The Year of Living Danishly Read Online Free PDF Page B

now officially begin looking for somewhere to rent. A relocation agent will be assisting us with our search but with a few hours to kill until we meet her, Lego Man suggests a recce around the nearest normal-sized town in case we decide that toy town isn’t for us.
    Driving through Billund’s uninspiring streets of identikit bungalows, like some sort of play-inspired military base, I have already decided that toy town is not for us and so I’m hoping that the next place is an improvement. Things start encouragingly enough with attractive red-brick mansion blocks and municipal buildings, cobbled streets and interesting boutiques nestled between big high street stalwarts. The place looks a lot like a Scandi version of Guildford. But after a couple of laps of the ‘high street’, we’re left wondering whether perhaps there’s been some sort of nuclear apocalypse that’s only been communicated in Danish, meaning we’ve missed it.
    â€˜We haven’t seen a single soul for…’ I consult my watch, ‘… twenty minutes .’
    â€˜Is that right?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I say. ‘In fact, the only things resembling human forms we’ve encountered are the life-size sculptures of naked bodies with horses’ and cats’ heads on them in that weird water feature a few streets back.’
    â€˜The sort of porny pony version of Anita Ekberg in the Trevi fountain in the “town centre”?’ Lego Man makes a bunny ears gesture to indicate that he didn’t think much of the thriving metropolis.
    â€˜Yep. That’s the one. The porny pony and the cats with boobs.’
    â€˜Huh.’
    This particular statue, we later learn, was intended as a tribute to Franz Kafka. He must be very proud , I think. We pass more shops that are all either closed or empty and houses that look unoccupied save for the dim flicker of candlelight burning from within.
    â€˜This isn’t normal, right? I mean, where is everyone?’ I ask.
    â€˜I … don’t know…’
    I check the news on my phone: there have been no atomic incidents. World War III has not been declared, nor has any alarming viral outbreak been announced. The threat of imminent death having been ruled out, Lego Man suggests going for a drink to wait for the place to warm up. Only we can’t find a pub. Or a bar. Or anywhere that looks a) open and b) isn’t McDonalds or a kebab joint. Eventually, we locate a bakery that also sells coffee and I suggest to Lego Man that we order ‘one of everything’, in the hope that carbohydrates might cheer us up.
    The place is empty, so we stand expectantly, waiting to be served. But the woman behind the counter remains expressionless.
    â€˜Hi!’ I try, but she averts her eyes and busies herself rearranging a crate of buns. Lego Man tries pointing at various things with his eyebrows raised (the universal symbol for ‘please may I have one of those?’) until eventually the woman cracks and makes eye contact. We smile. She does not. Instead, she points to an LED display above her head that shows the number 137. Then she points at a deli-counter-style ticket dispenser behind us and says something we don’t understand in Danish.
    I’m not trying to buy ham from a butcher in the 1980s. I just want buns. From her. In an empty shop. Is she seriously telling me that I have to get a ticket? Or that 136 people have already passed through here today? Or that there even are 136 people in this town?
    Bakery woman has now folded her arms resolutely, as if to say: ‘Play by the rules or no buttery pastry goodness for you.’ Knowing when I’m beaten, I turn around, take three paces to my right, extract a small, white ticket with the number ‘137’ on it from the machine, then walk back. The woman nods, takes my ticket, and uncrosses her arms to indicate that normal service can commence.
    Once we’ve ordered, Lego