Immigrant Diaries: Day One, CPH

I’m padding around in my mukluks and French apron, wiping off the Danish-modern dinette set and generally feeling pretty at home. (Of course, this after I’d once again sobbed my heart out over leaving one of our own behind.)

In spite of the propensity to break out into occasional tears, we are actually happy to have arrived here six hours ago with eight duffle bags, two children, and one silly dog in tow. We are here for at least three years, surrounding ourselves with words we do not know, cobblestone streets which insist on tying themselves in un-navigable knots, and not a small amount of pickled fish.

Oh, and pastries. Don’t forget the pastries.

Paul has a new job at Microsoft in Vaedbeck, just north of the city. All the fun ex-pats work there and his boss Clara is carefully headhunting more. We will be surrounded by intelligence, wit, and people with a variety of lovely accents—basically graduate school revisited. (Oh, how we keep trying to grasp at our youth!) We have a few days to muck about together, and then Paul takes the train to work, where he will eat warm bread and Danish butter everyday at staff breakfast. I believe there is something called “Cake Thursday” as well, so obviously it’s a very hard life. Meanwhile the girls and I will figure out the multiple train systems on our own and complete our most important tour of Danish bakeries. (Vil du ha caffe, ou vil du ha tae?)
We came to this country to live deliberately: to shop less, to own less, to leave a smaller footprint. We want to stop being unilingual. (Q: What do you call someone who only speaks one language? A: An American) We want to give our children a global perspective—even if it is all still Western—and to let our own adult selves be shaped by things we do not know.

Well, that, and the six weeks of vacation.

While we are here we will live in an urban flat that costs roughly the equivalent our six bedrooms Seattle mortgage. With this price, we secure a third room–for writing, and hosting, and maybe, someday, even for our lost boy. So if you have a yearning for pickled herring, windmills, and baked goods involving almond paste– you should come see us. After all, this is a nation where people believe in spreading chocolate on their morning toasts and drinking beer by noon. No wonder it’s considered “the happiest place on earth.” Go on…buy your ticket. We’ll be waiting.

Posted in Immigrant Diaries
Tags: denmark, Immigrant Diaries |