It's in the Cards

I am rapidly acquiring more and more pieces of a Danish “identity.”  If the contents of one’s wallet can serve to identify who you are, mine might even confuse Interpol.  Last week, my new yellow health insurance card arrived in the mail, indicating that I am now allowed to make use of the national health care system here in “Københavns Kommune.”  I have two ATM cards from Danske Bank – one which, for strange and unexplainable reasons, identifies me as “Novelle” Eckley.  (It was like pulling teeth to get them to send me another, corrected one.)  My University of Copenhagen ID card consists of a piece of pink paper with numerous details in Danish, identifying me as a student of chemistry  (don’t ask).  I also have a library card from “Det Kongelige Bibliotek” (the Royal Library), and a selection of little paper cards that have little smiley faces on them, that feed into the washing machine in my building (another machine in my life that speaks Danish).   Now combine that with my Massachusetts drivers’ license, Fleet ATM card, American credit cards, and more frequent flyer cards than I care to admit, and it makes for a rather interesting assortment. 

My lack of a European credit card has made for some quite frustrating experiences over the last several weeks.  Many stores here do not accept non-Danish cards.  There are enough ATMs around, however, to make this less of a problem (and I get an excuse to have yet another fight with Fleet Bank, the root of all evil, about their exorbitant international ATM fees).  However, when it comes to booking airline tickets, I feel as if I am living in the 1950s.   Buying a ticket here with an American credit card is somewhat like I imagine it must have been like in the early days of air travel.  One must go to the Airline Office in the city (which invariably is designed in the style of UN headquarters), take a number, and buy your ticket at the desk from someone wearing a sleek navy blue flight attendant suit.   This has happened to me with two different airlines (each giving slightly different reasons for why I actually had to come in to see them in person), and I am beginning to think that it is a conspiracy. 

The second trip to the Airline Office was made much easier, however, by my recent purchase of a bike.  I am now the proud owner of a bright orange mountain bike.  I found the bike at the Kvickly (like a K-mart in the US, only with a grocery store; the Danes pronounce it “Quickly”).  I bought it for two reasons – it was cheap, and it was orange.   Because it was the last one in the store (apparently, orange is a popular color!) I was able to buy the floor model, and didn’t have to put it together myself, as is the usual practice at the Kvickly.  So far, it’s working out well, and I’ve managed to find my way around the bike routes into and out of the city. 

Today, the sun went down at 4:34 pm; it was rainy, windy, and cold.  But my life is a bit brighter these days with the recent rebirth of my halogen lamp.   I had searched for nearly three weeks for a suitable lamp that would actually light an entire room.  After several fruitless trips to lamp stores and department stores, I ordered a halogen lamp from www.ikea.dk (which warranted another trip to the post office, since the lack of Danish credit card seemed to require ordering it COD).  The Ikea lamp is nice, but doesn’t quite do the trick – it is essentially a desk lamp on a big stick.  So when I came upon a halogen torchiere in a small and rather sketchy-looking appliance shop near the central train station here in Copenhagen, I was thrilled, and took it home.  Two days later, in a fit of buzzing, it died.  After changing the bulb, I turned it on, only to hear that same buzzing noise and see a wisp of smoke coming from the top of the lamp.  At that point, I turned the thing off in favor of the desk-lamp-on-a-stick.   But after a few days of relative darkness, I decided to try again – only this time, I only turned the dimmer switch halfway.  This seems to work wonders – light, and no smoke, although a bit of buzzing now and again.   Hence, my household accessory shopping is almost complete.  Next week, I will continue my search for a barrel* that costs less than $80, which is very difficult to find in this city! 

*Translation: That’s “trash can” to all you non-Bostonians out there, and “dust bin,” I think, to a few of you who don’t speak “American”!

The Sun Also Rises

I am beginning to feel a bit like Ernest Hemingway.  Not because I am spending too much time hanging around in bars with British expatriates, and not because I have developed a sudden urge to take up bullfighting and big game hunting.   I refer only to the fact that my ability to express myself in Danish has expanded to include one critical phrase: Det var godt (It was good).  Like Papa, I use only monosyllables.  Next week, I’m planning to go to the bookstore and get myself a copy of The Old Man in the Sea in Danish: armed with the word fisk (fish) and the phrase det var godt, I feel confident that I will be able to read it.

Last Friday was Kultur Natten (Culture Night) in Copenhagen, which was somewhat like Boston’s First Night celebration, only it was warmer and it had a Halloween theme.  Stores, museums, and government buildings stayed open until midnight, and everyone was in a celebratory sort of mood, it being the beginning of a school holiday week.  I went to the art museum and saw some interesting (and mostly Danish) modern art.  Then, I stopped by the Danish environment ministry, where they were holding an eco-fashion show (think messy hair and hemp clothing).  On my way back home, I stumbled upon a mini-concert of choral and organ music.  Det var godt.

I have also rejoined modern society with my recent purchase of a mobile phone.  I have managed to interpret enough of the pictures that came in the instruction manual to set up and activate the thing, and I can now receive calls.  It’s funny – my mobile phone back in the U.S. came with directions in twelve languages, including Japanese.  Here, I get Danish only.  Most food products, on the other hand, come with directions in Danish, Swedish, and Finnish.  Just as I was getting used to the growing trend for U.S. products to come with text in English, French, and Spanish, I have to deal with changing all three – and Swedish and Finnish are really no additional help!

If you call me on my mobile phone, and I do not answer, you will get a woman who says a long speech in Danish.  Somewhere in the middle of that speech is my phone number (that’s really all I understand).  At the end it will beep.  That is when you start talking.  Then hang up.  I will get the message.  (I can figure out how to get messages, but not how to record an outgoing message.  I can understand when the voicemail woman (she seems to be the same woman worldwide, just speaking a different language) says “press one” or another number – I just have no idea what “one” is for.  Maybe that will come later.

Tonight I watched “Robinson,” which is the Danish version of “Survivor.”  It is virtually  the same show as the U.S. version, only it is (obviously) all in Danish and has Danish contestants.  The host looks exactly like Jeff Probst.  The contestants wear the same outfits (except they are all blond).   There is one major difference, however: nudity is not limited to old guys who look like Rich.  Danish TV shows everything.  This makes it a very popular show among the men on my floor (and, I can only assume, all over Denmark).

It is getting darker earlier and earlier here, and there are less than  two weeks left until the end of Daylight Savings Time.  The weather seems to have taken one last turn for the better, though.  After a week of rain last week, we had a relatively good weekend; a few last sunny days  before a long, dark winter.  Det var godt.

No man is an Island

Denmark is a nation composed of a peninsula and over 400 islands – most of which are uninhabited.  It seems fitting, therefore, that a letter which has become a signal to me that I am living someplace very different – the letter Ø – is also a word that means “island.” 

I found this out a few days ago while “reading” the newspaper.  A few times a week, I’ve been sitting with one of the Danish students on my floor and going through the Danish newspapers, in a somewhat productive attempt to learn more Danish.  My biggest accomplishment of the last week was watching and understanding most of what was going on during a television show that appeared to be the Danish equivalent of “Dateline NBC.”  I can therefore report to you that both the problem of identity theft and the horrifically unsanitary practices surrounding the preparation of supermarket ground beef seem to be prevalent in Denmark as well.  I try to pick up new words in Danish wherever I can.  In the past few days I have been endlessly fascinated by the new yellow pages, which I have just received my very own copy of in the mail.  However, most of the words I understand in the yellow pages seem to be the least useful: “Antenner” “Astrologi,” “Laboratorier,” “Sandblæsning,” “Traktorer,” “Windsurfing.”  Just think of the things I could do with these….

I went to the post office today, where I not only bought stamps, but I also paid bills.  I am still a bit confused about the role of the post office in this matter.  In the US, combining bill-paying and post offices would not make for a safe environment.  The postal service has enough problems as it is – imagine adding to that the aura of a place you go to pay your bills, and “going postal” would no longer be the exclusive domain of postal employees.  Here, though, everything seems to work rather smoothly; there are few such problems in a country where (I’ve been warned) you can get a ticket for crossing a street when the little red standing man says “don’t walk.”

Returning to the John Donne theme for a moment, I have discovered another interesting phenomenon here in Denmark.  At 10:00 every Sunday morning, I have heard a lengthy and loud ringing of church bells.  This would not at first glance seem surprising, except for a few crucial details.  Primarily, and I emphasize this, this bell tolling is very loud and very long.  It is impossible to sleep through.  It is somewhat reminiscent of the Lowell House bells that ring every Sunday at Harvard, except that it is three hours earlier.  Ten in the morning on Sunday is quite an ungodly hour, particularly so here in Copenhagen, where social life is just getting rolling at 2 am on Saturday night.  The bells also seem the only outward evidence of religion here in Denmark.  Over 90 percent of people belong to the state church (Folkekirken) – to which Danes automatically belong, unless they opt out – but almost no one actually attends.  All the talk about religious values in the U.S. presidential election would be quite out of place here.

The Folkekirken (People’s Church) is one example of a common sort of title – many things in Denmark are called the People’s something.  The parliament is called the Folketing; several of the numerous political parties (I haven’t yet figured them all out) have “folke” in their names.   But there certainly isn’t anything  here quite like the People’s Republic of Cambridge!