Home

I am pretty familiar with most of the city of Copenhagen now. I know the main thoroughfares and landmarks. I can bike home without thinking about the directions too much. Familiarity, however, is not tantamount to homeyness.

About 5 nights ago, I was back into the city after taking 18 students to rural western Denmark for 3 days with my work, DIS. I was walking from my office in the city center to my apartment just barely into Østerbro. I walked home with a different perspective, the kind that only raw exhaustion can give you. Since I was walking instead of biking for the first time in a month, I saw the streets a bit differently. I had time to notice the way the street lights catch all the beautiful little details on the neo-classical buildings and the eerie feeling of the bushes on the edges of the botanical gardens.

My reflection was interrupted two young Danish men. It always takes me a second to realize when someone addresses me in Danish. It still sounds like white noise.

"Sorry?" I said, which is how I simultaneously demonstrate that 1. I don't speak Danish, 2. I feel pretty bad about it, and 3. I might be British.

"We just bought some beers, but we don't have time to drink them all, and we are supposed to meet some friends at a bar. Here, take one, it hasn't been opened." (There are no open container laws in DK, you can drink pretty much ANYWHERE.)

"Oh, no thanks, I am really tired, and I am just heading home."

"Where are you from?" they ask (clearly having fallen for my non-American parlance). I answer with some hesitation that I am from the States, but that I live in Copenhagen now. The words sound funny to me, and I almost don't believe myself.

"Where are you coming from," one asks, gesturing toward my giant hiking backpack.

"I just got back from a trip into Jylland," (Jutland, or the peninsula of western Denmark).

"Oh, then you really need a beer!" He pops the bottle open and hands me the beer. If this were the first time that I had been offered beer by complete strangers in Copenhagen, I might not have taken it, but I must say, this is somewhat of a common occurrence.

After a quick cheers, I continued home, sipping my badly tasting Danish beer. I live near the Statens Museum for Kunst, an imposing but beautiful state art museum with a huge grounds complete with lilly-padded ponds and rolling green hills. As I was walking past, I realized the insanity of my life. I live here, in Denmark, in a city that most people from my hometown know virtually nothing about, a city that three years ago I myself knew little about. But it is this charming little city full of quirky Danish people and imposing buildings older than my own nation that I now call home, at least outloud.

Copenhagen felt very foreign for a few minutes, staring at this giant European museum, but as I started to think about my room, with its Danish looking light fixtures and western european electrical outlets (which I still do not always understand), my shoulders relaxed. In my room, no one addresses me in Danish, and I sleep in the bed each night. Though no one would mistake it for an American apartment, at the same time, when I am in my room, I could be in any city anywhere in the world.

I felt a little guilty that I still imagine my home to be a place where I don't have to think about Danish or deal with anything super unfamiliar (damn electrical outlets), but I think we all need somewhere to go that feels that way. The more homey the rest of Copenhagen becomes, the less time I spend at home in my apartment, but for now, I need some time here.