Of all the inanimate structures in the world, homes always tell the best story. The gentle slope of the threshold, worn down after years of use, kindly whispers “welcome”; the warm light of the kitchen murmurs of late nights making tea or overcrowded evenings making chicken-pot-pie. The trinkets and aesthetic of a house allude to entire ancestries within a single space, in an eyes-are-the-windows-to-the-soul way but with furniture and wallpaper instead of eyes and countless generations instead of a single soul. So, when I finally settled into Denmark and met my visiting host family in their delightful and warm home, I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised to find that they were a kind and cozy bunch too. They welcomed me into their space with the comfort of a best-friend’s house and the charm of a one-hundred-year-old Danish home. Which, for the record, is the actual age of their humble abode.
I arrived at my visiting host family’s house on Tuesday afternoon, just past five o’clock (or, for all you European readers, 17:00). I had been there before, just a day after I landed in Denmark for the first time, but my jet lag was so severe that this visit still felt initial. I was determined to remember more about this visit than last time, so before I went inside I pulled my bike up on the curb across the street and took a quick photo of their house. The facade is truly striking: the lack of windows hums privacy, but the bright yellow paint sings “hello!”.
Before I go into the rest of the evening, allow me to explain the idea of a Visiting Host Family: DIS has organized a program that allows students (like me!) who live in residential communities to be paired with a Danish family that they see every few weeks, similar to a host family but a little less intense. We meet every so often to get dinner, exchange culture, and just hang out. The convenience and authenticity makes it a popular option among DIS students who want to get to know Danish culture more intimately.
Flashback to me standing in front of my visiting host family’s beautiful house on Tuesday when my host mother, Susanne, opens the door. The rest of the family isn’t home yet, and the kitchen is filled with afternoon sunlight and preparations for our falafel dinner. “Can I get you any tea or coffee?” Susanne asks as she buzzes around the kitchen, olive oil in one hand, greek yogurt in the other. I politely decline (the bike ride to their house left me plenty warm) and move to the glass doors overlooking the patio:
Similar to Danish social norms, my visiting host family’s house is reserved when you first see it. Its friendly but unassuming; you don’t experience warmth and expression until you’re invited into the conversation. Lucky for me, my encounter with this Danish home and family has been absolutely lovely— they gave me a seat at the table; a glimpse into their beautiful little danish routine. Taking in the flowery terrace, I feel a soft nudge on my shin. Joy, the family’s Cornish Rex cat, had come through the kitchen to pay me a visit!
Aside from Joy’s shenanigans, the kitchen is bustling with falafel, polenta fries, and freshly baked bread. Most of the family is home now and Jan, my visiting host dad, gets me a Swedish beer to try. Sille, a fourteen-year-old jewelry maker/trampoline professional, is showing me some of her favorite pictures on her Nikon. Maia, a sixteen-year-old Titanic specialist is just coming home from her part-time job at the grocery store. Looking through the terrace doors, a stranger might think I had known this family for months. They welcomed me into their dynamic with open arms, and repeatedly insisted that I come to their house “whenever you need. Whenever you want!”
I want to help out with dinner prep, but its too late— Sille is taking me outside to trampoline (I mean, how can I refuse!?). Sille is like a graceful bird that can flip upside down, around, and backwards with no regard for gravity:
She explains how she can fit two cartwheels on the trampoline, but never three; she has spent years practicing in the backyard, taking videos that she can review later to improve her form. Back inside dinner is being finalized and I find Jan to ask him about the history of the house: “The house just turned 100 years old,” he explains. “We held a birthday party for the house a few weeks ago and invited the community over for drinks, dinner in the garden, and dancing.” He shows me pictures on his iPad where indeed, a good number of people had gathered to celebrate the life of the neighborhood home.
The history of the house is even more fascinating: a year before the house was constructed, the architect received the highest award for architectural design. I don’t have the direct translation, but I know that it was prestigious in Denmark and the house is featured in various design books of Denmark. Rightfully so, the family is very proud. The house was officially built in 1919, complete with a sign above the front door denoting that the residence was “designed by architect Christian Kampmann for Alfred Møller and his wife Dagmar and their three kids”. Little details like this shift the atmosphere of the building from “house” to “home”; it produces the kind of structural character that inspires birthday parties and visiting hosts.
“Dinner is ready!” Susanne calls from the kitchen. “Dinner” in this case is a conservative term… Perhaps “feast” is more along the lines of what our evening meal turned out to be. Falafel, Tzatziki sauce, fresh bread, hummus, polenta French fries, greek salad, and freshly picked mushrooms have taken over the dining room table and I am officially in heaven. As I attempt to take in all the dishes, Sille and I compare music tastes, Jan talks about the new hospital built down the street, and I fill everyone in on my weekend trip to Berlin. I’ve never known a group of people for so little time, only to feel so overwhelmingly comfortable.
Jan, Susanne, Sille, and Maia made my Tuesday night extraordinary with normalcy. Much like the house’s exterior, the first time I met them we both presented sunny, blank facades. But now, sitting around the dining room table, enjoying their company in the warm glow of the lamp, I knew I had entered into their home of sentiment and care. My adoration and appreciation grew with every laugh, and as I sat there talking to Maia about the Titanic, enjoying the best falafel I had ever had, I couldn’t help but think “I just can’t wait to come back.”
240 Days in Denmark 