As in Denmark. As in Europe. To live there.
No, that's not a joke. My girlfriend got a scholarship for three years to do her Ph.D. in Copenhagen. We're selling the house and going.
What the hell can I say about that? Aside from a fairly disastrous three years in Gainesville, and a short fling in Boston just for the hell of it, I've never lived far from home. I'm a cancer. We're home-bound folks.
Not that I've never wanted to broaden my horizons. Not that I haven't fancied myself a Henry James or an Ernest Hemingway, living abroad, having adventures, and then writing in a slightly more cynical, world-weary tone about it all. I'm a fairly romantic girl; I've always thought about it.
But now, of course, I'm scared. Soiling my pants terrified, actually. Denmark is so very foreign. I think I have ancestors from Scandinavia. I certainly will look like I fit in. (Save for my Americanized sense of style, which can't be helped for now.) But honestly, it's a bit surreal.
Here's what I know about Denmark: They are fairly friendly, tolerant people. They have decent socialized health care that I will likely have access to. Their language is impossible (I'm still trying to figure out the basics of Spanish), but thankfully, 80% of the country speaks English far better than I speak anything else. The weather is abysmal. The bars stay open until 5am. They have an affinity for pickled fish products that I do not quite understand. They like to ride bikes. A lot. And they leave their babies outside. No, really.
I know a bit more. I have books; I've been studying. But all of the studying in the world is not going to make me feel any less anxious. See, I confuse excitement with anxiety. I always have. Particularly when that excitement is about moving a zillion miles from home.
Oh, God. I don't even have a passport.
