The loaf of life...

 or as I prefer to call it, the great rugbrød conspiracy!

It first happened not long after I moved here. As a foreigner, you get offered free language lessons to help you integrate better... in fact that isn't strictly true, you actually get offered them if you move here from abroad, which amused me no end given my Danish husband was offered the very same 'learn Danish course' on arrival after his nearly two decades in Scotland, which was fairly amusing given he was moving here to take up a post as a senior consultant on the Danish Retskrivningsordbog at Dansk Sprognævn, that's kind of like the Danish equivalent of the Académie Française! So, if they'd taken to employing folk with minimal Danish, the country was in deep shit!

So, there I was, a few weeks in to my new course and my teacher, a woman in here early 40s, was trying to get us all to try speaking Danish to each other 'What do you have for lunch in your own countries, other than the rye bread?' was her prompt!

This seemed like a weird question to me, so I replied that we don't tend to eat rye bread in Scotland. She literally gasped and the question escaped her lips: how have you survived into adulthood? She was entirely serious! This teacher had already mentioned she was married to a GP, had three kids and a university degree and yet she genuinely believed that not eating rye bread was so detrimental to one's health that the mere survival into adulthood was not guaranteed without it! 

It's a strange little country, so mono-cultural, so self-confident, so trusting. If you are told by the authorities that rye bread is not just good for your health but necessary to survival, you don't question it. When holidaying in France, Spain, or Thailand, noticing the lack of it on the menu doesn't make you question this received idea, but you simply assume the French, Spanish and Thai parents are still packing their little cherub's lunchboxes with the product gleaned from god knows where because it sure isn't on the supermarket shelves!

My kids have testified to the fact that almost all their classmates bring rye bread with either salami, pâté, or mackerel paste for lunch every day and generally moan about not liking it particularly but knowing they have no choice but to eat it! In the same breath they chastise my kids for being so unhealthy as to have a cheese and baguette sandwich or maybe some leftover macaroni cheese with them for lunch. 

Danish teenagers happily drink, smoke, vape, use snuff, but still accept that for the sake of their health a daily slice of rye bread is a must!

Thomas says his workplace is the same.

I recently spent some months working as a supply teacher in a nursery for kids aged around 10 months to 6 years. Every single day these kids' lunchboxes were 95% identical, despite the fact that the parents had no contact with each other, such is the homogenous nature of this country, outside the big cities at least. And they sure as hell didn't resemble anything you would have found back in my kids' Kirkhill Primary days. There were no crisps, chocolate bars or similar. The lunch was rye bread with one of the three toppings above, occasionally rye bread with a slice of fig on top, carrot sticks, slices of red pepper (never green, yellow, or orange), a handful of nuts, usually Brazil, some uncooked fresh peas, grapes or raisins, occasionally a piece of cheese, and maybe a yogurt, extra low fat. If they had no teeth yet, a few boiled potatoes may be chucked in for good measure. In the infant room I had babies who could say rugbrød med leverpostej (rye bread with pâté) before they could pronounce their own name!

The other teachers would tell them to eat their rye bread before starting on the smaller snacks, without even checking they had rye bread, it was simply a given!

I suddenly realised how much my kids stick out as foreigners with their flask of leftover rogan josh, and how hard it will be for any of them to settle down here with a fully native Dane and have a family with them. All Danes just seem to know this is the only acceptable lunch and create it spontaneously, while my three 'Danish' kids would need bribed to eat a lunch like that and I simply can't see them falling into line if they one day become parents themselves.

And I just turned 57 without eating more than one slice of rye bread a year! Astounding!

Koldskål, ymer and other weird things

I've mentioned before the dearth of product selection in all standard-sized local Danish supermarkets. The exception to this (other than liquorice!) is milk products. The refrigerated milk selection, even of the smallest Danish supermarket is mind-blowing if you are not au fait with their terminology, not to mention the fact that they love to package almost everything in 1 litre Tetra Pak cartons that look practically identical.

From Scotland, I'm used to my milk coming (colour-coded) blue (full-fat), green (semi-skimmed) and red (skimmed) in large 3+ litre plastic cartons, my yogurt in pots and my cream in tubs. But here you'd better be good at reading!

Let’s start with mælk (that's milk in Danish). You’ve got sødmælk (it means sweet milk but is actually whole milk), which is pretty much your blue carton friend from back home. Then there's letmælk (light milk which turns out to be semi-skimmed), and let’s not forget skummetmælk (skimmed milk), but now enter minimælk—the slightly mysterious cousin in the milk family. It’s basically a low-fat option that hovers somewhere between skummetmælk and letmælk, but even after five years I often forget whether mini or skummet is the bottom of the chain! 

Next up, you’ve got the yogurt products. They, again are standing to attention in the same 1 litre cartons. You have your bog-standard natural yogurt (that often comes in a carton identical to the sødmælk above), and the flavoured equivalents that are usually confined to strawberry, vanilla, fruits of the forest, and pear and banana. But standing beside that you find ymer (a slightly thicker, tangy yogurt that’s practically a national treasure) and tykmælk, a slightly thicker (but not as thick as ymer) soured milk that’s not just for baking but also makes a mean drink on a hot day. As far as I can tell, you are meant to eat ymer with ymerdrys - a crunchy, sweet topping made from a mix of dried, liquidised, toasted rye bread and brown sugar, (I kid you not) which surprisingly, is actually quite nice, though I actually prefer ymerdrys on tykmælk. That's probably sacrilegious to a Dane but I am too scared to ask! And I have no idea what you are actually meant to do with tykmælk. This is where it doesn't help that Thomas was brought up by a German, who also has little idea what to do with all these options! Of course, there's also skyr (the Icelandic cousin that’s taken the world by storm—because who doesn’t love a good health trend?).

Next up we mustn't forget about A38, a deliciously creamy fermented milk product that has been a staple in Danish kitchens for ages. I've been here five years and I still am not entirely sure what you are meant to do with A38, or for that matter what happened to A1 thru A37! It’s perfect for breakfast or as a snack, often enjoyed with a sprinkle of sugar or fruit according to the packaging, but I am not sure how it differs from Ymer or Tykmælk.

You can also find a selection of koldskål, a cold lemony buttermilk dessert yogurt that’s perfect for summer, often served with crunchy biscuits (kammerjunkere) or fresh fruit. And let’s not overlook kærnemælk (standard buttermilk).

And don't even get me started on Ryeost, a really weird, smokey, cheese that always looks to me like a cheesecake, especially when I am fooled into thinking the caraway seeds on top are chocolate sprinkles! I made the mistake of buying it to have with my coffee, but only once! I love cheesecake, but despite cheese being my favourite food, this soft, thick, smokey version does nothing for me.

So, while the rest of the supermarket might leave you scratching your head and wondering why the selection is so small, the milk section will have you singing its praises. Just remember to practise your Danish dairy vocabulary; otherwise, you might end up with a trolley full of something that looks like milk but tastes like a weird yogurt-cheese hybrid. Poor Léon still often accidentally puts yogurt in his coffee first thing before he's fully awake!

Happy 30th!

There’s something peculiar going on in Denmark when it comes to 30th birthdays. I've been watching them now for a few years, and it is seriously odd, here on Funen at least.

Apparently, when a Dane hits the big three-oh, it’s not enough to throw a party or give a nice, sensible gift. No, instead, they mark this milestone with what can only be described as giant, eccentric sculptures. These are usually massive, almost always jokey-obscene, and bizarrely intricate creations, often made from old bits of scrap metal or discarded machinery. And they’re not exactly subtle, either. Plonked right on the end of the birthday boy or girl’s driveway, these creations are left out in full view for weeks, if not months, as though they’re some sort of public art installation.

Now, I’m not entirely sure who’s responsible for these sculptures. Do friends and family secretly build them to surprise the poor soul who’s turning 30? Or does the birthday boy/girl actually request one of these arty monstrosities to mark their entry into a new decade? Either way, it’s quite the spectacle. I’ve seen a fair few since moving here, and they never fail to raise a few questions. My first encounter was a two-metre-tall man made entirely out of metal drums, complete with a beer can in his hand, which was displayed proudly on the main road to Søndersø. Sadly, I couldn’t stop for a photo as it was on a busy road, but it’s burned into my memory all the same.

Then there was another one, a real masterpiece in the art of scrapyard chic. It was a wrecked car painted in all sorts of garish colours, splashed with rude slogans, and lacking anything resembling wheels or an engine. This was on the road into central Odense, positioned just so every passer-by would have no choice but to take in its full glory. I swear at first I thought some joy riders had stolen, vandalised, and abandoned a car, only to realise that Danes just don't do that and it was actually 'art'. No one else seemed remotely fazed by it.

As I began to realise these weren't one-offs, but traditions, I decided to start making a conscious effort, whenever it was safe, to actually stop and photograph examples of Danish birthday 'art'. 

The first one I snapped was parked outside a house in a nearby village. It was a large, rather rude, pink... let’s call it a "creation," made from what appeared to be various car parts and hoses, joined together in a way that made it look suspiciously like it was trying to make a point, if you catch my drift.

 The next one was a huge metal structure, made out of an old caravan no less, in a tiny village called Sønder Esterbølle – a quaint, rural place full of thatched cottages and windmills you’d think would be immune to such antics. Yet, there it sat, in full view on someone’s drive, for the entire summer, as if it were just another garden gnome.

Honestly, it’s baffling. There’s absolutely no shame about these things here; it’s as if these sculptures are perfectly ordinary. Even in the most picturesque little villages, with colourful cottages and cobblestone streets, you’ll spot a massive, anatomically questionable sculpture on someone’s lawn, and no one bats an eyelid. It’s just part of life here, apparently. Maybe it’s the Danes' famous sexual nonchalance – they’re simply unembarrassed by things that would make most Brits blush. In the UK, people often thought I was 'way too European' on this front, but I think even I would draw the line at an orgy of sex dolls amongst my dahlias!

As for the “why” behind it all? That’s still a mystery. I’d love to know if there’s some hidden meaning or if it’s just a bit of fun that’s got wildly out of hand. Thomas had told me of people gifting each other pepper mills for their 30th, back in the 90s as it signified you had been left on the shelf, but how pepper mills morphed into 2 metre tall scrap metal sex sculptures in the space of two decades is truly puzzling. Maybe it’s their way of taking the edge off turning 30, reminding each other that they’re still young at heart, even if the calendar is saying otherwise. Or maybe it’s an elaborate way of poking fun at friends who are reluctantly edging out of their twenties.

In any case, I’ve decided I’m going to start a collection – of photos, that is. I’ll be documenting these sculptures as I come across them. Who knows? Perhaps there’s a national sculptor of 30th birthday oddities out there making a mint off these things. Or maybe each one is a unique, one-off creation crafted by mates with too much free time and access to a welding torch. Maybe I could start a business selling sex dolls for this very purpose...🤔

One thing’s for sure: I’m quite relieved I was already way past 30 when I moved here. (Though I'm seriously hoping you don't come home to two of these buggers on your driveway when you turn 60!) 

Anyway, hats off to the Danes; they certainly know how to make a statement.

Going forward I will add any new birthday sculptures I find on my travels, below with the date and location:

 

Supermarket English lessons

It’s no secret that Danes are freakishly good at English. Whether it’s the smiley barista at your local café, the shop assistant ringing up your groceries, or even the taxi driver chatting away during rush hour, you can bet a Dane will effortlessly switch to English the second they see you flailing with Danish. But what’s the secret to this national linguistic superpower? You might assume it’s due to an unrivalled education system or their endless consumption of English-language media. And sure, those things help. But I’ve stumbled upon a sneaky, often overlooked factor: the humble supermarket.

Could Lidl actually be the real linchpin of English language education? Danes start soaking up English from the very moment they can read, thanks to the shelves of shops like Lidl and Netto, where many products are labelled almost entirely in English. So while British kids are learning how to spell “biscuit” and “crisps” from their snack cupboards, Danish kids are figuring out what "chicken cat food" and "anti-dandruff shampoo" mean before they even hit school. It’s a kind of passive language learning that just sneaks up on you—like picking up a language without ever opening a textbook.

From their earliest shopping trips, Danish children are bombarded with English. Scanning a normal shelf they'll come across peanut butter, New York Cheese Cake, American Spare ribs, not to mention the more mundane frozen green beans or chopped spinach. By the time they’re old enough to recite their times tables, they’ve probably already clocked up a decent English vocabulary. And the best part? Not only do they not have to spend hours learning vocab lists as I did back in the day, they aren't even aware it’s happening.

Meanwhile, across the North Sea, British supermarkets are pretty much a fortress of English. You’re not going to find any sneaky linguistic lessons in Tesco’s aisles unless you count the occasional “chorizo” or “croissant” . There’s no daily exposure to a foreign language, no subtle nudging towards bilingualism as you bag your tins of beans. You buy your rice and biscuits, and call it a day. No educational bonus is thrown in.

But in Denmark, the supermarket is practically a mini language immersion class. Danish kids don’t have to put in any extra effort. Week after week, they’re getting English drilled into them just by helping unpack the groceries. Sure, they might not know exactly what "anti-dandruff shampoo for greasy hair" means at age six, but soon enough, they’ll figure it out. Same with "frozen peas" or "double chocolate granola bars." And what’s genius about this is that the learning is painless, subconscious even. It’s like getting smarter without trying. And once you have mastered one foreign language, others are always easier. There's a reason Danish kids leave grammar school with experience of a minimum of three languages, but usually four. Even Anna who is majoring in sciences did German to Nat 5 level, and is a year away from finishing Danish, English and Spanish to the equivalent of Scottish Advanced Higher.

The reason for all this English? It’s not because Denmark is trying to force English down anyone’s throat, it’s simply practical. Supermarkets like Lidl, Netto, and even the larger chains like Bilka often stock products from international suppliers who don’t bother printing labels in Danish. Let’s face it—Denmark’s market is just too small. Instead of spending extra cash to print Danish labels, they just stick with the English ones that work across multiple countries. As a result, Danish kids are learning words like "dandruff" and "cat food" while British kids are blissfully unaware that "cheese" could ever be called anything other than… cheese.

This little quirk of the Danish supermarket scene means that by the time a Danish kid hits their teenage years, they’ve spent years marinating in English without even thinking about it. They’ve seen it on their breakfast cereal, heard it on their favourite TV programmes (which, by the way, aren’t dubbed, so teenagers are not only picking up English watching their favourite sitcoms but they are also learning to read their own language faster too as everything is subtitled in Danish). All of this means that by the time they hit adulthood, Danes are already English pros. Gaming online is another source. My kids often say you can tell in a school English lesson if a kid is a gamer or not... if they speak English with a Danish accent, they don't game, if their accent is American, however, chances are they game online with the world's biggest market.

I can see the advantage just by living here, in this small-language country. I just need to drive across the border to Germany, where the products in German Lidl are, surprise surprise, labelled in German. And immediately the standard of the locals' English nosedives. But Denmark? Nah, they’re sticking with English. In a weird twist, this international laziness of not translating for such a small market has given Danes a superpower. English words just seep into everyday life in ways that, frankly, don’t happen in the UK or other large-language countries.

This constant drip-feed of English from the day they can read is a huge advantage for Danes, and it starts way before they sit in a classroom. While kids in the UK may study French or German for a few years at school, it’s nothing like the consistent, low-level exposure that Danes get from their grocery store shelves. When a British kid decides to take up Spanish in secondary school, they’re starting from zero. But a Danish kid? They’ve been indirectly learning English for years just by existing.

In the end, it’s this steady, ongoing exposure that makes Danes so good at English. Living in a small language country like Denmark means English is everywhere, whether in the classroom, on the TV, or, even at the supermarket. So next time you’re browsing the aisles of a Danish Lidl, take a moment to appreciate the secret ingredient behind the country’s near-universal fluency. You might just spot it on the label of a box of cornflakes.

The Danish Decaf Dilemma

This weekend, Thomas and I went on a wee day trip to Middelfart. I found myself thinking how nice it would be to be able to stop at a Danish café. I pictured the exposed brick walls, the rustic furniture, sunlight streaming through the windows, the rows and rows of Danish pastries, brunsviger and kajkager, and, of course, the irresistible smell of freshly brewed coffee. But before I even headed out, I knew there’d be one insurmountable problem: no decaf.

If, like me, you’ve hit that glorious stage of life where sleep is already an endangered species—thank you, middle age—then you might also appreciate the magic of decaffeinated coffee. It’s not that I don’t love a good, strong cup of caffeine-fuelled energy; believe me, I do. I just took the desperate decision when I hit my fifties that my caffeine days should probably be behind me now. It was either that or spending countless hours around 4am with the lyrics to 80s pop songs stuck in my head on repeat, while anxiously trying to remember what exactly was making me so jittery!

Denmark, however, seems to have other ideas. Apparently, in this land of hygge and beautifully brewed coffee, the concept of decaf is about as foreign as someone suggesting that cycling in the rain isn’t fun. Maybe Danish women just don't hit menopause...

Why is Denmark, this paragon of hygge, a wasteland when it comes to decaf? I’ve travelled across Europe, and almost everywhere else—Italy, France, Spain, Poland, the Netherlands and Bulgaria etc etc—decaf is so on the menu that it isn't even mentioned on it. Just as in the UK, you simply ask for your cappuccino to be decaf, there's no need to check availability, it's a given. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve wandered into an alternate universe where 'decaffeinated' or rather 'koffeinfri' is a word that’s been left out of the Danish dictionary.

I go through phases of asking for it and am always met with a blank stare, or worse still they look at me like I'm stuck to their shoe. And it isn't a parochial Funen thing either. Even places as cosmopolitain as Kastrup airport in Copenhagen are strictly decaf-free zones.

Denmark does have a strong coffee culture. Let’s be clear: Danes love their coffee. But they love it strong and fully caffeinated - the kind of coffee that feels like it could resurrect a dead animal. Maybe that’s why decaf isn’t really a thing here—it simply goes against the spirit of Danish coffee culture.

For Danes, coffee is fuel. It’s what powers their famously efficient and productive workdays. I mean, this is a country where people cycle to work in driving wind and snow, dressed impeccably and not a hair out of place. It’s as if they’ve collectively decided that coffee needs to be as strong as their willpower to brave the elements.

So, maybe to them asking for a decaf in this environment is almost like saying, 'I’d like some coffee, but without the part that makes me feel alive.' That's certainly how they look at you.

In most countries, decaf is easy to find, even in smaller, independent cafés. One of the joys of living in Europe is discovering those quaint, local spots that serve up beautifully brewed coffee. Yet, in Denmark, as a decaf drinker, I mostly revert to my infancy, asking for a hot chocolate, that I don't really want because the alternative is not sleeping again till next Tuesday. Maybe I should start asking simply for hot milk and carrying my instant decaf in my handbag... But then again wouldn't that make me that person—you know, the one who carries specific dietary items to restaurants? I am not sure I could quite commit to that level of weirdness. Not to mention I don't own a handbag, I loathe them! Ok, so maybe I am just odd, after all?! 

Sigh.

Interestingly, I've read that it’s not just Denmark that’s a bit dodgy on the decaf front. In other Nordic countries, like Finland, the problem is apparently the same. Maybe they think that if you can master salt liquorice, caffeine should be a cinch?

In these cultures, coffee is less about leisure and more about necessity. It’s what you drink before heading out into the freezing cold to shovel snow or cycle in a snowstorm. In this context, coffee without caffeine probably feels like a half-hearted attempt at survival.

But that still doesn’t explain why the rest of Europe seems to get it. Italians, for example, can be snobbish about their espresso, but ask for a decaf, and they don't even bat an eyelid. Even in tiny, family-run places where Nonna is behind the counter and probably hasn’t changed the menu since 1972, decaf is available.

Look, I get it. This is a country that thrives on tradition, and coffee is a big part of that. But we’re in the 21st century, and decaf exists for a reason! Some of us genuinely love coffee but can’t handle the side effects of caffeine any more. Is it too much to ask for a cup of decaf now and then?

Until that day comes, I’ll keep navigating this strange Danish world where decaf drinkers are few and far between. But who knows? Maybe if enough of us ask, we’ll see a slow, caffeine-free revolution. One café at a time, but I doubt it will be in my lifetime.

How do you get to know a Scandinavian?

 

I saw this on Facebook the other day; a Swedish friend from Scotland had uploaded it, and my Swedish is passable enough that I can understand it.

It is so sweet, but both endearing and deeply disturbing too, if like me you have somehow landed in the strange place that is Scandinavia. 

Connecting to Danes is not something I have figured out how to master, well other than the obvious one that is! Through Lærdansk (the place I was sent for Danish lessons on my arrival) I met one lovely, helpful man and his wife, but other than them I am at a loss! And it feels almost as if the five year mark is the point where you should throw in the towel! Up till this year, I have thought through different strategies on how to connect, this year, I have kind of reached the stage where I think 'Meh, what's the point in trying, there's always zoom?'

Sometimes they come across as stand-offish, at other times painfully shy. To say they are hard work, from someone with my cultural background at least, is an understatement, so I found this tongue-in-cheek videoclip interesting. I guess they probably find me too in their face and difficult too. 

I come from a culture, like this Kurdish guy, where people also 'talk too much'. We chat to people in queues in shops, on public transport, at the school gate, in the doctor's waiting room, you name it. Meaningless and superficial conversations become deep and meaningful if they are the only human contact you get, and I am left with many questions from how Danes get any kind of input and how they make friends or acquaintances? Was I simply too late to the party? Do Danes stick strictly to the people they know from childhood, adolescence or their student years and thus shut down the idea of making any new friends in their 50s? Do they only talk to family and colleagues perhaps? 

Because Thomas joined a workplace which had been transferred (forcibly) from Copenhagen to a small village nearly 2.5 hours away, his colleagues mainly work from home, and live so far away that no afterwork socialising occurs, so he can't say what's normal in the workplace here either. And we have no family within a couple of hours of us, so no chance of meeting people through them either.

I was so used to, from home, chatting to other parents, either at the school gate, or when picking and dropping kids off at each others' houses. We'd often invite another parent in for a coffee when they came to pick someone up from a sleepover, but here from the outset parents happily dropped their children at the end of the driveway without even meeting us, which I found quite odd. There seemed to be no need to check out the weird foreign family who'd invited your 9 year-old to dinner or overnight, no curiosity, and no worries, just blind trust.

By the time Amaia had been visiting and having sleepovers with a classmate for 3 years, I had still never met any of her friends' mothers. Then last year both Amaia and another child she was close to signed up to the same summer camp activity which was taking place in August. I felt like the man on the video that day. 

First I got Amaia to text saying I was happy to drive both kids as I was passing the other's house en route. I'd have jumped at the chance had she offered but the friend replied that her mum was happy to take her separately. Fair enough, maybe she was going somewhere anyway... The activities were taking place in a school I didn't know, so I found the class where the kids had to go, and sent Amaia in. At that moment her mate arrived too. We bade them farewell and both turned simultaneously to walk the 350m back to our cars. 

We walked out keeping apace but saying nothing... a silence I, as a Scot, found painful, I am not sure if the Dane felt it too though. It suddenly occurred to me she might be reticent to speak as she didn't know whether I spoke Danish or not, so cunningly, I thought, I asked in Danish 'It's 4pm we've to come back for the girls, isn't it?' She simply replied in the affirmative. We walked on again with nothing but the chirping of the birds to accompany us, so I guess it wasn't my language ability that was the issue. 'What a summer,' I said, 'it's been so much colder than usual.' Again she barely looked at me, and continued with the merest of nods. Strangely though, she neither sped up, slowed down, nor faked a phone call to shake me off!

Jesus, this is hard work, I thought. By then I was finding the stoney silence and the walk side by side quite uncomfortable so like any good Scottish woman I descended into wittering on mindlessly in Danish 'July's been such a disappointment. We were in Spain for a couple of weeks and it just feels so cold after that. We were at a wedding last week, my nephew and his new wife, she's Canadian but her family's Indian, and I felt so sorry for all the guests who'd flown over for it as it was so chilly.' I paused again and probably looked pleadingly at her to engage, but nope! So I continued 'In fact we have a guest staying with us at the moment. She's a 15 year-old Spanish girl. You see my older daughter, not Anna who's also 15, I mean Charlotte, the one who is in her 20s. She used to be an au pair in Spain and she still helps the family with teaching their girls English, so now the oldest one is 15, the family wanted her to spend a month with an English-speaking family and here she is with us and she's never been north of Madrid in her life. Poor girl looks half frozen to death... In fact she's so cold all the time that I now know how to say "Madre mía, qué frío!"' Not even a smile, I swear! Finally my car was in sight just off to the left, and the other mum had still not said a single word to me, not one! 'That's me over there,' I said pointing at my people carrier, half relieved, half wondering if I was either the most boring person in the world or if my Danish was so diabolical, she hadn't understood a word. I mean she gave me absolutely nooooothing back! Finally, she replied 'Bye'. So, she definitely wasn't mute! And I might add, I drove back home following her all the way, so it turned out she wasn't on her way out either!

Jesus, I mean really?! I guess I'd committed some kind of cultural faux pas to try to have an actual conversation with someone I didn't know, but whose kid was good friends with mine, but how are you meant to make acquaintances otherwise, I mean if you're not meant to chat? I have lived in other countries and found their culture so much easier to understand than this one. In fact I was in Spain last Xmas and I spoke more to Spaniards in five days than I have to Danes in five years despite the fact that my Spanish is not nearly as good as my Danish!

And this isn't a one-off. I have tried various ways of meeting people and I always feel not only that I am the only one talking but that everyone else is quietly hoping I'll soon shut up and bugger off so they can go back to whatever it is Danes do when I am not about!

I know it isn't, because Danes do genuinely seem to be nice, but to an outsider it feels like a lack of empathy. Back in Scotland I knew some first generation immigrants. I always imagined how they must feel miles from their home, their family, the places they knew and felt happy, struggling with a language that wasn't their own. I thought it almost my duty to help them out, knowing how much easier it would be for me to invite them in, chat to them, help them, than it would be for them to have to make all the moves.

I always thought till I moved here that I was an introvert. Now I am beginning to question that because I sure as hell seem to need more human contact than most people I have met here! 

People, people who need people, are the luckiest people in the world…🎶

"Studenterhuen" - Unravelling the Danish Student Hat Tradition

I already posted this on my standard blog, but given it gives us insight into Danish culture, it probably should here too:

As promised, or threatened, on my previous breakdown of graduation traditions, the Danish student hat, or studenterhue, is such a legend that it needs a whole post of its own. These hats are more than just a piece of graduation attire; they're a symbol of achievement, camaraderie, and a rite of passage filled with quirky and memorable customs. Different schools have different band colours. A whole list is available on this website, if you are interested!

They are such a huge part of Danish culture that Thomas held this exchange with Amaia's teacher:

Literally: 

Hi Bjørn,

Léon's getting his hat on tomorrow, so would it be ok if Amaia leaves 10-20 mins early?

Best, Thomas

Hi Thomas,

Yes! Of course 😊 And many congratulations to Léon! It is a big day. Send him all my best regards and tell him congratulations! 

All the best, Bjørn

Can you imagine understanding these messages if you had arrived in Denmark the day before? As a non-Dane, it struck me as a truly bizarre conversation. So, someone is putting on a hat and that not only lets their sister leave a different school early, but evokes all sorts of congratulatory excitement from a former teacher! Odd, indeed!

So, let me take you on the hat journey...

Months in advance, you order it, so it can be embroidered with the name of your school, your name etc. Then, it turns up a couple of weeks before your exams start in a velvet box. (No pressure there, given you earn the right to wear it by passing your exams!) It even comes with built-in pen for your mates to write their greetings, and Léon assures me the even more expensive models come with scissors too, to cut the notches!

First off, putting on the student hat before passing your final exam is considered bad luck. But once you've aced that last oral, or for that matter screwed it up royally, the hat becomes your badge of honour, and the celebrations begin!

After your final oral exam, you walk out of school for the last time on a red carpet, reveal your final mark to your parents, and then write it in the centre of your hat before they place it on your head. It’s a proud moment, marked with cheers, confetti, and lots of Danish-flag-coloured roses. 

At that point, out of nowhere Léon's mates appeared to welcome him into the graduate ranks with the famous beer bong, that seems to play quite a major role in this whole rite of passage.

Over the month of July, with nightly parties, the kids try to earn as many symbols as possible for the inside of their hat.

Traditions and Notches

The inside of the hat, including its sweatband end up telling quite a story:

• Size Matters: Months ago, when they were measuring their heads with a view to ordering their hats, the students with the largest and smallest hat sizes were duly noted. And again after the graduation when they had all been issued their GPA, the lowest and highest scoring student in each class was again noted. Those four, or perhaps fewer if there happens to be an overlap, have to provide a drink for all their classmates to get the party started.
• Greetings Inside the Hat: Friends and classmates write messages inside your hat, cheeky, or sincere, turning it into a keepsake full of memories.
• Sweatband/Visor Notches: Various experiences earn you notches cut out in the sweatband or visor. Throwing up from too much partying? That's a triangle in the visor, a visible-to-the-world symbol of your fuck-up. Thirteen parties in and Léon’s hat remains unscathed in this regard... I don't think I'd have predicted that!
• 24-Hour Mark: If you manage to stay awake for 24 hours straight, you earn the right to turn your hat the other way around. 

Of course, from the day after the student truck (the 4th day after Léon's last exam) Léon's has been the wrong way round, but I have noticed more and more of the kids in the photos from his nightly parties have theirs on backwards as time progresses. It's quite handy even, given that means you can read their name, if you can't remember who someone is!

The Symbolic Language

Your hat can become quite the storybook, with symbols denoting your various feats either drawn or cut into the inside. Here is a list of just some of the symbols to be drawn inside or cut into the inner sweatband that Léon has told me about, and how you go about earning them:

• Wave: Jump in the sea wearing only your hat.
• Square: Drink a case of beer in 24 hours.
• Fish: Down 24 shots in 24 hours.
• Lightning Bolt: Have sex wearing only your hat.
• Circle: Run around a roundabout in your town wearing only your hat.
• Cross: Run around the church in your town wearing only your hat. (Yes, nudity, is a leit motif of graduating high school.)
• Triangle: Stay awake for 24 hours.
• House: Achieve the 24-hour triangle, square for drinking a case, and feel free to add a chimney if you smoke a pack of cigarettes that day too.
• Corn: Run through a cornfield wearing only your hat.
• Crown: Run around your old school grounds wearing only your hat.
• Signpost: Climb a road sign and drink a beer on top.
• Tree: Climb a tree and drink a beer sitting on top.
• Car: Flag down a random car and have the driver feed you beer from a funnel.
• Funnel: Drink beer from a funnel while peeing against a tree.
• Submarine: Drink beer from a bong with your head underwater, usually alongside the wave symbol.

So, basically, do anything in the nude and draw whatever you fancy inside your hat! Just as well the nights are reasonably warm at the moment!

Rotating symbols

On the front of each hat is a button-sized burgundy-coloured symbol. Most have a cross, as Denmark is traditionally a Christian country, even if there isn't much church-going still going on. But you can get it with a crescent, or a star of David if you prefer. Léon has no religion, so opted for the initials STX, which is just means grammar school. This symbol can rotate, and you apparently earn the right to turn it upside down by kissing someone of the same gender, if you are straight, or the opposite gender if you are gay. As far as I can see, everyone in Léon's photo has this upside down currently, though it is slightly subtler on the cross ones than on the STX option!😂

Biting the Skip

Lastly, the pristine hat gets a makeover from day one. Friends and teachers bite into the patent leather brim, leaving tooth indentations to symbolise leaving a lasting mark on someone’s life. I became aware of this when during the after graduation buffet, Léon's politics teacher came over to congratulate him and Léon offered to let him bite his hat, and the teacher obliged without a puzzled look. I guess that tradition was probably paused during Covid. I'm so glad the kids weren't hit by that during Gymnasium.

These are the hat rules Léon has mentioned to me but the list is even longer according to the official site (in Danish)!

By the end of the celebrations, the hat is a well-worn, personalised memento of your student days. I must have a wee look inside Léon's next time he's taking a shower, though do I even want to know?! I know he has already clocked up most of the naked ones!😂 In saying that, having a shower wearing only your hat is probably a challenge too, just to guard against your mother getting a peak at what you have been getting up to all night every night!