Tales of an Expat
It’s an adult kind of alone.
I’m not used to the sky growing dark at 15:30. Or using 24-hour time, for that matter.
I’m not used to the taste of salted licorice that all my colleagues seem to love.
I’m not used to leaves crunching underneath my boots as I walk to the Letbane stop on Randersvej. My friends laugh when I snap photos of frost covering the asphalt in Oustruplund. "Det er jo ikke engang rigtig sne,” they say. It’s not even real snow.
In San Francisco, where I grew up, there are no seasons. It’s a crisp 70 degrees Fahrenheit, or 21 degrees Celsius, year-round. ("The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco," Mark Twain said once. Though he didn’t actually say that. No one knows who did.)
When I was twelve, I could nail the flute solo in California Dreamin’. I’d be safe and warm, if I was in LA. My family friends performed the song at Thanksgiving one year as a sort of flash mob, and now the lyrics hit a little too close to home. Or far from it, I guess?
They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in Denmark, of course. Just Black Friday. Which they stretch to Black Week, Black Month… It’s a bit jarring to see Christmas lights being strung around the shopping center as early as November 1st.
A view of Aarhus Cathedral, Denmark. Photo by me.
Everyone talks about the word ‘hygge’ as if it’s untranslatable. I like to think of it as ‘cozy.’ It means lighting a scented candle and buying julelækkerier in bulk. It means snacking on homemade popcorn with your long-distance boyfriend while watching all eight Harry Potter films in order.
It means calling home and checking in on my parents. Complaining to my mom about my newest medical ailment. Hearing how they celebrated Thanksgiving at my grandma’s place – only one of the five cousins could make it this year. They ate salmon instead of turkey because my grandma finally admitted, after fifty-odd years, that she doesn’t like the taste.
“I ate salmon for Thanksgiving too!” I text a picture of the honey sriracha salmon bowl that has been one of my staples these past few weeks. I’m eating alone at my table, in the apartment I pay for from the money I’ve earned.
It’s an adult kind of alone.
I keep in touch with college friends, of course. They’re scattered across the world. A few in Berlin, a few in the UK. Several have created a new hub in New York City, with cats and Christmas trees. We send each other Telegram stickers and screenshots and always fail at planning group video calls that accommodate our timezones.
I’ve made several new friends, too. Every Monday night, I test my general knowledge at the pub quiz at the Sherlock Holmes bar with a group of PhD students. (We always come in second place). I attend themed parties with a few international friends at Aarhus University. I’ve grown close to a woman from Arkansas, whose English feels safe and familiar on the days I need it most. We eat ramen and watch anime and talk politics. I don’t normally like talking about politics, but being away from America allows for a comfortable distance. Knowing that my future might be here. Knowing that my kids might one day be raised here, in a country with a robust medical and educational support net. Here, parents get 52 weeks of paid maternity leave. Why would I ever go back?
Yet, I still feel like an imposter. Buying Christmas gifts for my family at the register, speaking Danish with more than a hint of a foreign accent. “Hvor kommer du fra?” Where are you from. It’s a great conversation starter, sure, but it still hurts a bit. Because I begin every conversation hoping maybe this time. Maybe this time they’ll think I’m a local. That I belong.
Truth is, I don’t know if I belong anywhere. Home is where I rest my head. Ironically, settled into my first long-term housing contract with a stable job, I wonder if I’ll get bored. An extremely privileged position to be in, but one that I’ve reflected on nonetheless.
Because I’ve started to view time not in terms of months or years, but in terms of places. “Back in Argentina…” “That time in France where we…” “That was in India, right?” Travel has spoiled me. Now that I’ve tasted real boba and real Korean barbeque, everything else is merely a copy. Now that I’ve already lived, actual living feels slow.
But I’m growing to like it. I’m growing to enjoy my silly little routines. Gym, reading, cooking, writing, working. Replacing the sesame oil when I know I’m running out.
And hey, my colleagues say that next year the company will throw a Thanksgiving party, with all the stuffing and gravy in the world, just for me.
So yes, it’s an adult sort of alone. But I’m navigating it with the help of dozens of amazing, understanding people. I’m learning and I’m growing and I’m not looking back.
Well, sometimes I’m looking back. ;)