Talking 'dansk
After the turbulence of the arrival, beginning to outline my strategy for the future. There is no time for sorrow. Outside, I hear the 'tone' of the original Danish. Impossible! The first step is to register at a language school. Communication is the key for me to integrate into a society with morals as distinct from Portugal.
I remember well the first class. The difficulty in pronouncing the guttural sounds of Danish. Consequent sore throat. The discovery of different nationalities and cultures. Contact with the caring teachers.
- "Repeat after me please: København (Copenhagen in Danish). No, not Kobenhavn, København! Ø, Ø '!
My dedication to learning the language is unlimited. Study on buses, train, supermarket, wherever I am. The natural sympathy of the Danes gives me encouragement.
- "Portuguese? Like a lot of Portugal, is a very beautiful country, full of contrasts. We had some time ago a Portuguese guy working at our store. He was always punctual and punctilious. A great worker, 'says a gentleman who I meet occasionally at a party. He continues: "you speak Danish very well for someone who is here so recently. Do not give up! "
Obviously. The word quit is not in my vocabulary. Now I can communicate reasonably.
The next goal is integration into the labor market. A complex step, since it has not mastered the language. But for a immigrant the fight is no difficulty. Only challenges. Undaunted, contact several temporary employment agencies. Meeting employment without problems. I become a journalist in 'do everything': I wash dishes in various companies. I help in the kitchen - thin carrots, peel potatoes, cut bread. Packing boxes of drugs in medical firms. Tale of money. Distribute mail. My days have 48 hours.
Copenhagen, my life
Despite working without interruption, I do not neglect the learning of Danish. Fatigue is inevitable (I get to sleep in the seats of buses). Just as nostalgia. Portugal. Family. Friends. The light of Southern Europe. The sun. Late parties. Alentejo in the evening. The smell of the Atlantic. And the fear of failure. The frustrations. The sleepless nights. The complete domain of the language. The many battles of emigrant. Firmly abiding melancholy thoughts. Grip the handles. Again. I make the tears the prisoner's of my soul. Fearlessness is the word.
The days, months, years fly on the wings of time. I have been in Denmark for almost five years. I stopped being a "professional nomad." The unwavering desire to integrate myself into society and the burning desire to learn the language have borne fruits. It is a privilege to work with the Ministry of Culture. The respect that I have by the Danes is endless. Unpretentious, are extraordinarily welcoming. I never felt any discrimination. Some have dubbed the cold and indifferent. Reserved, say. At first it was hard to understand them with humor. Refined, rubbing the macabre. Brilliant! Five years later, I am honored to understand it. Against the Danes, I have two warnings:
1 - Watch out for cyclists. They run like crazy through the streets, sidewalks and street corners. Selfish and impatient, not pity the lack of experience of newcomers and transients less rushed. They are even rude and unkind.
2 - Genius on countless subjects, unaware of the concept 'bus queue'. The arrival order is irrelevant. The last person suddenly becomes the first. After a nudge and a shove as the supermarket bag to 'future fellow passenger. " Without apology. A complete chaos.
After five years of mutual confidences, Copenhagen becomes my new safe haven. Today and always. Not exchanged for any location worldwide. With affection, I think in the narrow streets of the historic center. In the lush parks. The charm of multiple channels. In the glow of the candles of the cafes on a sad winter Saturday. As always playful Tivoli. In alternative Christiania. In the stillness of the lakes. In the little mermaid. In the multitude of cultures, colors and smells in Nørrebro. In many 'sex shops', pubs and cafes in the exciting Vesterbro. In the streets and elegant shops in Østerbro. The list is endless. But there are no pristine land. Even now I wonder when I see papers and other debris cover the streets. The numerous graffiti to dress the walls. And the violence in some parts of the city. It is true that it doesn't assumes the exaggerated dimensions of Portugal. However, I always thought that Scandinavia was immune to acts of incivility (...)
The canal water is moving. It seems to have enjoyed the long account of the bird Lusitanian persevering. Never denying my roots. Homesick? Many! But reading and writing in my native language help dissipate the pain. I am Portuguese. But also the daughter of Copenhagen. My dreams anchored in this city. It is crucial not stop dreaming. For a better life. And to be firm. Courageous. Seneca, Roman philosopher and writer, once wrote: "The courage leads to the stars, the fear of death. Courage led me to Copenhagen. In this city, my dreams are endless".
PS - This chronical is dedicated to Flemming, Jeanne, Isabel, Lars, Teresa, Sergey, Christian, Gudrun, Lene and Svend.
