Where the Fuck is Denmark?

A leap, a fractured ankle, and a whole new perspective. One university exchange to rule them all.

When I was in my final year of University, I signed up for an exchange. I mostly applied to feel like I’d done something other than get drunk on homemade wine and call-in orders of family-sized poutine. Having never left the continent, I put my preferred destinations as either Ireland or England—clearly, placing little emphasis on cuisine (or dental). 

Like most volunteer opportunities, I was in it for the boost of talking about doing something. I lacked the foresight to grasp that moving somewhere was a likely requirement. I also had yet to learn that time is not an almighty buffer. 

A few weeks later, I got the email that I’d been accepted into the exchange program. I also received my placement country. Would it be boiled potatoes or crisps? Guinness or Newcastle? Red-haireds or other pale people? 

As I opened the attachment, my hands turned clammy.

It looked like I’d be spending my winter semester in….*drum roll, please*…

Denmark!? 

Where the fuck is Denmark? [*Insert quick Google*].

A Canadian winter is no treasure, but Denmark in January? That felt downright masochistic.

The Christmas holiday before my scheduled departure, my head was spinning and my stomach was swirling.

In my parent’s driveway (with impressive speed), I managed to ram my Mom’s car into my Dad’s truck, damaging both family vehicles. White Russians nor inclement weather were factors. My Mom deemed me “too stressed to operate a motor vehicle”, and retold the story to every visitor when she thought I was out of earshot. 

When I wasn’t generating hundreds of dollars in familial auto body damage, I was creating excuses for why Denmark couldn’t happen. 

“I’m finally catching my stride”...

“I’ll just do a big trip after University”...

“Doesn’t it get dark there at 2 pm?”...

The last one was valid ^. 

I even made a dramatic, chart paper-sized Venn diagram to list out the pros and cons and presented it to all that would listen.

Following through with the exchange meant leaving my bubble and hype men behind. Being pried from my tight-knit house of girls in favour of the unknown felt terrifying. I knew nothing about Denmark other than that despite my sister’s love of a strawberry and cheese Danish, I thought they sucked. I was a down-home, donut gal. 

Despite wanting to stay, I had just enough in me to know that the life that I wanted meant taking risks. So, with great fragility and a series of theatrical goodbyes that included, but were not limited to: a surprise party, scrapbooking, long-form letters, a weekend in upstate New York, crying in a park, a trip to a psychic, and late-night replayings of Adele’s 21 album in a Chrysler Sebring, I was off. 

On the plane ride over, I remember wishing the flight would never end. I preferred microwaved space eggs and suspended limbo over uncertainty.

We landed in Copenhagen ahead of schedule. Immediately, I knew that I wasn’t in Kansas (or Kitchener-Waterloo) no mo’. There was a simple sophistication to everyone and everything. It looked Ikea-esque—only expensive.

In a Blogspot post from January 30, 2012, I described my airport arrival:

“It was like being on the set of The Devil Wears Prada, only nobody’s teeth were as large as Anne Hathaway’s.”  

I went on to write that, “The airport would serve as a microcosm for the entire country, and would reiterate the harsh truth that this small fishy was in a very large pond –only this pond had swans, a fountain, a water trampoline, and an environmental team that had around-the-clock monitoring of the water’s PPM and PH levels.” 

If we can get past my referring to myself as a “small fishy” and the overuse of metaphor,  this initial impression still holds water (I’ll stop). It marks a first exposure to a different culture and way of life. It also sheds light on Demark’s palpable efficiency and all-around stylish good looks.

The next day, there was an orientation at Aarhus University. During the session, it was revealed that attendance would not factor into our final “pass/fail” grade. There were also no projects, mid-terms, or exams. For the entire semester, I’d just have to turn in an essay for each of my three classes.

Finally, the whole Denmark thing was starting to make sense. 

I attended enough classes to grab rubrics, a syllabus or two, and roll. While autonomy and self-governance were admirable European traits, as a North American, it wasn’t how I was raised. Without the narrow confines of an institutional structure that babies and surveils, it’d be a free-for-all.

And so, joined by other North American exchange students, we used the semester to travel wherever Ryanair would take us. 

My bedroom in Aarhus served as a base to shower, shit, and shave, and then ride the next greyhound in the sky. 

We explored cities like Budapest, Berlin, and Barcelona. Each place brought a new feeling and flavour. On an overnight bus from Budapest to Prague, I discovered the Slovakian love of coleslaw on a bodega sandwich. In Berlin, I was told “I didn’t have the right look” to enter a nightclub and snuck in through their kitchen’s backdoor. Barcelona showed me tapas and cava bar culture which had me so exhilarated that I got an impromptu “bob with bangs haircut”. 

Note: This bob-bang haircut, which I hauntingly maintained until my mid-20s, is the single reason I was never asked to show ID again.

Admittedly, these trips throughout Europe weren’t the most culturally rich. For the most part, we were drinking on the cheap and wandering around. There was limoncello on the steps of Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence, Cisk beer on a topless boat ride through the blue lagoon in Malta, and 3€ Bordeaux under the Eiffel Tower. We ate space cookies at Sloterplas in Amsterdam, schlicked absinth ice cream over Charles Bridge in Prague, and smoked menthol cigarettes on Paradise Beach in Mykonos.

When added up as a whole, this string of travels left a permanent imprint on my life. And I’m not just referring to liver damage and credit card debt. I got to see the different ways that people live, uncovering endless possibilities.

Note: Nothing has made more of a lasting impact than witnessing the siesta culture of the Spanish or the seasonal work of the Greeks.

With similar significance, in Denmark, I saw greater gender equality—a far cry from the 2012 I was accustomed to. On more than one occasion, I’d be out on the town in my finest tube dress and chunky belt, and a man would seductively approach and ask, “Will you buy me a drink?”. This translated into parenthood where Dads sported baby BabyBjorns and skillfully attended to their kids. 

Note: In the winter months, Danish parents leave their babies unattended outside supermarkets. At any given time outside of an Aldi in February, there are Ferrari-parked strollers with abandoned babies sausage-rolled inside.

I was amazed by how Danish parents maintained their identity outside of being a “Mom” or “Dad”. In parenthood, they remained cool, engaged in conversation, and were just people who happened to have a kid. Before then, I’d never seen parents treat their spawn with such refreshing indifference. 

My time away wasn’t all limoncello and frikadeller. I experienced my first-ever bout of insomnia where I’d listen to my roommate belt out bad opera by night and still be awake when she blow-dried her hair the next morning.

My other roommate, Ole, ate every grocery item I ever purchased—down to the condiments and final frozen meatball. His only redeeming qualities were that: a) he looked like Heath Ledger (although his dumpster-diving persona nearly cancelled this out) and b) he rescued me from being locked inside my bedroom after the door handle fell off.  

Worst of all, on an evening out in Aarhus, I fell down a single stair and fractured my ankle. After the fall, I managed to ride the bus home, hobble up to my fourth-floor apartment, shove a frozen chicken breast in my sock, and fall asleep. In the morning, I awoke to the horror of bloodied chicken mush and an ankle that was also mush. 

Incredibly, I was rescued by a host family that the University connected me with. The family spoke little English and lived on a farm outside of the city. The host Dad arrived at my building, carried me down four flights of stairs and took me to an ER in their rural town (it also looked like a fancy Ikea showroom).

While I regained mobility, I stayed with the Danish family for a week. 

I played Lego in their living room with their son, Soren, who was Denmark’s Dewey from Malcolm in the Middle. The family held a mock birthday celebration in my honour so that I could experience the Danish tradition. They baked a cake to my likeness—down to the liquorice hair colour—and then performed a dramatic beheading using a large chef's knife.

Note: I’ve mentioned this birthday cake-beheading tradition to countless Danes, and not one has confirmed that it’s a thing.

Travelling alone showed me that I wasn’t alone. When my family couldn’t be there, a Danish family took me in with implausible kindness. When I feared being friendless, I met pals who also wanted to hit the town like Jersey Shore cast members. 

Huffing in these new worlds and experiences caused time to slow down. It felt like years were stuffed into a few short months. I learned that I could survive without my safety net, connect with all sorts of people, and develop the same references as private schoolers who apathetically travelled Europe as children. 

After my Denmark exchange, my life got filed into a “before” or “after”.

Choosing the uncomfortable thing at a pivotal point in my young life altered my trajectory. It broadened my understanding of where I could go and who I could become. It offered self-trust, unlocked new thoughts, and gave me the silent cockiness of a “worldly” traveller who went on a Mediterranean cruise, spent 4 hours in 3 different port cities, and started pronouncing “bruschetta” “broo-skeh-tuh”. 

Ultimately, I learned that the universe rewards boldness. And when you step out, you stamp your passport to enter shameless territory.