I thought I had nailed the perfect survival strategy to cope with the darkness and gloom of Denmark’s brutal winter – escape to Australia for a double summer.
Fantasising about Mr Whippy cones and fish and chips dusted with chicken salt got me through a long November of watching the “grey rise” outside the kitchen window as I spread Vegemite on my Danish morning buns.
There’s a famous poem by Henrik Nordbrandt that Denmark’s year is 16 months long … and five of them are November.
When December finally rolled around, my spirits were lifted thanks to Danish julehygge (Christmas cosiness) with its fairy-light bespeckled markets, candles, glogg (mulled wine), Chrissy beers and the grand tradition of dancing around the tree.
Those poor Danes sitting next to me at Christmas parties had to endure a bragging marathon about my upcoming vitamin D hit and a lot of cricket womensplaining.
I was so pumped for Australian summer – I even got my legs waxed.
Hours after touching down in Sydney, I dragged my jet-lagged Danish future husband down to Bondi Beach to see the sunrise. I almost cried on the walk when I heard a magpie warble in the dawn light.
Within 20 minutes, Viking Man had stepped on a dead bluebottle. Thankfully, he was not stung, just grossed out because he thought it was a condom. I didn’t have the heart to tell him what it really was because it would confirm his long-held preconception that everything in Australia is out to kill you.
Later, we were forced to cancel our afternoon swim because of epic jellyfish swarms. It was like being caught up in an episode of Bondi Rescue – lifeguards with megaphones shouting warnings to swimmers and administering first aid to victims in agony.
Days later, as our tour headed to Melbourne and country Victoria, Australian summer upped the ante from “just messing with you” to a full-on shirtfront.
As the mercury served up temperatures of 43, 44 and 45 degrees, we dodged bushfires, inhaled smoke, navigated shutdown VLine and Metro train systems and witnessed stranded cricket fans yelling abuse at a hapless bus driver on a stationary replacement coach. Multiple catch-ups with my mates also had to be cancelled.
It was Viking Man’s first introduction to extreme heat. (Denmark considers 28 degrees extreme heat and a minimum temperature of 20C a “tropical night”. Bless!)
We Aussies all understand that heat stress can cause severe illness and it’s best to go into hibernation – close the curtains, crank the air con, watch Netflix or take a nap.
But my European sweetheart had other ideas. It was an oven outside, but he insisted on reading a book under my folks’ verandah, rationalising that he didn’t travel from Denmark’s winter darkness to the other side of the world just to sit in the dark again. Even the dog thought Viking Man was bonkers. Cue my mother frantically ferrying him icy cold drinks every 20 minutes to ward off potential heat stroke and a trip to the emergency department.
Looking back over my three-week trip, I have concluded that Australian summer can no longer be trusted to deliver a relaxing, leisurely vibe.
Climate change has hijacked my favourite season and turned it into an inhospitable shitshow.
No matter how nostalgic we are for the Australian summer of our childhoods, the reality is, our cities are now Dubai minus the camels. We should be actively discouraging foreign tourists from visiting at this time of year.
They are not match fit for extreme heat and astronomical UV anyway. As Australian-Venezuelan comedian Ivan Aristeguieta likes to point out, sun-worshipping foreigners are bewildered by our sensible “the sun is the devil” “slip, slop, slap” sign of the cross.
Secondly, the risk of bad word of mouth is too high. Australian summer is “Welcome to the flaming gates of hell. Hot enough for you? Don’t worry, we’ll chuck in some floods and cyclones and screw up your holiday itinerary in other states too.”
Future international tourism marketing should carry clear Australian summer natural disaster disclaimers and not give misleading impressions that it’s still viable to “throw a shrimp on the barbie” outdoors. Hello, total fire ban days!
Instead, we need Robert Irwin making snow angels in Melbourne’s golden leaves. Our tourism authority boffins must study the Swiss playbook – their autumn splendours advertisements with Roger Federer, Halle Berry, and Mads Mikkelsen are genius.
From now on, I’ll only be returning home in the mild Goldilocks seasons, spring and autumn.
Goodbye, Australian summer. We had some fun, but now I’m done sweating a river. It’s not me, it’s you.
Lisa Martin is an Australian journalist living in Copenhagen.
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Lisa Martin is an Australian journalist living in Copenhagen.