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.