The Year of Living Danishly (4 page)

I learn that Danes drink the most coffee in Europe, as well as consuming eleven litres of pure alcohol per person per year. Maybe we'll fit in just fine after all. More helpfully, I also come across the website of cultural integration coach Pernille Chaggar. Deciding that a cultural integration coach is just what I need to start my year of living Danishly and buoyed up by a second cup of strong Danish coffee, I call and ask Pernille to take part in my happiness project. She kindly agrees – and doesn't make me take a ticket to call back later.

After expressing surprise that we've moved from London to rural Jutland, she offers her condolences that we've done so in January.

‘Arriving in winter can be really hard for outsiders,' she tells me. ‘It's a private, family time in Denmark and everyone hides behind their front doors. Danes are very wrapped up – literally and metaphorically – from November until February, so don't be surprised if you don't see many people out and about, especially in rural areas.'

Marvellous
.

‘So, where are they all? What's everyone doing?'

‘They're getting
hygge
,' she tells me, making a noise that sounds a little like she has something stuck in her throat.

‘Sorry, what?'

‘
Hygge
. It's a Danish thing.'

‘What does it mean?'

‘It's hard to explain, it's just something that all Danes know about. It's like having a cosy time.'

This doesn't help much.

‘Is it a verb? Or an adjective?'

‘It can be both,' says Pernille. ‘Staying home and having a cosy, candlelit time is
hygge
.' I tell her about the deserted streets and seeing candles burning in many of the windows we passed and Pernille repeats that this is because everyone's at home, ‘getting
hygge
'. Candlelight is apparently a key component and Danes burn the highest number of candles per head than anywhere else in the world. ‘But really,
hygge
is more of a concept. Bakeries are
hygge
—'
Bingo
! I think, looking at the spread of pastry goodness in front of me. ‘—and dinner with friends is
hygge
. You can have a ‘
hygge
' time. And there's often alcohol involved—'

‘—Oh, good…'

‘
Hygge
is also linked to the weather and food. When it's bad weather outside you get cosy indoors with good food and good lighting and good drinks. In the UK, you have pubs where you can meet and socialise. In Denmark we do it at home with friends and family.'

I tell her I haven't got a home here yet, nor any friends. And unless something radical happens and my mother decides that Berkshire is overrated, I'm unlikely to have family here any time soon either.

‘So how can a new arrival get
hygge
, Danish-style?'

‘You can't.'

‘Oh.'

‘It's impossible,' she says. I'm just preparing to wallow in despair and call the whole thing off when Pernille corrects herself, conceding that it ‘might' in fact be feasible
if
I'm willing to work at it. ‘Getting
hygge
for a non-Dane is quite a journey. Australians and Brits and Americans are more used to immigrants and better at being open to new people and starting up conversations. We Danes aren't great at small talk. We just tend to hole up for winter,' she goes on, before offering a glimmer of hope. ‘But it gets better in the spring.'

‘Right. And when does spring start here?'

‘Officially? March. But really, May.'

Brilliant
. ‘Right. And, taking all this into account,' I can't help asking after the bleak portrait she's just painted, ‘what do you think about all these studies that say Denmark is the happiest country in the world? Are you happy?'

‘Happy?' She sounds sceptical and I think she's going to tell me the whole ‘happy Danes' thing's been blown out of all proportion until she answers: ‘I'd say I'm a ten out of ten. Danish culture is really great for kids. Best in the world. I can't think of anywhere better to be raising my family. Do you have kids?'

‘No.'

‘Oh,' she says in a voice that implies, ‘
in that case
,
you're really screwed
…' before adding: ‘Well, good luck with the
hygge
!'

‘Thanks.'

Lego Man returns from outside, lips now a blueish hue and shivering slightly. He announces that the toymaker and his elves are all ready for their new arrival and that he'll start work as planned in a week and a half, once we've settled in. I tell him that this last part may not be as easy as it sounds and relay my conversation with Pernille.

‘Interesting,' he says, when I've downloaded. We sit in silence for a bit, staring at the fully loaded plate of glistening carbs in front of us. After a few moments, Lego Man raises himself up, removes his glasses and places them on the table, stoically. Then clears his throat, as though he's about to say something of great import.

‘What do you think,' he starts, ‘
Danes
call their pastries?' He holds one up for inspection.

‘Sorry?'

‘Well, they can't call them “Danishes” can they?'

‘Good point.'

In the great tradition of British repression, we ignore the potential futility and loneliness of our new existence and seize on this new topic with enthusiasm. Lego Man gets Googling and I crack open the spine of our sole guidebook in search of insight.

‘Ooh, look!' I point, ‘apparently, they're known as “
wienerbrød
” or “Vienna bread” after a strike by Danish bakers when employers hired in some Austrians, who, as it turned out, made exceedingly good cakes,' I paraphrase. ‘Then when the pastry travelled to America—'

‘—How?'

‘What?'

‘
How
did it travel?'

‘I don't know – by
ship
. With its own special pastry passport. Anyway, when it made it to the US, it was referred to as a “Danish” and the name stuck.'

I don't read any more as I realise that Lego Man has been using the opportunity to get a head start on stuffing his face and I don't want to miss out.

‘This one's a “
kanelsnegle
” or cinnamon snail,' he points at the curled, doughy, cinnamon-dusted delight that he's just eaten half of. I pick up what's left before he gets the chance to polish it off and swiftly sink my teeth in. It is a revelation. My taste buds spring into action and dopamine starts surging around my body.

‘This is
outstanding
…' I murmur through my first mouthful. It's nothing like the part-dry, part-soggy, artificially sweetened ‘Danishes' I've had back home. This tastes light and rich all at once. It's zingy yet sweet, with intense, complex flavours that trickle in one by one. The pastry is crisp, then soft, then gooey in turn. I am momentarily transported into another world where everything is made from sugar and no one gets cross, or has to work or do the washing up, or stubs their toes, and smiling is mandatory. I gobble down the rest of it before sitting back in wonder at this remarkable new discovery.

‘I know! And that's only the basic one,' Lego Man tells me. ‘They also do chocolate ones. And they get much fancier down that end of the counter,' he points.

‘That was only a
gateway pastry
?' I slap a buttery hand to my forehead. ‘Oh God, I'll be in elasticated waistbands by Easter.'

‘Forget the post-Christmas detox,' I tell him through pastry number two, ‘if this is what living Danishly is all about then we'll be fine. And I don't care what Pernille says, we're going to get
hygge,
come what may.'

‘I still have no idea what that means,' Lego Man replies, ‘but I'm in.' He crams another
snegle
in his mouth to seal the deal.

We roll out of the bakery several thousand calories up and set off to meet our relocation agent – a slim woman with bleached blonde hair in an obligatory Scandi topknot, a black leather jacket underneath a thick, goose-down affair, and trousers that look distinctly flammable. She's set up several appointments for us to nose around Danish houses and we're fascinated to discover that they're all incredibly similar, with white walls, bleached wooden floors (complete with under-floor heating) and not a single item of clutter in sight. They're also hot. Jutlanders, it seems, like to lounge about in just a T-shirt at home – even in January. On every threshold, we peel off scarves and winter coats while perspiring as we attempt to adjust from the snowy outdoors to tropical interiors. We've lived in a poorly insulated Edwardian terraced flat for the past five years and having grown up with the mantra of, ‘if you're cold, put another jumper on until your arms can no longer touch your sides', such centrally heated extravagance seems close to criminal.

‘Too … hot…' I mumble to Lego Man through a mouthful of merino wool as I start stripping off in the second home we visit.

‘Yes, why is that?' he pulls at his collar to let out some hot air and wipes the steam off his glasses.

I wonder whether the Danes have gone in for hyper-heated homes historically because the climate is so cold. It always seems as though the colder the climate, the better prepared people are to deal with it. Perhaps the mildly chilly wet lick of your average British winter has meant we've been slow to catch on. I put this theory to Lego Man but the relocation agent, overhearing, cuts in.

‘Danes are well known for their central heating, actually,' she tells us. ‘We have very good doors and windows' – she points to an example of each in case we haven't quite got it – ‘for thermal insulation. In England, I think, you have
drafts
,' she sounds disgusted at the very idea. ‘Danes would not tolerate this.' She goes on to explain that an elaborate district heating system uses heat from burning waste, wind power and central solar heating to warm the pine floorboards of almost every house in the area. ‘It's very efficient, so you don't need to turn it off!' is how she puts it. I'm not sure that's quite how a sustainable approach to energy consumption should work, but I'm impressed with her knowhow.

Each hot home we encounter is also rigorously neat, minimalist, yet full of designer touches. One proud renter, who boasts completely clear work surfaces and an ordered, Zen-like home, opens up her kitchen drawers to show off their soft-close mechanism and I see that her utensils are filed in the same impeccable order as the rest of her house.

‘This isn't normal!' I hiss at Lego Man as we move on to the next room. In our kitchen back home, you couldn't open a cupboard without first protecting your face with your free arm, lest something spring out at you. The mismatched Tupperware drawer was stacked so precariously that it was just waiting to pounce on anyone who dared open it. But here, all the homes are ordered and spotless.

‘These people are
renters
, right?' I ask the relocation agent. ‘There's no incentive for them to do a big tidy-up before visitors come?' She looks confused.

‘Tidy up? Before visitors? Is that what British people do?' She pulls a judgey face. ‘Danes try to keep their homes nice
all
the time.'

I feel compelled to make it clear that we
try
to do this too. It's not as though we're smearing human faeces up the walls just for a laugh. Lego Man, sensing my ire, rests a gentle hand on my arm to warn me off this particular battle. Judgey Face also informs us that it's customary to remove your shoes before entering a Danish home, with all footwear stacked neatly on racks by the door. ‘Just so that any dust or outdoor dirt isn't brought into the house,' she tells Lego Man, having clearly given up on his slattern of a wife.

Pretty soon it becomes clear that cleanliness is next to Danishness, and sleek, smart, wipe-clean design is everywhere; from wall-hung loos with tanks hidden in fake walls to universally built-in wardrobes and lighting that looks like it belongs in a gallery. On the downside, there are no baths. Judgey Face tells us that everyone in Denmark ripped out their tubs a decade ago to go for a more up-to-date look. (‘Plus showering is more hygienic,' she asserts.) This is a setback to my happiness project.

How can anyone, let alone a whole nation, be happy without baths?
Lego Man, understanding my pain, promises that we can always look online for a free-standing version à la
Downton Abbey
and adds this to his ever-growing list of things he's decided we need for our new Danish digs.

By the end of the great house hunt, day one, I start to wonder whether this great emphasis on having a clean, clear, sleek designer home plays a part in the Danes' chart-topping quality of life. Curious to find out more, I track down Anne-Louise Sommer, director of the Design Museum Denmark, and enlist her expertise. Anne-Louise has investigated the relationship between furniture design, cultural trends, national identity and ideology and come up with a few theories of her own.

‘Denmark is very much a design society, and this plays quite a big part in happiness,' says Anne-Louise. She explains how the stylish Danish aesthetic was influenced by the German Bauhaus school and how good design has been a tradition here since the 1920s.

‘In Denmark there was an economic recession and there were huge social challenges, but the government at the time decided that design was a high priority. They recognised that it was important for well-being and happiness,' she tells me. Danes, it seems, were ahead of their time. In 2011, scientists at University College London studied this phenomenon and confirmed that looking at something beautiful really can make us happier, by stimulating dopamine in our brains. (
Just like the pastries!
I can't help thinking.) Research shows that great art and design can even induce the same brain activity as being in love – something Denmark cottoned on to 90-odd years ago.