The Year of Living Danishly (33 page)

‘We used to blow up each other's mailboxes and smash crockery against friends' front doors at midnight to welcome in the new year,' The Viking tells me. Lego Man, having just invested in a new Scandi designer letterbox, looks horrified at this prospect. ‘But not too many people do this any more,' The Viking assures him. ‘Though it's a shame about the plate thing,' he adds, wistfully. ‘You could tell how popular you were from how many broken plates you had on your doorstep the next day.' He sighs, nostalgically.

Now, he assures us, most celebrations tend to be restricted to ‘jumping off the sofa at midnight, then going outside to look at the fireworks, then watching a black-and-white film of an old lady being brought food by her butler'. The sofa part symbolises leaping into the year ahead. The fireworks are just for fun. And the old lady?

‘Yeah, no one knows why we do that part. But it's
tradition
.'

‘Of course it is.'

Once the other guests arrive, we eat, and I come round to the idea of stewed kale. Then we count down (in Danish) to the second that The Viking's digital watch flicks to midnight, trying to ignore the cheers and celebrations of people in other apartments with premature timepieces.

‘
Ti! Ni! Otte! Syv! Seks! Fem! Fire! Tre! To…
' we chant, before, ‘
Godt Nytår!
' (‘Happy new year!' in Danish).

There is hugging and kissing and
skål
-ing all round, and then the furniture-jumping begins. As a walking blimp by this point, I am the designated photographer – exempt as the rest of our party all clamber aboard The Viking's sofa. On the count of three, everyone jumps.

‘
Aaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhhh!
'

They let out a blood-curdling roar as they leap and I press the shutter, capturing for all time the end of our year of living Danishly. The Viking, arms raised in celebration, is letting out a war cry, mid-air. Other revellers look equally animated, limbs tangled, and Lego Man, I'm amused to note, is grinning with an expression of pure joy as he executes a sort of long jump into the calendar year ahead. He looks happy. And relaxed, and confident and handsome.

The moment has been frozen – the digital image encoded in a series of ones and zeroes, electronically recording the split second just before socked feet slid on smooth pine wood floors, resulting in splinters, bruised bottoms and a suspected sprained ankle that one girl probably won't feel until morning when she sobers up.

I study the image fondly as plasters, painkillers and yet more schnapps are sought out by our host to heal his guests' various ailments.

It won't be like this next year
, I can't help thinking. There'll be three of us for starters, and who knows where we'll even be by then. But in the present moment, this feels right.

Once the jumping injuries have been attended to, we troop down the stairs from The Viking's red-brick apartment and convene in the street, along with all the other residents of The Big Town. A few revellers are dressed in funny hats and I learn that these are another Danish New Year's ‘
tradition
'. Looking around, I spot a leprechaun, a pizza hat and even a
pølser
cap.
Wow
, I marvel,
Danes love junk food so much they theme their millinery around it…
There are also lot of comedy plastic glasses on show. These range from the Dame Edna Everage to early-years Elton John and even physics teacher-esque visors.

‘Are the funny glasses another Danish New Year's Eve tradition?' I ask The Viking.

‘No – they're to protect your eyes from the fireworks.'
Oh
.

‘Should we be wearing some too?' I ask, concerned, but The Viking makes a ‘
pffff
' noise as though I'm fussing over nothing. Having grown up with harrowing annual public safety campaigns warning of the dangers of returning to a lit rocket, it's with some alarm that I witness the DIY pyrotechnics on display in the main high street of The Big Town. I'm also a little perturbed to note that many teenagers and even younger kids seem to be letting off gunpowder propelled missiles, too.

‘Is that legal?' I can't help asking.

The Viking tells me that although you have to be over eighteen years of age to buy what he describes as ‘the major fireworks' (‘like, beyond a certain amount of grams of gunpowder…'), Danish children are allowed to buy many ‘lesser' fireworks themselves, and often start doing so at a young age. ‘I was probably younger than ten the first time I got to shoot off rockets by myself,' The Viking tells me casually, as one whizzes past us at a right angle (in this case, a
wrong
angle). Roman candles start spitting to the left, spiders of white light spill out to our right, and a willow tree of green splays out across the sky, scattering debris as far as the bakery. A few more low-rent rockets do their worst and finally, a waterfall of gold starts to spurt from the not-quite-sky, getting stuck on some guttering above the toy shop and spraying its bounty liberally about twenty feet from our heads. Fire droplets spit upwards, then rage down, lighting up the night and silhouetting the manhood of the porny pony and the cats with boobs in their fountain.

Ahh, Denmark, how I've grown to love you
, I think, while using Lego Man as a human shield.

Back inside, we eat dessert – a traditional marzipan ring cake – washed down with champagne, as our party raises a toast to the year ahead.

‘
Skål!
'

When we leave, a couple of hours later, a sprinkling of powdery snow is starting to fall. We walk past candlelit homes and inhale the heady combination of gunpowder and
gløgg
(Danish mulled wine) that wafts from every window. I'm feeling incredibly festive now – more so, I think, than ever before.

On New Year's Day, my first without a hangover for, I calculate, twenty years (‘
Dear Liver, I'm sorry. I promise to do better. Yours, for as long as you'll keep me going…
'), we tune in to watch the Prime Minister's New Year speech. I have to remind myself once again not to expect to see Birgitte Nyborg with her lovely bun and twitchy-nosed smile. Instead, Helle Thorning-Schmidt starts echoing the queen's sentiments and reminds us that January is an opportunity for a new start. I'm well aware of changes the next calendar year will be bringing to our house and the ju-jitsu junior in my stomach is showing off all his (80 per cent likely) moves tonight. We go to bed and Lego Man falls asleep straight away, but I can't seem to drop off. Sleeping on my back is out, as junior will crush my vital organs. Sleeping on my front is out because I now look like I'm shoplifting cushions. So I lie on my side, and then wonder what to do with my arms. I try everything from a sort of Michael Jackson
Thriller
pose to outstretched in front of me like a furry koala pencil topper I had when I was eight. But it's no use. So I get up and pad around the house for a bit.

The sky is wonderfully clear and the stars are out in a way I've never seen before. Great swirls of speckled light compete with brighter, bigger luminous spheres in a crowded, glittering sky. With no light pollution to dull the view, the sky looks bigger somehow, and higher up. As I stare, I think I see a shooting star, though this could just be the blurred vision that my midwife warned me about as another happy side effect of pregnancy (varicose veins, anyone?). I stop staring up at the night sky but find that I still can't see straight. There are two of everything, including the Christmas tree, which is jolly, and a pile of dirty dishes waiting to be tackled (less fun). I feel dizzy, then as though my whole body is heaving and stirring. There is a lurching feeling. Like everything inside me wants to escape. It hurts. A lot. But then it goes away again.
Weird
, I think, and head to the fridge to have a nose around.
If in doubt, snack
. But then it happens again. And again. I glance, casually, at the clock on the kitchen wall, watching the second hand stutter around for several minutes until I'm sure.
Shit
, I think. And then:
This is real.

Slowly, gripping the walls for support, I make my way to the bedroom to fill Lego Man in on what's been going on and let him know that our Christmas wish is being granted – slightly sooner than expected.

Things I've learned this month:

1. Danes are big fans of liquorice, Chris Rea,
   Top Gun
   and schnapps
   
2. Even Salman Rushdie has experienced the benefits of living Danishly
   
3. You can counter the consumerism of Christmas with moss and mushrooms
   
4. Enforced family time can be A Good Thing
   
5. Singing is
   always
   An Excellent Thing in Denmark
   
6. Life is about to change immeasurably
   

Epilogue

Made in Denmark

After eighteen hours of psychedelic pain, much swearing, and several
snegles
, a slimy, squirming creature is placed on my chest for a heartbeat before being whisked away into special care. I drift in and out of consciousness for a while (minutes? hours? days?) until finally I'm in a wheelchair being pushed towards a tiny plastic incubator that looks a lot like an Ikea storage box.

‘Your son,' a nurse tells me.

From my low vantage point, all I can see is a squashed-up face with tubes coming out of it and a giant woolly hat. A heat lamp is placed above him and he is naked apart from the hat and a nappy. I taste salt and find I'm crying.

‘Is he OK?'

‘He is going to be quite fine,' the nurse tells me as a doctor begins removing the tubes and checking him over. ‘He can come down to your room tomorrow.' I'm doused by a wave of relief.

‘So he's all right?'

‘He is more than all right,' the doctor tells me, whipping off the woollen hat with a flourish to reveal a shock of bright red hair: ‘he is a Viking!'

This is a surprise. Neither Lego Man nor I have any flame-haired family members and I quickly scan back to try and remember if I've ever teased gingers in the past (Katie Brooking from junior school, I can't quite remember, but if I did, I'm sorry). Somehow, our son has joined the 1 per cent of the world's population to have red hair. The rarity of this has apparently been drawing a steady crowd of visitors since he's been here, as most babies born in Denmark are blonde or bald. Lego Man, who has been shuttling between the postnatal and neonatal wards, checking we're both still breathing and developing a dependency on syrupy hospital coffee, is still in shock. Nurses, doctors, and passing midwives have all been calling in and congratulating him on his ‘true Viking' son.

As soon as the rubbery creature is lowered into my arms, there is a winding
thump
of love for him in my chest and I never want to let him go. We're kept in hospital for a week before I'm patched up enough to go home and yet more visitors travel from far and wide (or at least the other end of the hospital) to see the fabled Viking child. They come bearing gifts of grapes, fleecy breast pads and knitwear, including a hat that the head midwife knitted during the birth. Yes, that's right: my active labour was so long that the woman in charge had time to craft clothing. She may well have sheared the sheep, too.

We struggle to know quite what to call the new arrival. Every male moniker we'd had on our ‘possible names' list now seems insufficiently strong to cope with the might of the Titan mini god we've created. And so he is affectionately referred to as ‘Little Red'.

‘Not “Monkey” or “Anus”?' Lego Man checks.

‘No,' I tell him firmly.

Once I'm discharged, we're offered the opportunity to stay an extra week at the adjacent ‘Stork Hotel' as a family. This is for new parents who want to ease the transition from ‘
shit, we have a baby!
' to ‘
shit, we're taking a baby home!
' Here, nurses are on hand night and day for advice on how on earth to take care of the squalling pink thing that has somehow sprung from your loins.

‘You wouldn't get
that
on the NHS,' Lego Man observes, leafing through the brochure of the well-appointed rooms at next door's hotel that could be ours for just 300 DKK (£32 or $55) a night. I agree that it's tempting but after a week away already and with a dog languishing at canine holiday camp (kennels), we decide to go home. We're both frightened, feeling a lot like we're not grown-up enough to be dealing with this, and wondering how on earth hospital staff have seen fit to allow us custody of an
actual human being
. (Me: ‘I can't even keep our houseplants alive!' Lego Man: ‘We have houseplants?')

But we're doing it. We go home.

Back in Sticksville, Friendly Neighbour has visited, having received the ‘
we're parents!
' panic group text from Lego Man the week before. She's left a wooden stork outside our house, as is the custom in Denmark, to let all and sundry know that there's a new baby in town and encourage the postwoman and the free sheet delivery boys to tread lightly for a while. She's also left a care parcel of muslins and a note that reads: ‘
Because I hear they puke a lot
'

I'm touched. The Mr Beards, who haven't acknowledged my existence since winter drew in and they all went into hibernation, have left a knitted bib with a tractor on it in our mailbox. The girls from choir have dropped off a toy elephant and a card that they've all signed. American Mom stops by with two washing up bowls full of carefully packaged home-cooked meals to stock up our freezer. Helena C and The Viking bring cake and an achingly cool Danish designer kids' dining set. I well up. Or at least, more tears join the ones already brimming in my now permanently wet eyes. As well as having acquired a new child and some pretty extensive embroidery around my ‘lady cave', I also appear to have developed emotional incontinence, though this could just be the sleep deprivation. My limbs pulse with tiredness but still I get up to stare at my son and tell him I love him ten times an hour before poking Lego Man and saying: ‘Look what we made!'

Despite crawling with exhaustion, I feel vital. It's as though I'm raw (not like
that
. Though also, FYI,
exactly
like that), as though everything
matters
more now. The world seems saturated with meaning and my son is a blank slate – a little life who's never consumed junk food or watched Jeremy Kyle or been disillusioned by anything.

‘Having a child is like having your heart outside your body,' American Mom tells me, and she's right. I want to protect him and make everything bright and shiny for him. Just having a small person around makes me resolve to do my best to make the world
better
. And in this respect, Denmark suddenly makes sense. With its world-renowned work-life balance, its focus on children and education and the great strides that have been made in terms of gender equality, Denmark is the smartest place for us to be right now.

After two weeks of paternity leave post-birth, Lego Man goes back to work before tying up loose ends to take
ten weeks
off to care for his baby. He has a big shiny job at one of the country's most profitable companies, but a dad taking time out, fully paid, to look after his child is recognised as something that's important and so is encouraged. Lego Man learns how to do bath time and bedtime, and also learns how you can feel like you're going insane by 2pm on a Tuesday when all you want is an hour's uninterrupted sleep, and maybe a shower. He understands how looking after a child 24 hours a day can be hugely rewarding but that it's also relentlessly tough. He knows that, some days, all you need is for someone to come home and say, ‘You're doing a great job, here's a
snegle
'.

When the time comes, Little Red can start at a
vuggestue
or
dagplejer
with other under-threes where he'll get to play and create and learn, with 75 per cent of the cost picked up by the state. This means that Lego Man and I can both afford to continue with our careers far more easily than we could in countries where childcare is akin to bankruptcy.

US psychologist Abraham Maslow said that there was a five-tier hierarchy of human needs, each of which needed to be met before you could move on to worrying about other things, culminating in the hallowed goal of ‘self-actualisation'. These needs started with the ‘physiological' (the basics: food, water, sleep etc.), followed by ‘safety' (security of body, health and employment). Both of these needed to be in place before you could move on to the third, ‘belonging' (friendship and sexual intimacy), then the fourth, ‘esteem' (confidence and respect) and finally to self-actualisation (morality, creativity and problem solving).

Danes have their physiological needs and their safety taken care of by the state, allowing them to move onwards and upwards more easily. They're in school with the same people for ten years, allowing deep friendships to develop, and they're well-informed and encouraged to get on with things in terms of sex. With a focus on creativity in schools and nurturing future job talent, many Danes are getting a leg-up right to the summit of the triangle. By contrast, some developed countries haven't even got past the second rung of ‘safety' – with no healthcare or job security (hello, USA).

Thinking about it this way, it's no wonder Danes are so happy. They have an obscenely good quality of life. Yes, it's expensive here. But it's Denmark – it's worth it. I don't mind paying more for a coffee here because I know that it means the person serving me doesn't a) hate me or b) have a crappy life. Everyone is paid a decent wage, everyone is looked after, and everyone pays their taxes, just as I pay mine. And if we all have marginally less money to buy more
stuff
that we don't really need anyway as a result, well I'm starting to think it's a deal worth making.

‘It's like Buddha teaches us,' pontificates American Mom one rainy Thursday.

‘Buddha?'
God, I love Americans,
I think.
If it's not Oprah it's Buddha.

‘Sure. He teaches us that desires are
inexhaustible
. The satisfaction of one just creates new desires, like a cell multiplying.'

I dearly want to give her a good old cynical British eye roll in response, but in spite of myself, I find I agree. Living Danishly has given me a glimpse of a more meaningful way of being. An understanding of how life
should
be, or at least, how it could be. And I like it.

Of course, it's not perfect. Yes, the winters suck and I wish that Denmark's daylight hours were a little more evenly distributed throughout the year, so that we weren't living in Mordor in winter and the land of the midnight sun for three months in summer. But we are where we are, and despite my newfound Viking powers, I can't push Scandinavia nearer the equator (though I might have another try sometime soon). It's not Australia, or any of those other, slightly more climatically temperate countries that also jostle for the top spot in terms of quality of life and happiness on global surveys.

But I always feel as though these non-Nordic pretenders to the throne are cheating, somehow, by living in places with year-round sunshine. It takes strength of character to survive at the top as the world's happiest nation throughout six months of frozen darkness every year. And life can't always be a sunny, unicorns-using-rainbows-as-skipping-ropes-style utopia. But a steady, safe, nurturing environment that you can rely on today, tomorrow and in a year's time is a pretty special next best thing. There are still highs – the first summer strawberries, Little Red learning to smile, the day I can drink again (in no particular order…). And of course there are lows. But for all the Danes I've spoken to over the course of the year, the lows tend to be personal – unavoidable human truths. The rest? Well, that's taken care of in Denmark.

There are still problems. It's a homogenous country and there are sometimes gaps between the rhetoric of living Danishly and the reality. A small sector of society is intent on blaming immigrants for everything, from crime to missing meatballs. But there's nothing rotten in the state that isn't also afflicting other countries, with none of Denmark's advantages. Danes are facing the same issues as the rest of the world, but despite the Dansk Folkeparti's gains in the 2014 European Elections, Helle and her Social Democrat government are still in charge. And attempts are being made to help native Danes understand those from other cultures. In 2014, Copenhagen's low-rise skyline changed to reflect the continued attempts at accepting and welcoming the city's Islamic community with the addition of a 65-foot tower as part of Scandinavia's biggest mosque. This combines traditional Islamic features with some typically Scandinavian design touches in an effort to encourage integration. The place has changed even while we've been here, with The Big Town becoming more ethnically diverse and better provisions being made to help ‘foreigners' like me feel at home. Danes want to be thought of as tolerant – it's important to them. And so The Danish Way is slowly adapting to incorporate new influences and arrivals.

A year on and I feel as though I understand more about what it is to live Danishly. Danes are a discerning lot. Not for them the overt friendliness of Southern Europeans or Americans, nor the rictus-grin-politeness of the Brits. Danes are blunt and direct and trusting and secure in a way I've never encountered before. It's very unlikely that someone will tell you to ‘have a nice day' in Denmark. But if they do, you know that they really
mean
it. And if your neighbours ignore you in winter, you know not to take it personally: it's dark, it's cold, they just want to get inside and get
hygge
.

I've picked up some of the language too, so that I can now grasp a little more of what's going on around me and converse on about the same level as Friendly Neighbour's niece. Friendly Neighbour's niece is only two years old, but she
is
Danish, so this is progress. I can also order coffee, tea and almost any cake my heart desires in a bakery and be 90 per cent sure that I'll get what I ordered. I have friends here. Lovely, generous, strong, reliable, hospitable people. I'm regularly touched by their kindnesses, thoughtfulness and patience when I ask them endless questions about all things Danish.