Flying the flag

In Denmark, flags are everywhere, and yet they rarely carry any hint of tension. The red and white Dannebrog waves from flagpoles in more than half of all gardens, decorates birthday tables, and appears on cakes, cards, and wrapping paper. It is part of family celebrations, community gatherings, and everyday life. A small paper flag might sit proudly beside a plate of open sandwiches at a confirmation lunch, or a neat row of them might line the path to a summerhouse where friends are gathering to celebrate a birthday. The Danish flag is part of the landscape. It is not reserved for official events or political statements. It belongs to everyone.

What strikes many newcomers, myself included, is how natural and unselfconscious this relationship with the flag feels. It is woven into ordinary life, and its presence suggests warmth and shared identity rather than nationalism. In Denmark, to put out a flag is to say, “something happy is happening here.” It signals inclusion, not exclusion.

When I first moved here, I found this remarkable. In Britain, the sight of a flag was already beginning to feel complicated and this summer it has exploded onto the scene is a very negative way. The Union Jack has had its own baggage ever since Brexit and even the Scottish Independence Referendum, but it is the flag of St George, the red cross on white, that has become particularly charged in recent times. For many English people, I imagine it no longer feels like an innocent symbol of celebration or identity. It has been taken up by those who see it as a marker of belonging that excludes rather than welcomes. In the current political climate, it has become linked to anger, division, and the language of the far right.

It feels to me like people in England now hesitate to display their own flag at all. It feels risky. What should be a gesture of belonging has become a potential political statement. A person who hangs a St George’s Cross from their window is often assumed to be making a declaration about race, immigration, or politics, even if all they want to do is support their national football team.

This uneasy relationship with national symbols says a great deal about the state of English identity. There is a defensiveness at its heart, a sense of being under threat or misunderstood. In that atmosphere, the flag becomes a weapon as much as a symbol, a way to draw a line between “us” and “them.”

That is what makes the Danish example so interesting. The Dannebrog is not used as a weapon. It feels light, friendly, and open. It can appear at a birthday party, on a Xmas tree, a shop opening, or a small village celebration without anyone worrying about what message it sends. It is simply part of the shared fabric of life. Even foreigners living in Denmark adopt it, placing small paper flags on their children’s birthday cakes or using it to decorate a new home. It becomes part of belonging rather than a test of loyalty.

What fascinates me is how fragile that can be. A flag’s meaning is not fixed; it depends entirely on how people use it and what they allow it to represent. The same piece of cloth can mean celebration or hostility, depending on the context. It can invite or reject. In one country, a flag above the door might say, “welcome, come in.” In another, it might say, “you do not belong here.”

In that sense, flags are a mirror. They reflect not only national identity but also national mood. When a society is confident, comfortable, and outward-looking, its symbols tend to be gentle and inclusive. When a society is anxious or divided, its symbols grow sharper edges. They become rallying points for those who feel threatened, and they begin to exclude as much as they unite.

The question that lingers for me is whether Denmark’s inclusive flag culture can stay that way. As global politics becomes more polarised, and as debates about immigration, identity, and belonging grow louder, will even the Dannebrog begin to carry heavier meanings? Will the far right attempt to claim it, as they have done with the St George’s Cross in England? Or will the deep-rooted Danish habit of using it to celebrate life’s ordinary joys keep it safe from that kind of capture? I suspect the latter will be true.

Perhaps the best defence against the politicisation of a symbol is simply to keep using it for the reasons it was loved in the first place. The more people continue to raise the flag for birthdays, family reunions, and weddings, the harder it is for anyone to twist it into something ugly. The ordinary, joyful use of national symbols may be the strongest possible protection against those who would use them to divide.

Whenever you fly into Denmark you will come through the arrivals door to grannies and grandpas waving tiny Danish flags in anticipation of the arrival of their family members returning from some faraway place. I can't see a future where it means anything other than joy, than welcome. 

The Great Labrador Colour Swap

When we moved from Scotland to Denmark, I expected the obvious differences.

The language, the food, the small obsession Danes have with flags at every possible event.

What I didn’t expect was that even the dogs would change.

Specifically: the Labradors.

In Scotland, if you said "Labrador," you meant a golden one. I grew up in a suburban street of golden Labs ranging from blond to almost ginger but nothing darker. Big, friendly, slightly clumsy creatures with a permanently hopeful look and a tendency to shed a full extra dog’s worth of hair every week. The one across the road was bright enough that it used to wander over to us every Thursday as that was the day mum chucked out all the old biscuit crumbs to refill the tin with pristine custard creams.

They were the family dogs you saw everywhere: in parks, in back gardens, in the Andrex adverts with the mischievous golden Labrador puppy unravelling an entire house-worth of loo roll.

That was the image burned into all our brains. Golden = Labrador. Labrador = Golden. End of story.

Black Labs existed, of course — but they were somehow different. They were serious dogs. Gamekeepers’ dogs walked by men in tweed jackets and green wellies. Dogs that worked for a living, instead of stealing your toast and flattening the flowerbeds. They were the Labradors you weren’t allowed to pet without asking permission, and you definitely didn’t feed them sausages under the table in your holiday boarding house.

Fast forward to Denmark, and suddenly I find myself in an alternate universe. Here, almost all the Labradors are black.

It’s like someone flipped the colour dial when we crossed the North Sea. At first, I thought it was just coincidence, but no, walk through any Danish town, and you’ll see them: sleek, shiny black Labs everywhere, walking with impressive discipline beside their owners, looking ready to herd a thousand invisible sheep at a moment’s notice.

Golden Labs? Practically an endangered species. In fact, until my neighbour took in a rescue one a couple of years ago (to replace her black Lab that had just died) I had seen none in Denmark, and he is still the only one I have met in nearly six years.

Apparently, in Denmark, black Labradors are the default. The norm.

Meanwhile in Scotland, we clearly went for the model that specialised in chasing after ice cream vans and leaping into muddy ponds for no reason at all, when not unravelling loo roll, that is.

It’s one of those tiny cultural differences no one warns you about when you emigrate. You expect the official stuff, healthcare systems, driving rules, baffling types of dairy products, but you don't expect even the basic dog settings to be changed behind your back.

One day you’re living in a land of golden Labs with wayward spirits and a fondness for rolling in dead fish. The next, you’re surrounded by sleek black professionals who look like they could submit a tax return if you handed them a laptop.

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.