One of the new friends I met at Danish Days 2005
About five years ago, Locke suggested we take a drive up to Solvang, a quaint Danish town about two hours north of Los Angeles. Having seen a few traditionally German or Swiss towns around the country and knowing that we do live in the place for creating alternate realities, I was very skeptical about the authenticity of the little berg. But, I decided to humor my future husband. We planned our visit to coincide with Danish Days, the annual celebration of Danish culture held the third weekend in September.
When we arrived in town we stopped first at the Visitors’ Center for some weekend recommendations. Behind the counter was a woman in a traditional Danish dress and a friendly smile. We asked for recommendations for restaurants, but she was hesitant to provide any (I guess the Visitor’s Center must be impartial), until our conversation turned to the fact that my grandfather, Ben, had come to this country from Denmark when he was just nineteen. Then, the recommendations didn’t stop. “Get your breakfast at the Red Viking Restaurant, see the Hans Christian Andersen museum, and be sure to watch the Solvang Village Dancers when they perform tomorrow afternoon.” She even promised to dance with Locke “if you can keep up with me.”
After settling into our spacious and comfortable room at the Solvang Inn and Cottages, we went toured the small town by foot. The typical Danish architecture took me back to my childhood when my parents, Kurt and I explored similar-looking towns, but in Denmark. The streets of Solvang wound around and led us to small shops, fountains and plazas reminiscent of not only Denmark, but also the missions found in southern California.
Saturday morning of Danish Days began at the Æbleskiver breakfast – with Danish sausage, of course. As Locke and I sat at a picnic table with another couple (whom we did not know) in the middle of Copenhagen Drive, we talked about Grandpa Ben. Why did he come to the U.S.? Where did he grow up? “You know,” I said, “I should really find out from my Danish relatives exactly where Ben came from so I can get a traditional dress from his region.” Locke nodded and smiled. The woman next to me, in between bites of æbleskiver, overheard my comment and said “Oh, so you’re a real Dane?”
“Yeah,” I said hesitantly, “I guess I am.” The question hit me in the heart. Wow. A real Dane? Huh. I had never really thought of it that way before. Interesting. “Yes,” I said, much more confidently this time. “Yes, I am.”
And that was it. The way I viewed myself changed. I always had been ‘in touch’ with my German (Prussian) heritage, but this woman’s question hit me to the core. Yes, Grandpa Ben came from the country with the Little Mermaid, Legoland, Tivoli Gardens, and the place where Kurt and I sang Muppet songs with our cousins Morten and Jesper when I was a kid. Yes, Mom spent a month in Odense when I was a teenager, and came back feeding us herring, open-faced sandwiches and parsley-buttered potatoes.
But only at that moment, sitting on Copenhagen Drive in Solvang, though, when I was in my late 30’s, did I actually identify with the fact that the 4 million people in that small country were….are….part of me.
I spent the rest of the weekend taking it all in…the food, the dancing, the history, and hearing the language. I made Locke promise that we could come back. ‘You mean to the town you didn’t want to visit?”
“Yeah. To the town of my People.”
Okay, so it’s a huge cliché and quite corny, but it’s exactly how I felt. It was the beginning of my journey. More stories to come.