Jutland, she offers her condolences that we’ve done so in January.
‘Arriving in winter can be really hard for outsiders,’ she tells me. ‘It’s a private, family time in Denmark and everyone hides behind their front doors. Danes are very wrapped up – literally and metaphorically – from November until February, so don’t be surprised if you don’t see many people out and about, especially in rural areas.’
Marvellous.
‘So, where are they all? What’s everyone doing?’
‘They’re getting hygge,’ she tells me, making a noise that sounds a little like she has something stuck in her throat.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Hygge. It’s a Danish thing.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘It’s hard to explain, it’s just something that all Danes know about. It’s like having a cosy time.’
This doesn’t help much.
‘Is it a verb? Or an adjective?’
‘It can be both,’ says Pernille. ‘Staying home and having a cosy, candlelit time is hygge.’ I tell her about the deserted streets and seeing candles burning in many of the windows we passed and Pernille repeats that this is because everyone’s at home, ‘getting hygge’. Candlelight is apparently a key component and Danes burn the highest number of candles per head than anywhere else in the world. ‘But really, hygge is more of a concept. Bakeries are hygge—’ Bingo! I think, looking at the spread of pastry goodness in front of me. ‘—and dinner with friends is hygge. You can have a ‘hygge’ time. And there’s often alcohol involved—’
‘—Oh, good…’
‘Hygge is also linked to the weather and food. When it’s bad weather outside you get cosy indoors with good food and good lighting and good dr
inks. In the UK, you have pubs where you can meet and socialise. In Denmark we do it at home with friends and family.’
I tell her I haven’t got a home here yet, nor any friends. And unless something radical happens and my mother decides that Berkshire is overrated, I’m unlikely to have family here any time soon either.
‘So how can a new arrival get hygge, Danish-style?’
‘You can’t.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s impossible,’ she says. I’m just preparing to wallow in despair and call the whole thing off when Pernille corrects herself, conceding that it ‘might’ in fact be feasible if I’m willing to work at it. ‘Getting hygge for a non-Dane is quite a journey. Australians and Brits and Americans are more used to immigrants and better at being open to new people and starting up conversations. We Danes aren’t great at small talk. We just tend to hole up for winter,’ she goes on, before offering a glimmer of hope. ‘But it gets better in the spring.’
‘Right. And when does spring start here?’
‘Officially? March. But really, May.’
Brilliant. ‘Right. And, taking all this into account,’ I can’t help asking after the bleak portrait she’s just painted, ‘what do you think about all these studies that say Denmark is the happiest country in the world? Are you happy?’
‘Happy?’ She sounds sceptical and I think she’s going to tell me the whole ‘happy Danes’ thing’s been blown out of all proportion until she answers: ‘I’d say I’m a ten out of ten. Danish culture is really great for kids. Best in the world. I can’t think of anywhere better to be raising my family. Do you have kids?’
The Year of Living Danishly Page 3