The Year of Living Danishly

by Helen Russell

  Flag waving – both literally and metaphorically – is nigh-on compulsory here. Regardless of your beliefs, waving that white cross against a red background is the one thing that unites everyone from Social Democrats to Danske Folkparti members, and Lutherans to atheists. Whether flying majestically in the background of any given TV broadcast or outside homes, decorating office desks, adorning food, being strung up to celebrate a birthday or used to sell something – anything that stays still long enough in Denmark will eventually get a Danish flag stuck in it.

  The Dannebrog is one of the oldest national flags in the world and was, allegedly, first spotted falling from heaven in the 13th century. Legend has it that Danish soldiers were about to lose the Battle of Valdemar in June 1219 when they took a mini time-out to have a group huddle and pray for help. Lo and behold, instead of extra weaponry, manpower or world peace, God delivered unto them … the Dannebrog. The red and white pennant fell from the sky and was deftly caught by the Danish king before it had the chance to touch the sodden earth. This divine offering was said to have brought the royal army to victory – but instead of worshipping the God who delivered it to them, today’s Danes appear to invest more faith and loyalty in the flag itself.

  Having found out more about the heavenly talisman, we’re excited when we find a flagpole in various bits buried under cobwebs at the back of our shed (thank you, previous tenants). We take it out and assemble the thing before trying to hold it upright in the wind, like an inexpert re-enactment of the Amish barn-raising scene in Witness (Lego Man: ‘Bagsie being Harrison Ford!’ Me: ‘Er … sure…’). We manoeuvre the fifteen-foot-high pole, fully upright, to an area a safe distance from the car/our windows/the dog and find to our delight that it fits snugly into a conveniently lined hole, that until now we’d taken for an ineffective drain. Having never had a flagpole before (I know, it’s a First World problem…), we only realise once it’s up that the pulley mechanism could do with an oil so we take the thing down again. In a fit of adoptive patriotism, I order a Danish flag online. (Our predecessors didn’t think to leave us theirs. Rude.)

  ‘This could just be the start,’ I tell Lego Man, getting excited. ‘We could put up different flags for visitors! Or do a skull and crossbones and hold a pirate-themed party! We could create our own coat of arms!’

  He gives me a look that tells me I’ve probably had enough coffee for one morning, before relenting and agreeing to let me buy a few more, ‘just to have in’.

  The following weekend, an old university friend is coming to stay. I’m touched when friends from home make the effort to visit and it means more to us than I suspect they will ever realise. Flights here aren’t expensive – you can get a return from London on a budget airline for £30 (around $50) – but I get that venturing outside your comfort zone and choosing to fly to Billund for a minibreak may not be everyone’s first choice of getaway. For those adventurous enough to risk it for a biscuit, I want to make things special and reward our intrepid guests with as fun a time as possible. This week’s guest of honour is coming for a couple of nights ahead of what we are instructed to refer to as ‘his big birthday’; something he’s been in denial about for some time now. He is originally from Switzerland and is very polite and very handsome and whenever we see him, he brings me a near-obscene sized box of chocolates. Swiss Friend is always welcome. So I feel we should do something special to mark his major milestone that’s also non-specific enough to keep us on his Christmas list in case he’s still planning to insist he is ‘only 39’. I bake cakes and Lego Man buys booze. Then I have a brainwave.

  ‘We could get him a flag!’ I exclaim with glee, two coffees in, the following Saturday.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A Swiss one! Like the Danes do for their birthdays! And then we could fly it from our flagpole so it’s the first thing he sees when he arrives!’

  ‘Couldn’t we just put up a Danish one? It’s not far off—’

  ‘—No!’ I try to interject though a mouthful of muesli. Unable to say it rather than spray it, I point to a story on the BBC news website about how the Swiss president was greeted by Ukraine’s prime minister waving a Danish flag. ‘It’s not the same thing at all,’ I manage through a cheek full of oats, ‘—and no,’ I pre-empt his next suggestion, ‘not even with a bit of Tipp-Ex. We need to do it properly.’

  I’m already programming the address of the flag shop into the satnav, removing Lego Man’s half-drunk mug from his hands and putting an arm in the sleeve of a jacket when he realises that he has no choice but to agree.

  Two hours later and we’re unfurling the thing to winch up pre-arrival. The Swiss flag, as Ukrainian PM Arseniy Yatsenyuk discovered a little too late, is slightly different to the Dannebrog, with a fatter white cross in the centre of a bright red rectangle. We get it up there and admire our handiwork as it wafts in the wind.

  ‘It looks like an enormous army knife,’ Lego Man murmurs wistfully, harking back to his hunter-gatherer days in the scouts. He starts getting all misty-eyed about past jamborees before I remind him of the time and say we really must get going.

  Lego Man pops the flag a solemn scouting salute then fetches the car keys and we drive to the airport to pick up Swiss Friend.

  I’m high on social-interaction-plus-sugar (having cracked open the ‘starter chocolate box’ Swiss Friend gave me ‘for the journey’) when we arrive back at Sticksville. The first thing we see as we turn off the road toward our house is the flag, flapping smartly against a bright blue sky.

  But before I can even hold out a chocolate-clagged finger and say, ‘Look, look, we’re flying your flag!’ we notice a gathering of elderly bearded gentlemen around our pole, so to speak.

  ‘Is that my welcome committee?’ Swiss Friend asks.

  ‘Perhaps they’re admiring our new flag,’ suggests Lego Man, nodding towards the new installation, ‘see?’

  Swiss Friend clocks the tribute, holds a hand to his chest, and says he is deeply moved. ‘Do the old men come with it? Is that some sort of Danish welcoming tradition as well?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  As we get out of the car, Messrs Beard & Beard and their follically gifted friends move towards us, en masse, like something out of a zombie film. Only slower.

  ‘Hello?’ Lego Man addresses them, trying to sound upbeat.

  One of the beardies frowns and makes some guttural vowel sounds I can’t quite decipher. I’m just about to give him my whole, ‘Undskyld, jeg ikke forstår’ (‘sorry, I don’t understand’) spiel when he utters another sentence and I catch the words ‘Schweiziske’ (‘Swiss’), ‘forbudt’ (‘forbidden’) and ‘Dansk flag’. Then, the ringleader Mr Beard points upwards, his face quite puce.

  ‘Do you think perhaps he wants you to take it down?’ Swiss Friend asks.

  I mime ‘I’ll just go and look up what rule we’ve broken and promise to take the flag down if we’re contravening anything’ by pretending to type at an imaginary keyboard, then feeding rope through two hands stacked vertically (not bad, eh? Charades: one of my most useless talents) and we usher Swiss Friend over the threshold.

  Safely inside, Lego man wonders out loud how on earth anyone can object to the Swiss flag. ‘I mean, they’re neutral!’ he says as he flicks on the kettle and clanks mugs onto the kitchen counter. ‘All they’ve ever done is produced great watches and chocolates!’

  ‘And Roger Federer,’ I chip in. ‘Who can hate R-Fed? The man made mandigans cool, for god’s sake.’

  ‘Mandigans?’ Swiss Friend looks blank.

  ‘Man-cardigans.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And then there’s Ursula Andress,’ Lego Man goes on, sloshing boiling water into a teapot as well as all over the kitchen work surfaces, before slinging in a couple of Yorkshire Tea bags.

  ‘Ursula and who?’ Swiss Friend asks. Lego Man sets down the teapot and stares at him in horror.

  ‘White bikini? Dr No?’ My husband is just looking as though he might be reconsidering his friend
ship with Swiss Friend when there’s a knock on the door. Mr Beard is back. And this time he’s brought back-up in the form of a third hirsute septuagenarian.

  ‘Hi, sorry, we’re just about to get on to this, er, flag issue,’ I start, helplessly, as he holds up his hand, palm facing me, and closes his eyes. It is frustratingly impossible to have a conversation with someone who has their eyes shut. It’s as though they’ve already zoned out and anything you may have to say is of no interest. I bite my tongue and wait.

  ‘As you do not speak good enough Danish,’ the original Mr Beard says, finally, ‘we have taken the liberty of translating and printing out the rules for flags in Denmark.’

  Mr Beard III proffers an A4 white sheet. I reach out to take it and am surprised to find it stiff and shiny.

  ‘And you laminated it?’

  Mr Beard III waves his hand as if to say, ‘it’s nothing’.

  ‘He has a machine,’ Mr Beard I adds, by way of explanation.

  ‘You did that just now?’

  ‘Yes. It is important to get this right,’ Mr Beard III says gruffly.

  ‘It is not your fault if you did not know the correct rules,’ Mr Beard I adopts a more conciliatory tone. ‘But now you will know. And this will not happen again.’

  ‘No,’ I find myself agreeing, like a disgraced schoolgirl or a British minister put on the spot by Joanna Lumley over Gurkhas.

  ‘You will find that the Danish flag is very important here,’ Mr Beard I goes on. ‘If you have any further questions, just ask me.’

  ‘Right. OK. And thank you. And you are?’

  But he turns and leaves without letting me know his name. Again.

  When Lego Man and Swiss Friend have finished laughing, I read the laminated rules out loud:

  Ministry of Justice Flag Protocol

  It is ESSENTIAL * that flag rules are followed correctly.

  It is generally forbidden in this country to hoist a flag other than Dannebrog (unless you are a foreign states ambassador, consul or a vice-consul).

  You need prior authorisation from the police to fly the flags of foreign nations with the exception of the flags of the Nordic countries (as well as the UN and EU flags).

  You should not be authorised to fly a foreign flag on days when Denmark commemorates special national events (like confirmation).

  At other times, permits may be granted subject to flags being CO-FLAGGED with Danish flags of AT LEAST the same size and arranged in no less prominence. Otherwise it is considered an act of one nation’s domination over another and can result in warfare—

  I break off. ‘That sounds awfully dramatic!’

  ‘Just imagine the power you’ve been wielding without even realising it!’ Swiss Friend takes a gulp of tea, amused and clearly enjoying himself now.

  Permits are conditional and can be withdrawn at any time. Failure to adhere to the rules is ILLEGAL and should result in a FINE.

  PS: It is also illegal in Denmark to desecrate the flags of foreign nations, but it IS allowed to burn the Danish flag—

  ‘What?’ Lego Man interrupts.

  ‘—That’s what the laminated sheet says…’ I go on:

  —it IS allowed to burn the Danish flag. This is because the burning of foreign flags could be understood as a threat to that country. The burning of the Dannebrog, on the other hand, does not fall under foreign affairs, and so remains legal. In fact, according to Danish tradition, burning is the proper way to dispose of a worn out flag.

  ‘How do you wear out a flag?’ Swiss Friend asks. ‘Too much waving?’ We are stumped.

  The Danish flag cannot be raised before sunrise or 8am (whichever comes first) and must be lowered before sunset.

  The flag should be hoisted briskly and lowered with ceremony.

  The flag must never be allowed to touch the ground, as this means war will break out in Denmark.

  ‘Blimey, there’s a big risk of starting a war with these flags…’ Lego Man interrupts again. I tell him strictly that since the Danish defence budget is only 1.3 per cent of the GDP and military service is notoriously easy to evade, another war is the last thing we want on our conscience, before reading the remainder.

  We hope that you will enjoy flying the Danish flag

  ‘Extraordinary!’ Lego Man is now retrieving three bottles of beer from the fridge, having decided that this afternoon’s excitement calls for something stronger than tea. ‘Who’d have thought we’d have risked legal action, and/or incited international military unrest, all in one day?’

  ‘Still, it was a nice gesture, I was very touched,’ Swiss Friend offers, taking a swig of beer. ‘I guess there was just no way of knowing just how seriously Danes take their flag.’

  In the UK, flying the St George’s Cross has become a bit of a joke – the preserve of the English Defence League or football hooligans. The Scottish flag, the St Andrew’s Cross, screams affiliation with the Scottish National Party (or BDSM, depending on your proclivities…). The Irish tricolour means St Patrick’s Day, Guinness and theme pubs. The Welsh dragon makes me think of rugby, or some sort of male voice choir. During the London 2012 Olympics, the Union Jack had a brief reprise as a symbol of pride rather than a suspect political statement. Suddenly, our flag meant Stephen Fry; French and Saunders; ginger nuts and Churchill. Overnight, it became OK to be proud of our nation – for a fortnight, at least. And it felt good. So I can’t help thinking that the Danes might be on to something here with all their flag waving.

  Lego Man and I carefully fold up the Swiss banner and we send our soon-to-be-40 bachelor home with this and a care-package of all things Danish to remember the weekend by. We won’t be hoisting the Union Jack any time soon (‘And you can forget about the Jolly Roger,’ Lego Man tells me), but I’m considering adopting the Dannebrog as my own during our time here. We’re five months into the experiment now and I’m starting to feel more settled – possibly, even relaxed. Which has to be one step closer to becoming more contented, I tell myself. And if national pride and traditions really can make you happier, then I want in. I may not be a born and bred Dane, but I’m doing my best during our year of living Danishly to go native. So maybe I can adopt some of the local customs and traditions and things worth shouting about while I’m here. Maybe I can be an honorary patriotic Dane. I resolve to live by the bastardised mantra of 1970s folk-rocker Stephen Sills and ‘love the one I’m with’. For a year or so, anyway.

  * * *

  Things I’ve learned this month:

  You can set fire to the Danish flag but a tardy hoist is criminal

  Religion can’t make you happy, but traditions and special cake can

  Danish parents are remarkably understanding and generous

  Patriotism is good for you

  The dog needs more training

  Footnote

  * The Danes, I’ve noticed, love an emoticon, especially to dilute the impact after saying something that could be construed as confrontational, critical or rude.

  6. June

  Just a Girl

  The sea glistens invitingly, the sky is a cloudless cobalt and Lego Man has taken to wearing pastel-coloured shorts, like an extra from a Wham! video circa 1983. This can mean only one thing: summer has finally arrived in Sticksville-on-Sea. And yet surprisingly it’s this month that my quest for happiness takes a blow.

  Things start promisingly enough. Watching white triangles of sailboats meander from side to side as they wind their way out of the marina while we kick back on wicker loungers drinking iced spritzers, it feels as though we could be in the Côte d’Azur (off season, mind, let’s not get too carried away…). To my astonishment, it gets warm here. Really warm. As though the lack of pollution (or any kind of drama, or excitement) allows the sun to beam down more strongly. The earth radiates heat and the whole of Jutland looks as though it’s being viewed through an Instagram filter. We’re forced to buy a parasol to keep from burning in the garden, but notice that the sun-thirsty Danes all around us prefer to
oil up and bask until their skin turns to leather.

  Living by the sea suddenly stops feeling bleak and takes on a jolly holiday feeling. We wake up each morning and immediately calculate how many hours it is until we can go and play on the beach. And because we’re so far north it’s light until past 11pm, so there are a good seven hours of sun at the end of the working day. Our quiet beachside village is now bustling with barbecuers, swimmers, canoeists and sailors fitting in a second shift of leisure after a not-so-hard day at the office. Having never quite got over the shame of being officially cautioned for attempting to cook burgers on a disposable aluminium tray of coal on Clapham Common one summer, I can’t quite get used to the fact that lighting a fire wherever you fancy seems totally OK here. Not only that, but the kommune (the local borough or state) lay on picnic tables, a gazebo and a regularly replenished store of chopped wood to help you on your way. Lego Man can barely believe this untold bounty – ‘Free wood? No wonder the Danes are happy!’ – and I can’t help agreeing that when it comes to embracing the good life, the smart folk of Jutland seem to have got things sorted.

  Five friends from school come to stay and I bathe in the familiarity and concentrated dose of oestrogen they bring with them. We talk fast – not at the pace I realise I’ve been adopting out here, over-enunciating every word to try and make myself understood. We catch up on each other’s news. We eat snegles. We take group pictures at the porny pony fountain in The Big Town. It’s A Lot Of Fun. A couple of them have small children, so there are daily Skype sessions before toddler bedtimes, reminding me of how much I want that life too. I love being a godmother to two utterly edible small people back home, and delight in being a not-at-all-related ‘special auntie’ to several more, but it’s not the same. And I still have to swallow down the lump that appears in my throat sometimes when I think about this. But I’m really happy to have my old friends with me for a while and when they leave, I feel lifted, reinvigorated, and ready to take on another month – or six – of living Danishly.