The Universality of Creepy

In New York I spent a considerable amount of time by myself at local cafés, bookstores, and parks. Lacking the protection of the pack or the deterrent posed by a male companion, I became familiar with all sorts of strange behavior of my fellow denizens; it gave me a warped perception that normalcy was something that existed elsewhere—that anywhere was better than New York City.

For people like me, the iPod is the greatest invention ever, creating a mobile, separate sphere of space and privacy to enshroud my daily commute. It also serves as a practical excuse to ignore others within the intimate proximity thrust upon us by urban life: the subway ride, busy sidewalks, and intrusive individuals. Pointless small talk, awkward silences, and shifty-eyed glances dissolve with the overwhelming need to switch to a new song at the very moment—coincidentally, of course—when interaction is pending.

In Denmark I do not spend much time by myself in public. I am either on a mission (groceries and class), with a companion, or at home. From what I have experienced thus far, most Danes tend to mind their own business. I like that.

But not today. After receiving the final exam questions at the end of class, I biked to the Statsbiblioteket to dispute a claim I had received in the post about an overdue book. My voice carries, and as I stood in the atrium of the second-floor lobby, I explained calmly that I had returned Down and Out in Paris and London on the very same day I returned Christopher Hitchens’ The Trial of Henry Kissinger back in October. The notice informed me that I would be charged 20 kroner per day until the library received the book back. “Will you please check your records again?” I asked the clerk. He excused himself to inspect the tower for the missing book.

I sat down at one of the computers. As I typed in my CPR number, I sensed the man to my right looking over. After a minute, he spoke. I ignored him. He spoke again:

• “How do you have such a strong accent?”
• “What do you mean?”
• “I heard you speaking, and it is very intense.”
• “I returned a book over a month ago, and they’re claiming they never received it. I personally handed it to the clerk last time. He’s going to check and see if the book is there.”
• “That happened to me, too. They charge so much. You should always get a receipt because they don’t get it right all the time.”
• “Yes, I’ve learned my lesson.”

I resumed typing. He continued:

• “So where did you learn to speak English?”
• “I’m American.”
• “Oh, you grew up there? Where?”
• “California, but most recently in New York City.”
• “I have always wanted to visit. How do you like it here? How is it different?”

I gave him the usual answers about Scandinavian design, New York multiculturalism, and Danish egalitarianism. After a few minutes, I stopped asking follow-up questions to signal my desire to end the conversation. But he blathered on at a desultory pace, like the overnight guest who—not taking the cue that minutes of silence and steady, deliberate breathing indicate a tacit agreement to sleep—violates the peace by asking an open-ended, complex question on a fresh topic in the middle of the night. After losing patience, I logged off and stood up. “Well, have a good night,” I said. He looked alarmed.

• “Why don’t you stay longer?”
• “I have a final exam to write. So I’ve got to get going now. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
• “But you could stay longer so we can...talk.”
• “I really can’t. I just received this paper topic this afternoon and I have to get started.”
• “When will you be back?”
• “I probably won’t be back. I’m leaving Denmark soon. I’m returning to New York. So have a great night.”

He grabbed a white square of paper from the stack between our computers. I did not care for the deliberate way in which he shoved his black book bag away so there would be no barriers between us. By now, Danes at nearby tables were taking notice of the situation. He pointed to the paper.

• “Let’s write to each other.”
• “What? You want my e-mail address?”
• “Yes.”

I paused. A brief flashback from my Paris days emerged from the depths of memory as I recalled the hassles that ensued when I had refused to give my phone number. Had it been worth it? I opted for the easy exit by writing down my spam e-mail address. “Write in big, clear letters,” he instructed cheerfully. I handed him the paper and picked up my bag. He read each letter very carefully aloud for confirmation. I turned to leave, but he scribbled something on another sheet of paper and handed it to me. I glanced at it quickly: his name appeared to be Henrik and there was a “DK” in the address. I stuffed it (too carelessly) into my bag. “Will you be back here tomorrow at 5 PM?” he wanted to know. I shook my head and said good night for the last time.

He mumbled about writing to me and something about dinner on Thursday. But I was already ten feet away after having spotted a classmate at a computer kiosk. “What was that all about?” she asked with an amused look. “Did you witness that entire thing?” I replied in disbelief. “No. Well, at first I heard you say ‘good night.’ Then I heard you say it about five more times.”

As I prepare to leave Denmark, it is a timely reminder to take a balanced view, even beyond New York. Alongside modernist, astonishing feats of Scandinavian architecture exist drab, Communist-era slabs of concrete that shelter and insult their inhabitants. And for every stimulating, Weltanschauung-altering individual encountered, there is also that bothersome—though painfully earnest—person sitting to your right at the computer lab.

Sincerity aside, one thing is certain: I will not be anywhere near the library around 5 PM for the rest of my stay in Denmark.

Through the Looking Glass

The phone started ringing at 9:17 AM. Unknown caller. To be clear: I don’t have unknown callers in Denmark. In fact, I don’t really have any callers in Denmark. We all use e-mail, text message, and Facebook to communicate out of thrift and sheer laziness. Phone calls are reserved for emergencies; they rarely communicate good news.

I let it ring. And then, a moment later I received a text message: “Du har 1 ny besked i din telefonsvarer. Sidste besked er fra: ‘ukendt nummer.’ Læs mere om din telefonsvarer på vores hjemmeside.” In English: “You have 1 new message in your answering machine. Last message is from: ‘unknown number.’ Read more about your answering machine on our homepage.” The Web site, however, offered little assistance when it came to navigating through a Danish voice menu. This is why I do not check voicemail here.

The next day, my phone rang again. Not recognizing the number, I let it ring. It was the beginning of a crash course on Danish media, of which I was to become an unwitting participant this past Friday.

A month ago, the housing administration sent several of us notices in the mail that we were to vacate the premises by December 17^th—in blatant disregard of the contract’s stated terms that we have seven (7) business days prior to the lease’s end. This new move-out date also preceded our final examination deadline by two days. The university sent angry letters to the housing administration, which responded with detached legalese, reiterating its original position. Many of us changed flight dates or made alternative arrangements for the holidays. Our schedule hung in limbo as the deliberations proceeded.

And then someone decided to take matters into her own hands—that someone was not me. I secretly hoped for the earlier move-out date in my rush to return to the States. One of our peers had contacted the media, sparking a local groundswell of support. Jessica, a quiet yet composed Californian, was the first to answer the call. Her interview hit the Danish radio stations on Friday morning, followed by a front page story and portrait in the local Jyllands-Posten (publisher of the controversial Muhammad cartoons in 2005) detailing the plight of “homeless students.” A few other peers spoke to reporters.

By mid-afternoon, the story had leaked to television reporters. We were in class when a camera crew showed up for footage. They asked if they could follow one of us home for an interview. I loudly refused when I sensed a vague movement for my election. After biking to class (read: I was sweaty), getting very little sleep, and having not bathed in two days (read: I was sweaty), I had hit my nadir of personal hygiene for the semester. “You look fine, actually,” whispered a friend. She paused. “Just brush your hair a little,” she added quickly. Without any prompting, she then handed me a tube of lip balm with a look that vaguely indicated sympathy. After considerable debate and buck passing, I found myself in the back of cab on the way home with my bicycle strapped to the trunk.

The TV crew got lost and announced they would be late. This gave me enough time to warn Heidi and Morten. Heidi ran upstairs to change her pants and finish the dishes. Morten bolted. Upon arrival, the crew surveyed the common room looking for a good interview spot. After inspecting the cleaning schedule with marked curiosity, the reporter asked, “So does this common area see a lot of traffic?” “No, it’s actually very quiet,” I said matter-of-factly. Right at that moment the door swung open, revealing a rosy-cheeked Martin sporting reindeer antlers and bells followed by jovial friends carrying bags of candy. “This isn’t going to work out here; the microphone is too sensitive,” said the reporter.

We moved to my tiny room for the interview. I sweated under the lights but answered all questions easily. He tried to egg me on, asking “So, how do you feel about being evicted?” It lasted about ten minutes. I prayed that the package of toilet paper on my shelf didn’t show up in the background. We moved back to the common area where they wanted to film me going about my “daily routine.” And then it was over. Here is the result, called “Out before Christmas”:

My riveting report followed a breathalyzer story and a piece about a basketball family with a pet monkey. Our class had just finished reading about Jürgen Habermas’ notion of the public sphere as a space in which rational deliberation about politics and other socially relevant issues occurs. This firsthand lesson on Danish media taught us that critical, public discussion actually works in some countries—even for the most mundane causes. Private citizens contacted the paper, university, and TV station, opening up their homes to us. A local school offered free housing and meals through the holidays. And the very next day, the housing administration backed down from its stance, allowing all of us to remain until December 20^th.

As the apathetic and least invested member of the cause, I became its unofficial spokesperson. And while I am pleased to see that public discourse can force real change, I am happiest knowing that I will be on that plane come December 17^th—contracts be damned.