‘I don’t think I’m very good at this Danish malarkey,’ I say instead. ‘Do you think I’ll ever crack it?’
Søs sits me down and tells me it was never going to be easy. ‘The biggest problem that native English speakers face is that we have nine vowels in Danish, and outsiders often can’t hear or pronounce the differences between these.’
‘I learned this the hard way,’ I tell her, explaining all about bitch/chicken/kitten-gate.
‘Brits and Americans need to work on their motor skills to become aware of the shapes their mouths are making, especially with our ‘g’ and ‘r’ sounds. It’s the same as learning football or piano – you have to physically do it, over and over again. You can’t just read about it or hope to pick it up by observing other people.’
Depressingly, I learn that only 20 per cent of English speakers moving to Denmark ever master Danish. ‘But it is possible,’ Søs insists. ‘You just need to practise more. One reason that English speakers struggle is that all Danes speak English to them. We aren’t used to hearing our language spoken with a foreign accent – it’s weird for us. If we encounter a foreigner, we’re used to switching to German or English or Spanish.’
‘And how come the Danes are so flipping good at speaking other languages?’
‘We just have a strong tradition of learning them,’ she says simply. English is taught in schools from the third grade (at around age eight or nine) and foreign films and TV programmes are subtitled, rather than dubbed into Danish. This all adds to the presence of foreign languages, especially English, in Danes’ everyday lives. As Søs puts it: ‘If you’re Danish and no one in the world understands you outside of your tiny country of 5.5 million people, then of course you have to take up another language. Even my dad who’s 90 can speak fluent English and German.’ Oh great, I think, I’ve been out-gloted by someone in their tenth decade…
‘It keeps our brains working and challenges us – there’s a sense of achievement to lifelong learning.’
Studies show that this might help the Danes on their way to the number one spot for happiness, too. Continuing to learn throughout life helps improve mental well-being, boosts self-confidence, gives you a sense of purpose and makes you feel more connected to others, according to the Office for National Statistics.
Søs tells me that Danes love learning so much that many pensioners spend their winters learning Spanish or Italian at evening classes so that they can ask for a beer and get around on their next summer holiday. ‘We like to study and we like to travel, so it’s the perfect combination. Whereas I get the impression that English-speaking people don’t know much about learning languages – that there isn’t such an evening class culture?’ I tell her she’s right, and I don’t mention the Noel Edmonds sketching incident. ‘You should try to enjoy the learning as well,’ says Søs. ‘That’s what will keep you coming to class. It’ll help if you interact with more Danes socially. Join some clubs – it’s a great way to improve your Danish.’
Has she been talking to my neighbour? I wonder. Is there some sort of hobby-lobby operating in rural Jutland? I attempt to turn the tables and ask Søs just how content lifelong learning and extracurricular activities make her.
‘How happy am I? Out of ten? I’d say eight.’ I feel a little relieved that there’s still room for improvement – I can’t believe evening classes can make anyone that happy. But then she corrects herself: ‘Or maybe a ten, actually.’
‘Ten?’ How can this be?
‘Well, thinking about it, I couldn’t find a way to be happier,’ she tells me. I wonder whether this is because she has already mastered what I’m starting to suspect is in fact the hardest language in the world.
‘But keep practising your Danish and you’ll get there!’ she offers as her final pearl of owl-like wisdom before I hot-foot it out of her office and down the corridor.
‘Apparently we have to join clubs to really try living Danishly,’ I tell Lego Man on the way home. He nods and thinks for a while about the various hobbies we could take up.
‘What about a bike club? We’ve already got bikes,’ he points out. ‘I know you don’t use yours much…’ I’m about to protest that this isn’t true when I realise that the last time I strapped on a cycle helmet, George W. Bush was in the White House and boot-cut jeans were in. ‘…but you’d soon get back into it.’ He goes on, enthused, ‘You know what they say – you never forget.’
‘Because riding a bike is just like riding a bike?’
‘Yes! And besides, Denmark is famous for its bikes.’
He’s right about this – biking is practically a religion here, no matter what your age or occupation. Denmark is covered with over 7,500 miles of bike paths and Danes will cycle come rain or come hail. The government recently introduced a ‘National Cycling Strategy’ to get even more Danes on their bike. Danes are so bike-obsessed that you can even opt for a tricycle hearse to end the cycle of life. Half of all commuters in Copenhagen go to work by bike and Forbes magazine recently reported that cyclists save the city £20 million ($34 million) a year in avoided air pollution, accidents and congestion. There are also safe lanes, where you can still ride home after a glass of wine, and taxis are obliged to have a bike rack to take you and your bike home if you have two glasses. Or a bottle. This strikes me as inordinately civilised. Because Danes cycle everywhere, the one-upmanship of cars as a status symbol is also diminished so that managing directors and dish-washers will wait at the traffic lights side by side on their bikes on their way to work. There’s no social stigma to biking, and cycling is seen as another of Denmark’s great equalisers. It’s also said that 30 minutes of daily biking adds an average of fourteen months to life expectancy, according to a report published in the Environmental Health Perspectives journal. And a study from Harvard Medical School found that cycling boosts cognitive well-being, too. No wonder Copenhageners all look so hot and smug.
Danish cyclists, as far as I can make out, ride their bikes during the week wearing whatever they’ve been dressed in all day. But weekend cyclists tend to go full-on Lycra, complete with liquid energy pouches in case of a low blood sugar emergency. I promise Lego Man that I’ll give it a go, but tell him that I prefer the casual ‘weekend’ approach. ‘I’m not going all-out Lance Armstrong.’
‘What, taking EPO then going on Oprah?’
‘More like “wearing shorts with gel in the bottom”,’ I clarify. ‘I’m only going if I can wear normal clothes that don’t look and feel as though I’ve soiled myself.’
‘OK…’ Lego Man holds up his hands and gives me a look that says ‘it’s your loss’. Minutes later, I find him ordering some kind of alarming Lycra onesie for himself online.
The following weekend, Lance and I set off. Me, wobbling on a hybrid that’s far prettier than I remember from the last time I was in the saddle (as it were); Lego Man, on a seriously souped-up mountain bike that I’d no idea had been lurking in our shed.
Our inaugural voyage into the Danish countryside begins well, until a farmer stops us in his tractor to say that we haven’t got the right headlights. He tells us this in Danish first, before sighing, rolling his eyes and realising he’s going to have to interact with a pair of stupid Brits who still haven’t mastered his mighty language, despite intensive lessons at the taxpayers’ expense. At least, that’s what I sense he’s thinking.
‘The right headlights?’ I ask, incredulous. ‘It’s midday! The sun’s—’ I want to say ‘shining’, but this isn’t strictly true, so I settle on, ‘—not going to set for hours!’
‘That does not matter,’ he shakes his head. ‘This is the rule.’
I’d always been under the impression that any headlights marked you out a responsible cyclist. When I was growing up, all we had on our bikes were the free reflective strips from the Texaco garage and plastic Kellogg’s cereal packet clackers in our spokes to alert passers-by of our impending advance. And we survived. Admittedly with a few cuts and grazes and one particularly p
ainful arm fracture. But I digress.
‘Head and tail lights must be permanently installed and emit light straight forwards and straight backwards,’ Officious Farmer uses his hands to mime this and ends up doing a very passable charade of The Bangles’ classic, ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’. ‘Headlights should be installed with a small inclination, to avoid blinding oncoming traffic,’ he goes on, ‘and lights must not—’ he makes a floppy motion with his wrist and then gestures to my bike, ‘—dangle.’ I feel offended on my bike’s behalf.
Lego Man assures him that we’ll get this seen to at the next available opportunity but Officious Farmer isn’t done yet. He turns his attention to my husband’s vehicle.
‘Lights should also have 120 flashes per minute!’
‘I’m sorry?’ There are rules on how often your flashing, properly attached, correctly positioned, Danish-standard approved lights should flash? What, in case we come across an epileptic badger?
Officious Farmer-slash-keen-amateur-cyclist (I’m assuming) shrugs: ‘That is the rule in Denmark.’ He says the last two words as though to make it quite clear that he’s not sure what sort of slapdash cycling standards we’re used to in our own country, but that here they like to do things properly.
‘Right. OK. We’ll get it sorted. Thank you.’
We press on, but even Lego Man feels that some of the fun has been sponged out of the expedition. After an hour, I am cold, I’ve got oil from the chain up the leg of my Sweaty Betty yoga pants, and I have a very sore bottom.
‘We’ll get you some special shorts for next time,’ Lego Man starts as I hobble off. ‘They do some good padded ones now. I could buy you some for your birthday.’
I say nothing, horrified at the idea of technical outerwear as an acceptable gift for your beloved. Lego Man mistakes my silence for encouragement. ‘In fact, I read about some new abrasion-resistant, antibacterial ones you can get. Apparently they’re good for preventing thrush…’ I glower at him. Lego Man looks confused, then, sensing he’s losing me, tries one final push: ‘They’ve got silicone grippers?’
‘As tempting as all this sounds,’ I tell him, ‘I might leave the biking to you. I’m not sure I’m cut out for a Danish cycling club. Plus I’d like a proper birthday present, please.’
Watching me walk off like John Wayne, Lego Man doesn’t argue and instead starts researching alternative hobbies (and, I hope, gift-appropriate shiny things).
‘Swimming!’ he announces, waving an iPad in front of me an hour or so later. ‘Did you know,’ he reads from the screen, holding it in both hands as though giving a lecture on something important, ‘that just 20 minutes of swimming sends signals the body to release euphoria-producing endorphins? Boosting well-being and sending you home buzzing, according to human kinetics research.’ Lego Man knows that I’m a sucker for a health-related fact.
‘Is that right?’ I reply.
‘Yes! What do you think? There’s a pool not far from here,’ he gestures out to the world outside Sticksville-on-Sea. ‘They have teams, and club nights, or you can just go along for an introductory session, you know, to see if you like it. In fact, they have a late night, kid-free swimming session tonight.’ Lego Man is brimming with enthusiasm. Again. It’s exhausting.
‘I think I’m too broken for one day,’ I start.
‘But swimming,’ he swipes the screen to show me the municipal pool’s website, ‘can help. All that warm water. And they have a steam room – that’ll help loosen up your muscles!’
I can already tell this is happening: we’re going.
A few hours later, we step into a large, chlorine-scented leisure centre. We buy two pool passes and the receptionist grins at us, before adding in a rather knowing tone: ‘Have a really great night!’
‘What was that about?’ I whisper as we move away from the desk.
‘She was just being friendly,’ Lego Man says, sounding not entirely convinced himself. We push open the fire door into the ‘bad’ or ‘baths’ area and I start to feel a vibration under foot. Weird, I think, but keep moving. As we walk towards the changing rooms, I begin to make out a melody.
‘There’s music, coming from … in there,’ I point.
‘From the pool?’
‘Must be.’
‘Huh.’
We continue a few paces in silence until Lego Man says, ‘Is … that … Barry White playing?’ We pause and listen.
‘Do you know, I think it might be.’
We go our separate ways to change and I’m faced with a stark communal changing and shower situation complete with wall-mounted illustrations of the key areas that must be thoroughly scrubbed, sans swimming costume, before I enter the pool (head, armpits, groin and feet, in case you’re wondering). I’m half expecting a swimming pool matron to arrive and stand over me to check I’m doing it right but manage to complete my ablutions unsupervised. At least my fellow swimmers will be clean, I console myself.
Having scoured my epidermis, I push open swinging doors and emerge poolside. To my astonishment, I’m faced with a candlelit sea of bodies, moving slowly to the strains of ‘Love Serenade’ by the Walrus of Love.
‘Oh my…’ I mutter.
‘Oh shit…’ whispers Lego Man, appearing beside me and looking pale.
‘When you told me it was “no kids night”,’ I speak in low, deliberate tones, ‘what did the website actually say?’ There is an audible gulp.
‘Well?’
‘It might…’
‘Yes?’
‘It might have said, actually, now I think about it, “adult night”.’
‘Right.’
‘Sorry.’
‘So what you have in fact brought me to, is some sort of 1970s porn pool party?’
‘It’s looking a little like that, yes.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘Well, we’re here now…’
Lego Man is a practical sort of chap. Rationalising that we might as well attempt to swim now that we’re here, we try doing some lengths but keep having to divert our course to avoid canoodling couples.
‘The entire upsies and downsies system has gone to pot,’ I hiss at Lego Man through a mouthful of suspect chlorine.
‘“Upsies and downsies”? Is that actually a system?’
‘Isn’t it?’ I’m not a regular swimmer (can you tell?). ‘Or is it roundsies and roundsies?’
‘If you mean anticlockwise, then yes, that’s the “system”. But,’ he squints without his glasses on to see the far side of the pool, ‘it looks like there might be some heavy petting going on in the shallow end so I’d stick around here for now.’
I try a few more lengths before my path’s blocked once more by an amorous couple face-sucking to Marvin Gaye’s ‘Sexual Healing’.
We think about trying the Jacuzzi instead, but as we wade over to it, a sulk of teenagers sit bolt upright and a dozen or so hands appear above the water from wherever they’ve been beforehand.
‘Oh dear god … how about we call it a day?’ I ask Lego Man, hopefully.
‘Yeah, see you on the other side.’ He’s out of the pool faster than a performing seal and already halfway to the changing rooms by the time I’ve navigated my way around a pair of sexagenarians dry humping (were it not for the water).
‘You’re leaving? Already?’ The receptionist asks as I emerge, bedraggled.
‘Yes, we’ve had plenty of excitement for one day,’ I mumble as I pass her.
She addresses Lego Man who’s been hovering uncomfortably by the leaflets for aqua aerobics, waiting for me: ‘There’s a wellness evening for men next Monday, with beer tasting, pulled pork, sauna and steam room. Only 199 DKK for the whole evening [around £20 or $34]. Shall I sign you up?’ She proffers a wooden clipboard with a pencil dangling from a piece of string.
‘Er … I’m sorry, I can’t make it,’ he stammers and backs out through the leisure centre’s revolving doors as fast as he can.
‘How about Sunday?’ she calls out across t
he reception as we’re leaving, ‘Sunday is family nudist night!’
‘Um, I think we’re busy … but thanks!’ I reply politely as Lego Man is already revving the car. I do an attractive half-jog to join him and we screech out of the car park.
At a loss as to what to try next, I initiate ‘hobby week’, resolving to try a different hobby club each night, and then at the end of the week decide which ones to join. I’m also hoping that this might be a good way to meet people and make some Real Life Friends.
Lego Man says he’ll play along too and lines up an array of sea-based pursuits to make the most of the fact that we live by it. Our newly adopted homeland, I discover, is made up of 406 islands (even more than Greece – stick that in your pub quiz trivia folder) and 7,314km of coastline – so you’re never more than 50km from the sea. Aside from Denmark’s Olympic sailing success, Danes are also fond of sea kayaking, windsurfing, sailing, water-skiing, and sea swimming.
‘In March?’ I ask doubtfully, pulling my jumper sleeves down over my hands for warmth.
‘All year round, apparently,’ he says. ‘The club told me that 20,000 Danes swim in the sea during the winter, even when the water’s frozen over.’
‘How is that even possible?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he admits, sounding anxious. ‘I’m hoping I won’t need to find out.’
After some ringing around, cajoling and general begging to see if any of my new acquaintances mind me tagging along with them to their various pursuits, I too manage to amass a week’s worth of activities. By the end of the week, my diary looks something like this:
MONDAY: Volleyball followed by handball with fellow expat American Mom [who I met after hearing her speaking English in supermarket and then stalked]. Embark on adrenaline-fuelled, aerobic double whammy with poor results. Hand-eye coordination hasn’t improved since age of eleven, when gave up on team sports because they were after school and clashed with Neighbours. Wrists get bruised during VB, then palms battered during HB. Coach in no hurry to sign me up (even for ‘fun team’). Arnica tablets before bed. Suspect will have to wear sling tomorrow.
The Year of Living Danishly Page 9
