ANYTHING TO DECLARE? VOL. 10
Just north of the lakes in the center of Copenhagen, you’ll find a little street that’s much busier than it should be for its size. There, waiting at Ravnsborggade 17, is Kind of Blue, a bar that has more personality than most people. It’s innocuous from the outside. The windows are nearly always foggy and shrouding the inner goings-on, reserving them for the deserving folks who walk through the door. Inside, it’s a sea of cobalt blue peppered with pops of orange; walls adorned with rare photos of rock, jazz and soul greats from the 70s and 80s; navy blue candles atop cathedrals of wax drippings; bathrooms smaller than a matchbook; a sign that reads “Time Out (of mind)” placed on the abandoned bar when the keeper needs a smoke; the constant yet faint scent of sandalwood incense; a John Lennon quote quietly demanding you search the depths of your psyche; no menu to speak of; free cigarettes and wine gums placed on the bar to pay homage to a mother and father long passed; and the most soul-baring music coming through the speakers at any given moment. More than a bar, it’s a biography of the man who owns it.
It welcomed me. He welcomed me. And so it was also there, in that place, that I discovered the love that blooms for immigrants in the hospitality industry.
The number one place to find people who hail from various countries and speak multiple languages is anywhere with a plethora of bottle openers or an alarming amount of knives. Bars and kitchens are welcoming arenas for those who might not be proficient in the national tongue but are fluent in the language of food and beverage. Hospitality is full of people who have traveled the world and are adept at building communities quickly. Folks who know how to extend visas or find the cheapest immigration lawyers. Folks who know what it means to celebrate a birthday in a city where you know no one. Folks who know what it’s like to get a phone call about a family emergency at least 32 hours away. Folks who know how to spot these sensations in others.
When I started working amidst the sandalwood and candle wax at Kind of Blue, I gained access to this hospitality club. I was a bartender, so I was welcomed throughout Denmark by other bartenders, chefs, line cooks, busboys, servers and service managers. I was getting the nod. Many of them, equally far away from their families, stepped in to help me form a new one. Not as proxy siblings or cousins, no, it was something different. It was a family of recognition, of bearing witness. People I wasn’t supposed to know who supported my existence in a place I wasn’t supposed to be. It was a defiant, lucky and pure sort of love. We made a pact via our alien status. We built houses of cards and called them foundations. We practiced the ultimate care in knowing the likelihood that we might leave each other but loving with all our might anyway.
This is what it means to be in the presence of people who dedicate their days to service. Hours upon hours devoted to the pleasure and joy of strangers. Making sure any soul who walks through the door is welcomed, attended to, nourished, looked after, satiated, smiling. Sure, there are a lot of big personalities and a fair few hot heads, but each and every one of those people are greatly concerned about how guests feel when they’re under their care. It’s a nurturing, guardian-like business. Perhaps that is why immigrants make community so quickly. If I was in charge of a society, this is the only service I would make mandatory — it makes you more considerate. Hospitality is replete with people who endeavor to put the well-being of others in front of themselves.
When I started working at Kind of Blue (and later at a restaurant and bakery, at one time working all three while finishing my master’s degree: I do not recommend), I didn’t know I would gain this web of support. I thought I would gain a few friends, sure, maybe a couple dates here and there. But I didn’t foresee those blue walls being the catalyst for acts of care to solidify my presence in this foreign land. When my student visa was expiring and I didn’t have enough money to pay for my rent and the application extension fee, it was fellow bartenders who threw a party to raise money. Not only did I make enough to cover the fee, the party was so good the police came not once but twice — the second time essentially saying “close the windows, lower the music and turn down the weed.” Every holiday, I was practically accosted with invitations to partake in a friend-ebration with other foreigners to make sure I wasn’t alone. Or our Danish coworkers would make room for us at their families' tables. Any time someone wanted to celebrate something of their home — say a Lunar New Year feast — I’d be ready and willing to bring life to their traditions, too. We learned how to swear in each other’s languages while we made up our own.
After four years, I left the bar to work as a copywriter at an advertising agency. I was preparing for permanent residency, and a higher salary improved my profile. Just as I was applying to renew my green card before making the leap to residency, I was unexpectedly laid off. There was no way I would get approved if I wasn’t working. I texted a friend of mine, explaining the trouble of my situation. I told him how all I needed was to be working 10 hours a week, but I was worried about finding a position in time. I had barely sent the text before my phone rang. It was him, using his professional voice, offering me 10 hours a week at one of his businesses, effective immediately. It was located very close to Kind of Blue, the reason he and I met. I hung up the phone and cried grateful tears. I knew giving me those 10 hours meant he wasn’t paying himself for them. He with a toddler and a pregnant girlfriend. But he and the co-owner gave them to me anyway. Because they believed in the house of cards that was my foundation, they guarded it with what they could. They were immigrants, too.
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With all that said, I would like to thank those fellow hospitality workers I met who wholly believed in my house of cards as I did theirs. In no particular order: Claus, Amelia, Peter-Emil, Awinbeh, Uni, Carl, Max, Gwen, Jarek, Kamil, Le Petit, Alex/Sonny, Morten N., Ollie, Juan, Elena, Nando, Perth, Nis, Kristoffer, Lasse, Birk, Freja, Rhoda, Lesley, Rasmus K., Brandon, Terkel, Marie, Alex S., Malin, Morten B., Rasmus M., Smiley, Slider, Caroline, Nana, Aallaa, Frederik, Thomas, Johan S., Renata, Maj, Euri and so many others I’m sure I’ve overlooked while writing this.
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This is the tenth of a 12-part mini-series exploring my experience with immigration. It is edited by Ann Friedman. Read the previous installments or sign up to get the rest of the volumes delivered directly to your inbox here.