danish cafés and the nationalmuseet

danish delicious

Just your typical salty, buttery bakskuld and dark bread with carraway schnapps coffee on Fanø.



Luscious bacon-wrapped pork medallions with sautéed mushrooms and a potato soufflé, smothered in whiskey sauce in Esbjerg.



Some succulent Danish hotdogs that make you wonder whether you should be eating them in public.
Well, when in Copenhagen...



I admit I did feel a little naughty.

trains, pastries and cows

family history

I left the comfort and warmth of Sue's beautiful farmhouse to bump and sway down the rail road tracks to Esbjerg, my grandad's hometown. There I met Steen, a kind and generous archaeologist who offered his sofa to a cold and sleepy artist who still hadn't drawn much. Steen was my second Couchsurfing experience— Sue being my first, though we had previously met in Istanbul. Couchsurfing is a wonderful way to see the world and meet people, based fundamentally on trust and the goodness of strangers. You visit the website, search for someone with a couch or a bed to sleep on in the city you are travelling to, et voilà: somewhere to lay your wandering head and possibly, a new friend.

I asked Steen, knower of many, many things, if he had heard of my grandad's dad, John Tranum. With a tilt of his head he said he knew of a road with such a name, and almost simultaneously we both added, "by the airport." Since my great grandad was a famous parachutist, stuntman and daredevil, it was only fitting that the road to the airport be named John Tranum's Way. We spent the dark afternoon and evening discussing my adventurous relative, the history of Esbjerg, and what it's like to dig in the mud for ancient homes.

In the morning I met my grandad's cousin Maria, whom I had never met but felt an instant connection to. Maria took me to the place where John Tranum now rests, as he has ever since his final record-breaking jump attempt in 1935, which sadly, he never got to perform. His oxygen tank failed, and he never made it out of the plane.



Before Maria and I ran off to catch a ferry to the island of Fanø, just across the Esbjerg harbour, she showed me a veritable treasure-trove of old photos— pictures of my grinning grandad, of beautiful Maria as a Fanø calendar girl in traditional costume, of Chieftan, her legendary Alsatian, of our ancestors The Captain and his wife Anna, who had seven daughters named after the seven seas. Among these books of faded photos, a calendar of Esbjerg history contained one photo that captivated me and my child-like sense of wonder:

the art of hygge

Hygge is one of those wonderfully untranslatable words to be found in every language. Roughly pronounced "hoo-guh," hygge is Danish for something closest to "cosy"— but it's beyond cosy. From what I've come to understand, it's both a state of mind and being. Soft sweaters, candles, hearty food, the warmth of friendship and those long, meaningful conversations held over fragrant cups of tea— anything that makes your soul hum. My friend Sue, in a generous and thoughtful effort to introduce me to hygge, and the experience of something my grandad would have loved, cooked us a delicious meal of something I cannot pronounce for the life of me. Rounds of ground beef wrapped in bacon and pan-fried with caramelised onions, a massive tart pickle and buttery baby potatoes lavished with the oh so traditional Danish brown gravy. Sue explained how gravy must absolutely be a dark brown; apparently this matters so much to the Danes that there is an actual food dye to make your gravy the perfect shade of brown. All this home-cooked hygge deliciousness was washed down with a velvety walnut beer.

For some reason, I felt I wanted to cry—everything was so much my grandad. With the exception of a few random plates of spaghetti, dinners with my grandad consisted of a meat, buttery potatoes, a brown sauce or gravy and some kind of vegetable. Sue's meal took me back to my grandparent's kitchen, which always smelled of bread and butter and sweet pipe smoke. I was a little girl at the table, my feet unable to touch the floor, I was a teenager, I was an adult— my grandad grinning at me after some joke, my grandad swearing in Danish at the news on the TV.



Morning brought mist, deer, and the smell of bacon and toast. Before my train to Esbjerg, Sue wanted to show me the Middelfart Sindssygehospital, a unique museum that had once been a psychiatric institution. As the mist fell back to the earth, the sky was a rare blue. We wrapped ourselves up in our wooly scarves and set out on our way.

the doors