"Everyone Speaks English"
Traveling for the first time by myself, I approached the ticket window at O’Hare airport only to find out that my flight was delayed, causing me to miss my connection in Iceland and making my wait quite long. Plus, my carefully packed carry on was deemed “too large” because of its wheels so I was forced to document it (and pay for it).
After hours of waiting at the airport during which I managed to drop my coat’s hood into the toilet, I was on a flight to Iceland where I got to spend a night in a complimentary hotel with a room to myself composed of two twin size beds pushed together.
The next morning, I was finally in Denmark, and on the train, a beautiful, fast train that whistles loudly as it stops allowing people, dogs and bikes to enter and exit.
I did not feel like I was completely in Denmark, due to the countless 7-11 signs and 36 hours of no sleep, but I was constantly reminded that I was indeed on this Scandinavian journey by the Danish words that filled the air. When everyone told me that Danes speak English, for some reason I did not think that I would only hear and see Danish words around me. But that was indeed the case. Most do speak English, but you have to ask.
After that short train ride, and waving at a woman who was not my host, I met a Danish woman who speaks in an impeccable Barcelona Spanish and lives in a cabin surrounded by the breath-taking Danish country side consisting of green hills sprinkled with snow and forests that still have some fall leaves where I have a room and a few drawers to make into my home. In this home, I have enjoyed a lot of salmon, freshly squeezed orange juice and rye bread.
That first night, she took me to dinner where I had a delicious burger followed by even better sleep before commuting to Copenhagen alongside a few dozen dazed American students in the dark morning and cold winds toward a unique and rather reassuring opening ceremony.
Following the ceremony, at the beginning of my scavenger hunt, I had to get off of the bus because I did not have any local currency to replace the debit card that they did not accept.
So, I tried to make my way toward the DIS housing building and got lost for what seemed like forever, not that it mattered for this is one of the most beautiful cities to get lost in, until I finally got the guts to ask for directions and was greeted with nothing but kindness that lead me to pick up my transportation pass. After, I found myself eating lunch that had spilt all over my backpack in a housing meeting to which I thought I was a little early but soon found out that I was almost two hours early and at the wrong meeting.
Fast forward, and I am sitting on the wrong train followed by the wrong bus, but eventually make my way home after almost two hours of commute.
Experiences like that, in this strange and beautiful place, remind me that even though “everyone speaks English” this is not the U.S.
