We climb on our bikes, and Erik guides us back to the park. We decide to sit under a tree facing the soccer field so we can watch people play. I stretch my pareo on the grass for us, take the coffee thermos out of my backpack along with two paper cups, and we enjoy our cakes.
Eating the cardamom roll is like biting into dreams made of cotton candy clouds and unicorn milk. It’s wonderfully soft and buttery, and I make loud “mmmm” sounds at every bite. Erik laughs at my enjoyment and joins me in the guttural noises even though he’s eaten these pastries several times before. The spandauer is also dreamy-licious.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know how good this could be,” I rave over the sound of children yelling on the playground. “I’ve tried similar pastries since I arrived, but nothing like this!”
“You need to go to the right places. Supermarket cake is nothing compared to these hidden gems.”
“Not so hidden, I’d say. Next time I’ll join a long line whenever I see one.”
He laughs, and we drink our coffee in a peaceful post-cake sugar rush. Brown leaves rustle around us, black-and-white birds springing about, hoping we drop crumbs nearby.
Sorry, little birds. I’ve eaten every single piece of my lovely snack.
“I think we should get going if you want to visit a few other places.” Erik checks his watch. I look at mine too. Half past twelve. “Maybe we can grab some lunch?”
“You’re thinking about more food?” I use an intonation of incredulity to tease him. Then I say, relaxed, “That’s good because I could eat more.”
He laughs and stands up. “Let’s go then.”
We ride across Queen Louise’s Bridge, and in a few minutes, we are in front of Torvehallerne, a fresh food marketplace with two covered halls—one with shops selling delicacies, foreign specialties, and other types of fine food, and one hall mostly for fresh fish, cheeses, and meat. In between them, outside, we find rows of stalls with local vegetables, fruits, and flowers, and a couple of food trucks.
We walk around, reveling in the different smells and gladly accepting free samples. I buy a few fruits, biscuits, and juices. It’s very crowded inside, and Erik guides me with a hand on my back toward a place selling what is called smørrebrød. I take the list he wrote from my bag and confirm that we are about to complete item five: Open rye bread sandwiches with a generous layer of traditional toppings.
I squeeze through people to look at the glass displaying the different open sandwiches. They are like art pieces. Erik looks up at the menu with me, and we end up deciding on two each. I get the one with egg and shrimp and the one with chicken salad and bacon. He chooses one with smoked salmon and one with liver pâté.
After facing another long queue, we leave with our recyclable plates and find a table outside. There is so much topping on the bread, and it’s all arranged in such an artistic way, it’s impossible not to destroy the whole tower of food when eating it—with fork and knife, as Danish people do.
“Do you like it?” Erik asks with a glint in his eyes, hoping for my approval. I nod with a full mouth.
“Very interesting,” I say after I swallow. “But it’s hard for me to accept not eating hot food for lunch. We get that at work, and I’m happy for it.”
“I should prepare you in case you ever need to make your own smørrebrød,” he says, and I watch as he delicately cuts his food. Eating bread with cutlery is a skill I must learn how to master. “Often, lunch in Denmark is about putting a bunch of possible toppings on the table and giving people a few pieces of rugbrød, rye bread,” Erik tells me, and I nod, showing that I’m listening. “And we have rules. Things that are good to mix and others you should never combine.”
I laugh, but he is serious.
“Example?” I say, curious to learn more.
“Well, you saw the flavors on the menu. Those are the iconic combos. Study them and you won’t fail. Roast beef always goes well with rémoulade and fried onion, for instance. You can also put rémoulade on a fish fillet, but putting mayo on it instead would be frowned upon. Unless you add shrimp. Then it’s acceptable because it becomes a stjerneskud. A ‘shooting star’ sandwich, or however you translate that.”
“Oh. Okay?” I laugh at the nonsensical rules.
For the rest of our lunch, he tells me all the good combinations and frowns—or pretends to throw up—whenever I mention a blasphemous combo that sounds perfectly tasty to me.
“I’m happy I taught you this lesson so you don’t disgust Lars next time you have lunch together.” Erik points his fork at me. I throw a napkin at his face, but he keeps laughing.
When we finish eating, we decide to pass by the King’s Garden, as it’s basically across the street. It’s the park surrounding Rosenborg, a mighty royal castle that is a museum nowadays. The gardens are very Royal-looking, with statues of heroes fighting beasts, and I can easily imagine kings and queens going for lazy walks here in their pompous garments.
Pushing our bikes, as we are not allowed to ride in here, we walk down one of the two straight paths hedged with identical well-trimmed trees tinted with the warm colors of the season. It could have been a romantic walk if we were a couple. My mind drifts to the evening to come, and I start to get nervous.
“What do you think I should wear tonight?” I ask Erik. He looks at me with a slight frown, as if wondering why on Earth I would ask him for fashion advice. “I mean, if I want to blend in,” I clarify.
He lets out a snort that sounds a bit like laughter and a bit like disapproval.
“Well, I guess you have noticed by now that dark colors are safe.” He glances at me, a bit anxious, and I wonder if he is afraid to offend me in some way.
“You can be honest,” I reassure him. “I’m too colorful, I know.”
“Your prints are indeed very lively.” There’s a smile in his voice, but not of mockery, and I laugh, seeing how he’s struggling with the words. I look down at the flower pattern of my leggings. “But you’re fine, Sol. I like how you have this...energy about you.”
“I call too much attention.” I arch an eyebrow, looking at him, but he doesn’t answer, as if he doesn’t dare to be honest about this. “It’s all right. I guess I already have my answer. Black from head to toe is the way to go.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You don’t have to be radical. Danish fashion is about keeping it simple. Muted colors, minimalistic patterns, comfort, and quality. People here tend to avoid being flashy and standing out.” His voice lowers, again like he is not comfortable with the subject. “I don’t like generalizations,” he adds. “People are different. But if you must follow a general cultural trend,” he says the words in a dismissive way, “when in doubt, keep it low. Better underdressed than overdressed, and so on.”
“Got it,” I say, with no hard feelings or anything, just taking mental notes. What he said matches my observations, and I don’t think of the differences as a criticism of me. I’m on a mission to blend in with the crowd, and I’m ready to reinvent myself for that. Still, Erik studies me with a hint of concern.
“It all comes from Janteloven,” he tells me, almost like an apology.
“Jante-what?”
“The Law of Jante. It’s a cultural code of sorts. A set of rules Scandinavians follow even if they are unaware.”
I look at him, very interested. He notices my eagerness and continues. “It’s about thinking you are not better than others. We love being equal in Denmark.” I nod, encouraging him to go on. “We don’t brag, because we don’t want other people to feel bad about not having what we have. And it’s not only about that. Thinking about others is not an extraordinary thing—it is a given.”
“That’s nice,” I comment, glad to hear him put into words what I’ve been observing for a while.
“It’s why most of us will clean after ourselves or respect a queue,” he says. “We like flat hierarchy. Our minimum salary is quite high compared to other countries, and most academic jobs pay within a similar range.”
“This is an aspect where our cultures greatly differ,” I tell him. “Don’t even get me started on the socioeconomic differences in Brazil.”
