Third Generation Danish in Copenhagen — Carry On, from Amanda Kellner Klein

I arrived in Denmark the way that I imagine my grandmother arrived in New York City in 1955: eyes wide to take in a place I had never been which, somehow, would be home. Riding the immaculate train for the first time from CPH Airport to the Kongens Nytorv station there was a strange twinge of déjà vu and the feeling of coming back.

Growing up I always knew I was Danish because that was where my grandmother’s accent came from. Stories circulated around other parts of my heritage, the Norwegian, Polish, Russian and maybe German pieces of my genetic puzzle, but no one in my family directly represented these places as overtly as my Danish grandmother and so I clung to the notion of being Danish as an identity.

Equally, though, landing in Copenhagen I felt nearly immediately like an outsider. I am still trying to piece together how I could live for months in Argentina and travel throughout South America without feeling like I didn’t belong when, here, I felt that I stood out. The locals habitually riding their bicycles had the same blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin I see in the mirror everyday and yet I did not instinctively feel that these were my people.

Perhaps it is the disconcerting feeling that I looked somewhat like the others but couldn’t speak their language. Although in the end this didn’t matter; the Danes speak some of the best non-native English in the world. It could also have been that the Copenhagen Danes were easily a foot taller than I am.

Something tells me that this reaction goes beyond looks. It is the puzzling way in which we arrange our personal identities within a singular context: in New York, I am of Danish descent. However when placed in a distinctly foreign situation, Denmark itself, who am I if not a Dane? Which evidently, there I am not.

These ruminations informed my travels throughout the country. At the end of August the days were chilly and wet (read: summer in Denmark can not be equated to summer in most of Europe) and the activities a degree less planned than my usual travels. This trip was about connecting with the place I considered a large part of myself but had never gotten around to exploring. This trip was a long time coming.

I often battle internally with how to qualify a visit to a place, how to consider it “seen” or “experienced”. While I admit to keeping track of the quantity of countries I have visited (33), I hold strongly to the idea that just spending a day, or a week, or a even month in a place does not necessarily mean I’ve “done” it.

Taking a trip does not indicate that we should check the location off of the proverbial list, as if a single visit completes a place. Yes, Joe and I spent a day in Paris (his first trip there), but does that mean Joe has “seen” France? No, he hasn’t experienced the country in its entirety by any means. At the same time, there is significance and a real connection that comes along with visiting a place. So, how long do we need to commit to spending in order to form a considerable connection?

There are obvious subjective answers to this existential question and what I realized in visiting Denmark was that for me, in this particular instance, it would mean seeing more of the country than just Copenhagen. This is the city of my heritage but for me to gather an understanding of this place I would need to see more of the surrounding areas.

Three days in Copenhagen would lead to a drive southwest through the country to Hamburg, Germany which used to be a part of Denmark. A few days later, Joe and I would drive ourselves back up to Aarhus, Denmark and a final stop would be made in Malmö, Sweden, directly across the water from Copenhagen.

If my grandmother had stayed in Denmark in the 50’s and had cultivated a local, domestic lifestyle (unlikely considering her aptitude for travel, experience as a Pan American stewardess and foreign language degree from the Sorbonne), she may have, in some alternative universe, been my Airbnb host.

Vivian’s home was a Scandinavian city haven, all white and minimalist in a way that Denmark so flawlessly encapsulates. She was warm, welcoming and quickly became my favorite when she complimented us for how light we traveled (just an Away Bigger Carry On each) as, according to her, “Americans typically travel with so much luggage.” Vivian’s age, short haircut, demeanor and, of course, accented English made me feel as though we were in my grandmother’s house. Meeting her was the moment I thought to myself that maybe I was really Danish and maybe I had a tangential but relevant place here.

Our Airbnb apartment was located in Østerbro, a residential, upscale neighborhood in the north east part of the city. We purchased a 3-day transportation ticket as it required a bus to get to and from the center of the city. Mostly, though, we walked.

The long weekend involved plentiful meals involving copious amounts of seafood and one of the calmest, hyggly-est cafes in Scandinavia. We hit the hot spots, Tivoli, Nyhavn and Freetown Christiania, and equally invested time in the off-the-beaten-path. A few glorious days of exploration, Danish-American style.