An American Hermit Crab in Denmark in Denmark

So today’s writing prompt was about tweaking your title and tagline.  The funny thing is, that I’ve been thinking about doing that for about eight months.  See, I’ve been living in Sweden, waiting out visa issues, so I thought I should change my blog title to An American Hermit Crab in Sweden, but I felt like that was giving up.  After all, Sweden was just this in-betweeny phase that was supposed to be over with rather quickly.  The longer I lived in Sweden, the more guilty I felt about my blog title.  Voices would hiss in my ear every time I opened up the page “you’re not reeeeeeeeally in Denmark.” 

I guess I should explain that the title actually is a line in a poem I wrote that’s part of a collection.  It’s partly almost-literal, in that I feel often that I’m carrying my home around with me (though in the form of a green suitcase, not a shell painted to look like a soccer ball), but also in that I feel like I carry America on my back everywhere I go.  I am American and though I might give up my citizenship in the future, I’ll always be from America and sometimes that feels like a lot to carry around.  I carry around the judgements people make about Americans, the stereotypes, and feel responsible to every move America makes.  I feel more American than I ever had to while I was actually living there.

So the title is really quite symbolic, and not literal (much to the dismay of the many, many people who are led to my blog through google searches about hermit crab care).

But it’s funny, the day that I’m invited to change my blog title is the very day that I don’t feel like I should any longer.  That’s right.  Guess who’s moving to Denmark!  We signed the lease for an apartment today and can start moving in…well basically today.  I feel like I’m on the verge of something huge, and I’m so excited.  We’re starting to plan our moving-in, when we can do what things, and where and when we can buy which things, and who can help us.  Tomorrow is going to be List-Making Friday.  Let the organized craziness begin!

I’m so, so excited to be moving, and even more excited because our apartment is fantastic.  Like, super great.  Pictures to come.

Oh, also, with all this moving-and-decorating-and-finally-making-a-place-our-own, I think I’m beginning to understand pinterest.  This could be dangerous.

There’s Good News and there’s…news about me freaking out.

The good news is that Andreas got his job!!  I’m awfully proud of him, and so happy.  Not just because him having a job and a source of income is a relief to us, but because he was really excited after the interview, and eager to work there.  I know he must be nervous, but he doesn’t that *that* nervous, so I’m not worried about him.  I’m just proud my husband is employable!  To most people who have been employable and employed for long periods of time, this might not seem remarkable, but I feel so very, very unemployable here, that it seems like a miracle!

We’ve been keeping somewhat busy over the last few weeks, sometimes watching our nephew, doing errands and errands and errands.  Andreas’s job is across the Øresund in Copenhagen, which means he faces an hour and a half of commute each way while we are staying here in Malmø.  He’s okay with that, but to me, it means spending 12 hours a day, Andreas-less (and anyone-else-less, as I’ve yet to meet anyone here in Malmø).  It also means that we have some leftover errands that I have to do on my own (handing in my permit application, doing things like going to the bank, going grocery shopping, picking up packages, and even apartment shopping).  This would normally make me nervous, even in the states.  I call myself a gutless anxiety-ball, Andreas calls me a “gentle soul.”  He’s pretty nice.

Anyway, I’ve always gotten nervous before I leave the house, even in elementary, middle, high school, and college I got this nervous bellyache every morning as I put on my jacket and shoes to catch the bus.  Even after college, the only thing that got me out the door on Saturday mornings for errands was the fact that it was the only time of the week I wasn’t working during bank hours, and I was nearly out of cheese.  A girl can’t live without cheese.

Usually after I get out, I generally enjoy myself.  Even being out doing errands, I’d usually see a cute baby or two who would boost my spirits, and I’d come back feeling much better than I did before I left.

But here, in Sweden, it’s a whole different story.  Some moments in the day I feel SO BRAVE.  I feel like I can go out there, pick up my packages, go to the library, and walk down the Swedish street, courageous and impervious to anxiety.  Most other moments I feel like I’ll never be able to.  Like I’ll never push myself out this door without Andreas to hide behind.  But there are some things that I HAVE to do, like my permit application.

I know that doing businessy things in a strange country is an intimidating thing to begin with.  I’m sure that other people have struggled with the exact same thing.  But I feel like…they MUST be braver than me.  I feel like everyone is braver than me.  Maybe they are.  I’m going to try really hard to face my fears and be okay out there alone in Sweden.

I’m also going to join the American Women’s Club in Malmø and try to meet some people.  But to be honest, being not alone in a foreign country is perhaps more frightening than being alone in a foreign country.  I’m not just terrified of going out in public.  Social situations are even worse. But I’m going to try!

But I’m trying to think of how brave Andreas is for starting a new job and traveling back and forth between Denmark and Sweden every day, and I feel like I have to be able to do this.  There’s a blog I read by another Midwestern transplant in Sweden (you can find it here).  In one of her posts about learning language, she talks about being brave, and how one thing she does, when she’s not feeling particularly brave, is to pretend she’s doing it for one of her little sisters.  This really struck a chord with me, because the only time I’ve ever interacted alone with a Dane in Denmark who wasn’t my family, was this one time when I was at Ikea with a friend who was from Hawai’i there for the wedding.  We wanted cinnamon rolls, and although she picked up “ja” pretty quickly, she probably couldn’t order a cinnamon roll, so I did.  I had to.  How else was I going to get her a cinnamon roll?  (They ended up being out of cinnamon rolls, but that’s beside the point.)

If all else fails, I’ll just hum “be brave…and then be strong” from Mr. Rogers under my breath any time I leave the house.  Maybe that’ll work.

Laundry Day

Yesterday marked our first laundry day in Sweden, and while this may seem like a mundane task that’s not worth writing about (and it probably is for someone who has done something more exciting than making a good pot of soup in the last week) I quite enjoyed it.  Let me tell you why.

First of all, we have a “sign-up” sort of board for the laundry room in the basement of our building.  Everyone has a little knob that unlocks with a key, and you lock it in to the time slot and date that you want to do your laundry:

It sounded very silly at first–like adults can’t share a washing room unsupervised, but after thinking about it, I love this system!  First of all, you don’t have to walk down all four flights of stairs to go find out if someone’s already using the washing machine in the first place.  I also like that no one accidentally leaves a damp load in the washer all day, leaving you with the option of procrastinating laundry day or awkwardly touching someone else’s underwear.  (This is made especially awkward if the person comes in while you’re in the process).  With the language barrier I face here, I don’t think I’d be able to endure the embarrassment.

Apparently our building just got a couple of new washers which is pretty cool, especially considering the fact that I’m pretty sure they had some sort of air-lock doors which made me feel like I was doing laundry in space!

Next step: drying!  We had the choice between a dryer that looked like it could dry ME in 3 minutes flat, and a “drying closet” which I was a bit too intimidated to try.  To be honest, I was afraid I would somehow burn my clothes, or that the closet was a secret entrance into Narnia’s laundry room.  I just moved to Sweden, I don’t need any other big adventures at the moment…

Of course, not everything about laundry in Sweden is wonderful.  This, which I pass on my way through the basement, is where I can only assume that people are taken and killed during those long, dark winter nights.

On that note, have a happy laundry day!

Moving to Sweden (and the 70s)

My husband and I are in Sweden now, just hanging out…you know…living.  In Sweden.

We’re living in a sublet for now, fully furnished and everything, while we wait to find out what happens with Andreas’s job search, visa stuff, etc.  Anyway, I just thought I’d post a few pictures of the sweet place we get to stay!  I only wish we could stay a bit longer, but honestly, I just can’t wait until we get to live somewhere permanent.

I was talking to a friend of mine from high school who has been studying in Germany, then back in the states, then back in Germany, being an au pair, etc.  Anyway, the point is that we’ve both been moving around an awful lot, and we were talking about how much we’re looking forward to settling down a bit (probably not the sentiments of most of our 22-year-old peers).  That being said, I’m trying to “live in the moment” and check out where I’m living, at the moment!

Living Room

Best Bathroom Floor!

View from the bedroom window

Hello, Sweden!

That’s right, I’m in Sweden!  For a while, at least.  Yesterday morning we were all settled in Denmark, we woke up, packed everything, cleaned, everything, had Andreas’s dad graciously drive us all the way to Sweden, move everything in, had a very exciting playdate with our very exciting nephew, and are now all settled in.  In Sweden.

It’s feeling a bit weird, being in a place where neither of us “belongs,” where people speak a language that neither of us speak, but to me, I think the most novel thing is that we’re on our own in Europe.  When we lived in Denmark, we were always near to Andreas’s parents’ place and ended up eating dinner with them often, and borrowing the car to get to and from the grocery store, etc.  Now that we’re in Sweden, we live next door to his sister, but she doesn’t have a car (she does have a bike, which is more common around here).  I feel more independent, more free, and also (I do hate to admit it) a little more homesick.

Within the next couple of days I’ll have a post with pictures of the awesome apartment we’re subletting for the next few months.  I just want to show everyone!

Also, look forward to a post about a very special knitting project I just finished!  Now that all my exciting knitting is over, I have to get back to knitting a mate for my lonely legwarmer I finished a while ago before I start on the next exciting things But I guess that’s life, too…I had to put in my time in the US before I got to move to exciting Europe!

So, in summary: Living in America is like knitting a legwarmer, and this blog is going to get a couple more exciting (and pictureful!) posts soon!

 

 

 

Bona Fide Culture Shock

I realize that I recently wrote a post on how I was not experiencing culture shock, but for the first time today I had a literally jaw-dropping moment of it.

It actually came from reading a few blogs here.  I’ve recently mentioned that people here tend to use baby carriages more often than strollers, and while I think this is adorable (and practical) there’s something I missed.  Apparently, mothers here will leave these carriages outside (winter and summer) while they go in to say, have a coffee with some friends, or do a little shopping.  To me, a dumbfounded American, leaving a baby unsupervised, outside, in the cold, with other people roaming around is against every motherly instinct (of which I have many), but here, it’s just a way of life. It’s not only permissible here, but promoted!

While reading up on happy Danes, one really good point was how trusting, and trustworthy Danes are.  I’ve noticed this time and time again in my own personal Dane, and until now, I never thought of it being a national phenomenon.  When I first came to visit here and went to the neighborhood Netto with Andreas, he was inclined to lay down our hand-basket full of groceries (and sometimes my purse!) in an empty aisle and go off on a hunt for ham salad.  I would nervously hover around the basket, bouncing between him and our groceries until we were ready to leave.  Now, I’ve become a bit more used to it, and can generally submit to leaving our unattended groceries around, but…a baby?

Maybe it will come with time.  Maybe by the time I have a baby, I’ll be grateful for the chance to leave it outside to nap in the “fresh air” while I go get coffee with the friends that I will hopefully have made by the time I have a baby.  Maybe.

A Warm Chair

First of all…one of the days I’ve been waiting for has arrived!  I am proud to announce that I’ve noticed in the past few days that I’m effortlessly understanding Danish (whether it be spoken to me, or if I overhear a conversation) without even trying!  For the longest time, I’d always translate in my head, slowly at first, then a lot more quickly.  Now, it’s finally as if Danish is burrowing in and making its own little home in my brain.  I know I still have a long way to go, but I’m really excited about how naturally it’s coming to me recently!  I hope that by the time I’m settled here and have a real home and a life, I’ll be able to entertain myself on the bus by eavesdropping again.  Haha, just kidding.  I don’t do that……

Also, I was watching a bit of the news with Andreas the other day and they were talking about…well, they were talking about something and the title of the piece was “Varm stolen” which really translates to “hot seat.”  Hot seat means the same thing here as it does in the states, and as Andreas just hypothesized, maybe it’s named for how hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable you feel when you “sit” in it.  Anyway, while “varm” means “hot” in Danish, it will never stop meaning “warm” to me, and this particular headline reminded me more of the uncomfortableness of coming to class and sitting in a seat that has been pre-warmed by someone else’s butt (thank you.).  Just another wee difference that keeps me appreciating that I am, indeed, an American in Denmark.

Licorice

There are a few foods that I have discovered at integral to Danish culture.  Hazelnuts, marzipan, potatoes, and rugbrød to name a few, but something it seems most Danes can’t live without is licorice!  Unfortunately, I hate licorice.  However, I decided around New Year’s to try to like things I don’t like, and while some people claim that not having to eat things you don’t like is one of the best parts about finally being an adult, I have this thing where I have this aversion to being picky.  Probably comes from my almost-youngest-child personality, in that I want to please everyone, and when people refer to me as “the girl who likes everything” I couldn’t be more flattered.  In college I was crudely known as the girl who would eat “everything, included reheated poo” which I think might have been a reference to the purple Skittles, but I might be wrong.

See, I’m already a vegetarian, and that limits what I can eat a lot.  I don’t mind, and I usually don’t miss meat (unless confronted with a spicy sausage) but I don’t like being a pain to feed, when I’m a guest.  So I figure, the more foods I like, the easier I am to feed!

Anyway, I’ve been trying to eat things I don’t like: mushrooms, pears, and now, licorice!  And I’ve come a long way!  I just ate a candy-coated piece of licorice and my face didn’t contort!  I even vaguely enjoyed it.

Salt licorice, on the other hand is something I don’t think I’ll ever like.  I might as well try to like eating asphalt or chewy bile.   I know, I know, that’s a gross image.  But seriously.  Salt licorice.  Barf.

Superbowl…Monday

So.

I have never watched a Superbowl game before.  In fact, I have never watched a whole football game before (although apparently I did try to watch part of one with my roommate when I was a freshman).  But it somehow made sense to me that the first whole football game I watch be after I have left the states, so my husband Andreas (who also has never watched football) and I decided to sit down with some snacks and watch it.  Kickoff was at 12:30 am, and snacks consisted of a piece of bread with ham salad, a carrot, an apple, and an orange.  Bring on the football!

During the course of the game, we tried valiantly to figure out what was actually going on, but as it got closer and closer to morning, our commentary (which I was, of course, transcribing as it happened) got sillier and sillier, ranging from
Andreas: Timeout…what’s a timeout?
to
Andreas: Hi, I’m Brady, I’m made of bread.

First, we had to choose a team to cheer for:
Zeta: We have to pick someone to cheer for.   It’s the New York Giants against the Patriots
Andreas: Hmmm
Zeta: How about the Giants…because they’re…Giant!  And also, I’m an ex-patriot.  So we shouldn’t cheer for them.

Then we had to try to figure out how it worked:

Andreas: I think they have two points now.
Zeta: Two points?  We can’t have two points.  I thought you get seven points for a touchdown.
Andreas: What’s a touchdown?

Andreas: They had 12 men on the field?  Are they only supposed to have eleven?
Zeta: Yes…yes, that’s the right number.  I just saw that today in the picture with the Indian babies.

Andreas: What is this start here? They start by kicking it?
Zeta: Yeah, that’s called the kickoff
Andreas: And how does that work?
Zeta: They kick it…

Zeta: Maybe touchdowns are worth more or less, depending on how many downs it took them to get there.  wouldn’t that make sense?
Andreas: Are you just guessing now?
Zeta: Yup.

Zeta: They have three points, why do they have three points?
Andreas: I think they kicked one over.
Zeta: See…I don’t get…why…when do they do that?

Then I had to explain to him some of the less critical aspects of the game:

Zeta: Oh, and then they dance.
Andreas: Every time?
Zeta: Yeah.
Andreas: Why?
Zeta: I don’t know…
Andreas: I wouldn’t dance.

Andreas: What’s with those things they have, hanging out of their pants?
Zeta: I think they’re sweat towels.
Andreas: What, so they can take a towel out of their crotch to wipe their forehead?

Zeta: Look, he’s fat, too! Look!
Andreas: Oh my God, he’s fat.
Zeta: See, there are certain players that can be fat, because they’re just supposed to be like…blocks.  They don’t have to run that much.
Andreas: Yeah, but oh my GOD HE’S….well…I guess that’s kind of skinny for an American.

We also added our own spicy commentary, since the commentary on TV was in Danish and I wasn’t understanding much of it.  Fortunately, our own was just as informative:

Andreas: The flag…he said…I think the flag is on the Giants, he said “something something something” so I think someone gets the flag…

Zeta: Look, you can see his leg fat jiggling
Andreas: Oh, I didn’t see it…
Zeta: It was in the background. Maybe they’ll show it again.

Andreas: This just seems like a game with men tumbling around, but there are so many crazy rules.
Zeta: Yes, they have to tumble in a certain way.

Of course, the halftime show was also noteworthy:

Andreas: See look, the Romans came, too.
Zeta: Oh, whew!…..they look oily.
Andreas: Well, you can’t be Roman without being oily.

Andreas: Who’s she?
Zeta: Nikki Minaj, I think…
Andreas: I just saw part of her buttcheek.

Zeta: How did she change her clothes so fast?  I guess she just put it on over her other clothes
Andreas: Yeah…Plus, it’s Madonna.  She probably practices changing her clothes every day.

Towards the end, I think we were getting a bit delirious:

Zeta: Brady has something on his arm like Buzz Lightyear and then he opens it and he talks to the other men.

All-in-all, it was really, really fun to try to figure out football with my husband, and though we weren’t very successful, at least now Andreas can have a real opinion about the sport:

Andreas: Man, there are a lot of boring breaks in this game…what the hell…

Andreas: This game looks not very hard at all!  They have breaks all the time!  Like compared to…….any other sport…

It was well-worth staying up until 4 am.

Drinking…yoghurt?

Now, I won’t pretend that I haven’t heard of drinking yoghurt before, but I haven’t really thought about it.  However, during a recent trip to our friendly neighborhood BILKA, they were giving out free bottles of a new drinking yoghurt and since Andreas has never *ever* passed up anything free, we made sure to walk slowly by on our way out and got two free samples!  Nevermind that Andreas is allergic to dairy and can’t even drink it…

Look, full-sized samples!

So I brought it home, cracked it open and took a slurp.  After the first drink, I thought what is this, yoghurt?  It’s so thin…this is weird. ew. After the second drink, I thought this is like milk…except it’s thick…and there’s a chunk, double ew. and after the third drink I thought this isn’t milk…or yoghurt…this is…….delicious!

I now proudly proclaim that I am a huge fan of this delicious drink as long as I don’t think about yoghurt OR milk while I drink it!  Plus, it’s pineapple passionfruit flavor, yum!  I’m guessing that a whole lot of my future breakfasts/snacks are going to consist of this.

Also, as a sidenote, that little green “keyhole” symbol apparently means it’s healthy!  It’s actually pretty helpful to have such a simple symbol to determine whether a food is “healthy” and as far as I’ve noticed, it’s been pretty accurate (unlike in the states where I can’t even begin to rant about how many foods are advertised as “healthy” and are full of nothing but junk.)