The articles below were moved here simply due to the fortunate condition of Kennon writing so frequently and so voluminously. To save download time, the Webmaster has split these articles off Kennon's original page.

Kennon Hulett is from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. She is an American Abroad for the 2000- 2001 School Year in Denmark. Kennon writes articles for the Hattiesburg American newspaper, which articles her mother has provided for us to post on the AFS Miss Tennky web site.

You may email her mom at Whatshakin1017@aol.com

For information about hosting a foreign student, or living abroad, contact any "Miss Tennky" Area Team volunteer leader. If you like, they can put you in touch with Host Families or US students who have gone abroad to ask how great it is. Or, you can call (800) AFS-INFO.

15th Installment -- Glassblowers

I have always lived around artists. Ever since I was very young my mother has made jewelry, and through her connections in the Hattiesburg art scene and the various craft shows she has attended I have gotten to know many of the wonderful and interesting people who make art. One of the mediums of work that has fascinated me since I was very young is glassblowing, so I was thrilled to learn that Ebeltoft, a city just south of Lyngby, where I live with my host family, is a veritable haven for that craft. At date six different studios are working in the area, which is remarkable because Ebeltoft has a population under 5,000 people.

Knowing this, when my Danish school asked me where I might want to spend my November interim period (also known as brobygning) it took only a little while of consideration to say that I would like to visit a glass studio. The obvious location for me to go was Ebeltoft, because of its number of working glassblowers, and after a few weeks, I received my placement. In the second of the four weeks of brobygning I would spent two days at a studio in Ebeltoft observing the craft with a couple named Helle and Claus. I would not be working with glass, for reasons I did not, at the time, understand but now are completely clear. So, on the day I was to start, I boarded the bus to the town.

In the summer Ebeltoft is thronged with people visiting from all over the world. It is in hilly southern Djursland and boasts a beautiful landscape, several beaches, and the town itself, which has been preserved in a fairly old style. But at this time of year it is much more quiet, with only the regular residents inhabiting the area.

Just like many Danish towns, in the mornings most streets in Ebeltoft are practically deserted. I was met by fewer than ten people and only one car as I got off my bus and walked around the town's cobbled avenues looking for the glass studio, which I found a little ways back from one of the main walking streets. A white, two-story building with a red, shingled roof and a blue and white sign above the door announcing, in Danish, their trade: "Glaspusteriet."

I walked in and saw the layout of the studio. The front portion is a showroom, filled with their work. They make mainly functional art, -- candleholders, glasses, plates and the like, with an interesting mix of color and design. Beyond a countertop displaying paperweights and schnapps glasses the work area is plainly visible, with a furnace, workstations for the more intricate jobs of sculpting the glass, and the many varied instruments of the trade hanging on the walls. I introduced myself to Claus and Helle, and got to know them better over coffee as we all attempted to wake up.

At about 10:00 a.m., I found a place out of their way, and sat down to watch the process of glassblowing. "Its like choreography," Helle said to me at one point, and the more I saw of it, the more clearly I saw that it was. Two people involved in a process that requires timing and intuition, both relying on each other to be where they say they will and everything revolving around the speed that glass cools, which really determines everything in this craft. It is fascinating. Some people exaggerate when they say that they can sit down and watch something for hours, but once Helle and Claus started creating, I could not perceive the passage of time.

The air though, was filled with more things than the smell of the furnace and the sharp pings and snaps of excess glass cooling, for we had several conversations throughout the two days. We talked about everything from music to the current presidential election on which, it seems, every Dane has an opinion. I enjoyed it. I have always loved talking to people, and I am especially interested in the Danish perspective, since I have realized that it is different from most of the ones I have heard before, giving other insights and viewpoints that I, maybe had not considered.

I did not fully appreciate the skill involved with the whole glassblowing process until, on the second and last day I was there, Claus and Helle allowed me to try to get some molten glass from the furnace. Even from a few feet away, the heat and radiation from the fire is almost unbearable.

In its liquid state, the glass is like thick syrup, and constant movement is required to just keep the glass on the pipe, though once it is out of the heat from the furnace, it cools quickly, and becomes harder to work with. Of course, I was not able to retrieve the glass in the swift and expert fashion which Helle and Claus could, but I did come out of that experience with a renewed and strengthened respect for those who blow glass. The coordination, skill, and talent involved frankly leave me in awe, and the process, mesmerizing as it is, is much more difficult than it seems.

I left on the second day feeling glad I had come. I stepped out into the cold and relative dark of a Danish autumn afternoon with a sense of contentment, not only at the fact that I had learned just a bit more about the area in which I am living, but also that I had the chance to watch something which I have always loved, and to meet people whom I will always remember.

14th Installment: The Danish Language Classes

Three and a half months into my exchange it was about time I faced up to a problem I was having. I was not learning Danish very well. In fact, I was hardly learning it at all. My classmates at school were helping me by speaking the language to me almost exclusively, helping me get an ear for understanding it, but I could not speak it, so the week after I returned from Copenhagen, my host mother enrolled me in a language school.

In the 10 Klasse Center Djursland, where I am going to school in Denmark, November is an interim period, called brobygning, during which a student can either visit one of the higher-level schools for a month and get an idea of the curriculum, or have an internship at a local business. Since tenth class is the last year of required schooling in Denmark, this month is a way of discovering what a student wants to do next. Since this is my only year of school in Denmark, I used this month to get a solid basis in the Danish language, which the American Field Service (AFS), the exchange organization which I came over with, says I should be fluent in by Christmas. The class only meets three times a week, so with the other two days I am working in various places in my area.

On my first day of school I caught the regional bus to Grena, and sat down in a bakery to wait for the city bus. The bakeries are an interesting part of Danish life. There are several in every sizable town, and make up an important part of daily routine. At around 3:00 a.m. every day, bakers begin their work, making the famous Danish pastries from scratch. I have thirty minutes to sit there and wait for the bus, during which I drink some coffee, read a book, and watch the morning foot traffic in Grena.

The one city bus for Grena runs on an hourly basis through the city. It goes through all the important corners of this town, to the harbor, past the park, and through Grena's shopping streets. It takes me very close to the school itself, a two-story building with several classrooms that is near the harbor area in a nice residential community. I walked to the school, came in, and sat down at a table in the student's dining area which was not otherwise occupied, at which point I got a chance to better study my fellow classmates.

Denmark is a country filled with immigrants and refugees. Financially, it is a good place to come, since the government is very supportive, but to actually get a job requires an immigrant to learn Danish, so many schools, like the one I was attending, were set up all over the country to help people make the crucial step from dependency to autonomy by teaching Danish at every level. People of all races, creeds, and backgrounds sat at the tables around me. Fragments of conversation in Arabic, Albanian, and many other languages reached my ears. At 9:00 a.m. we all filed into our respective classrooms.

The first thing we did in class was to introduce ourselves, say where we had come from, and how long we had been in Denmark. One of the first to do so was a squat Muslim of indeterminable age with a covered head and thick glasses. She introduced herself and said she was from Iraq. About an hour later the first class break of the day came and we introduced ourselves personally, at which point we both smiled and she said in Danish, "We are sisters."

All the animosity of the years, the presumptions and prejudices that we had both undoubtedly made during the time that our countries were at fighting were somehow wiped away in that gesture. Bringing with it the chance for something more meaningful and good than what had been before.

There were other students from Iran, Kosovo, Yugoslavia, and Somalia in my class, with an even more diverse group throughout the school itself. The classes were exclusively in Danish, though unlike the classes I had taken at my old school, were on my level, as far as the language goes. Among the students there is an overwhelming feeling of equality. No matter what nationality, race, color or creed, we are all here for the same reason. The only real problem is the language barrier.

I am the only native English speaker in my class, and not many of my classmates speak it as a second language, so my communication in attained by hand gestures and what little Danish I can use, but I am noticing that with every day at the school, my Danish vocabulary is expanding.

13th column: Visiting an AFS friend in Copenhagen

Denmark has a remarkable public transportation system. Despite the fact that no place in Denmark is more than a day's drive away, the country's extensive bus and railroad network does a good job of connecting the entire country. My class was going to Copenhagen on a school trip, and as soon as I learned this, I thought of my friend.

AFS placed seventeen Americans in Denmark, with all but one of us making the trip from New York to Copenhagen together, so many friendships were made. One of my friends was placed in the town of Ringsted, which is close to Copenhagen. I had had no contact with him since we had said goodbye three and a half months ago, so when I learned that I would be visiting Copenhagen, I wrote him a letter explaining this fact and asking if he wanted to do anything while I was in the area. He emailed me and said he would love to. We worked out the details and agreed to meet on Thursday afternoon.

My classmates and I met at the Grena train station at 7:00 a.m. Wednesday morning to catch the small train to Arhus. From there we would change over to one of the larger, nicer intercity trains that regularly makes the trip across the country to Zealand, the island Copenhagen is on.

Copenhagen, as most of the rest of Denmark, is storybook-like. No skyscrapers encroach on the landscape, in fact most of its prominent buildings were built before the seventeen hundreds. Streets are still cobbled, buildings are covered with copper and gold leaf decoration, and church bells still sound the hours. At about a million residents, it is the largest city in Denmark, and contains a sixth of Denmark's population.

We visited the Tycho Brahe Planetarium on Thursday, the only full day we were there. I had a real want to go; I have always loved the stars. One of the most comforting things about home had been the night sky. I could glance up on a clear night and pick out a constellation or two and always Orion, which for some reason has been my favorite feature of the heavens since I was a kid. Needless to say, I was disoriented the first night I looked up in Denmark, and couldn't pick out a thing. It's odd when one of the most comforting and universal things in your life is suddenly gone. It literally felt like I was on another planet. This trip to the planetarium was what I needed to reassure myself of my place. It was wonderful to get my bearings back on that aspect of the world, and to realize that the stars weren't different, just moved.

Another notable place that my class visited was the free state of Christiania, Denmark's most prominent hippie colony. Afterwards I took the bus from there to the Tivoli entrance to the Copenhagen train station, where I would meet my friend. As I approached, I found I was nervous in spite of myself. I walked up the stairs to the station, searching every face, and then I saw him.

He was wearing a thick, down jacket, the style of which has become popular here since it has started to get colder. "You look very Euro" I said to him with a smirk as we walked away from the station. "So do you" he returned, probably referring to the fact that I have started to wear dark colors, another trend in Denmark. It was wonderful to hear the American accent again, which seems loud and abrasive to some from other countries, but to me was sweeter than hearing angels sing. An American accent with American English; it was something I had forgotten to miss.

After a visit to a museum, we went to a Chinese restaurant, where we exchanged information of the other American exchange students in Denmark and caught each other up on our host families and just lives in general. It was there I realized that this was the first real restaurant I had been in since I had left the U.S.

His train came, and I felt a sinking within me. We hugged goodbye, promised to write, and he left. I watched his retreating head and shoulders as he went to his seat, feeling as though the only link I had to America on this continent was leaving on that train. I watched him until he was out of sight, and then left, myself.

I had an introspective walk back to the hotel, through the lighted shopping streets and across the various squares and parks. Past street musicians, theaters, and noisy pubs I remembered the things I had held for granted back home, like conversation about American religion and politics, drama and music. Those little niceties that were such a vital part of my life back home; I hadn't noticed that they were gone until I was reminded of them. I guess my evening with my friend had made me think of the people I had left behind.

The next day I spent in thought. The combined loss of sleep and extensive walking of the last few days had left me fairly immobile in any case, but the ensuing train ride left me with more than ample time to marshal my thoughts into something resembling what was there before. Most of this was an internal struggle, one of the only outward signs I let slip was when the train passed through the town of Ringsted. For that minute or so, I put down the book I was reading and watched it pass in silence.

12th Installment: My Daily Routine -- October 30, 2000

I have never been an early riser, and Denmark hasn't changed that aspect of myself. My host mom, wanting to help me wake up on time, got me the loudest alarm clock she could find at the small Lyngby co-op. It is of the old wind-up variety, and it does the job, though I do get a bit of a start whenever I hear a bell ring. It's been the beginning to my weekdays ever since I started going to school here in Denmark. It jars me awake some time around seven, and after cleaning up and getting some breakfast I walk from my host family's house to the bus stop at eight.

Lyngby is incredibly small, with only two hundred and fifty residents. My walk to the bus stop takes me though quite a bit of it. I pass the church, which dates back to the 1600s, and listen to the bells, which at this time of the year are ringing just as I pass it.

Fall has started with a vengeance here. The trees are shedding leaves, leaving the streets a carpet of yellow and orange. It has also become noticeably colder than when I arrived. Mornings are at the most forty degrees Fahrenheit, and if it's sunny then it will get up to fifty or sixty in the course of the day, but it it's overcast, like it usually is, then it will stay somewhere in the forties.

The bus stop is at the very center of town, the intersection of Fladstrupvej and Lyngbyvej, and the bus goes all the way from Arhus, the second largest city in Denmark, to Grena, a harbor town at the tip of the Djursland Peninsula, the latter of which is where I am headed. The bus is always full of kids going to their respective schools in the Grena area and people heading to work, and I'm lucky if I can find a seat. The buses run on an hourly basis in the mornings, but the one I take is the last out of Lyngby until the afternoon, so if I miss that bus, I'm stuck at home.

After the bus stops, I have a twenty-minute walk to my school. It houses one grade, with a hundred and eight students in three classes. School starts at eight thirty in the morning and the class periods during the day last an hour and a half each. I have classes in Danish, English, Math, Physics, and Culture, three or two a day, depending on the day of the week.

In Danish class all I have been doing this year is twiddling my thumbs, it is so far advanced and the teachers do not have time to go over it with me personally, so I end up with nothing to do for that class, though I have been learning Danish in other ways.

The language merits explanation itself. Danish is very, very difficult to learn. Almost every letter has a different pronunciation than in English. I have heard the joke that Danish isn't so much a language as a disease of the throat. It is extremely guttural, and some letters cannot even be pronounced without practice. Lately my classmates have been speaking Danish to me almost exclusively. Since they have started I have learned Danish more rapidly, though it is still a very difficult language. I look enough like a Dane, that just in the normal course of life, people will speak Danish to me instead of English, and sometimes this has served to confuse me enough to explain that I don't understand.

I get out of school at either eleven forty five or one forty five, and after spending some time on the Internet I head on back towards the center of town. The library is on my way and I usually stop there. In the first two months I lived here, I exhausted the most part of their English section, which took up about three shelves, so lately I have been ordering books there from the Arhus library. This has opened many literary doors for me, and I am finding myself reading many different kinds of books.

After the library I walk on into the center of Grena. The city is situated around a church, which is in the middle of a central square. Branching out from that are several small shopping streets. Denmark does not have malls, but most cities have a store or two, and places the size of Grena have several streets with the same assortment of shops that a mall would have. There is a little cafe I like to sit and wait for my bus to arrive in. It's a good place to go and escape the rain, wind, and cold of the Danish autumn, and also has the advantage of the sales people understanding English, which has really been the drawing factor of that establishment.

I get my bus home and usually Pernille, my host sister is there. Both my host parents are at work until five or six in the evening, and when they get home one of us fixes dinner, and we all eat together; another difference from the US. I either watch TV or play cards with Pernille until around ten at night, at which point both of us go to bed. It's a change from my daily life back home, which mostly revolved around what play I was doing or what my mom was up to. It's good. I like my life here. I've got eight months left, and on this routine I think I'm going to survive.

11th Installment Kennon's 16th Birthday

Danes like to celebrate. Christmases, I have heard are complex and very fun occasions in this country. Ten-year anniversaries are cause for big parties to be thrown and songs to be written about the couple. But that is not unusual, because Danes have several songs for almost any event.

My birthday was coming up, and I was wondering how I was going to celebrate it during my exchange program. When I was younger my birthday was extremely important to me, but in recent years it has seemed to come and go without much ceremony. I find myself unable to work up the enthusiasm that I had for October the 3rd in earlier years. So when my host mother asked me what I wanted to do for it, I decided to go ahead and celebrate it according Danish tradition, since it was probably the only time I would ever be able to experience it. She agreed and we decided to have my party on Sunday, the 1st, since my birthday would fall on a Tuesday.

The Danish flag in integral to anything special that happens in Denmark. At athletic matches Danes dress up in the national colors of red and white, sometimes wearing a Danish flag as a cape or other form of apparel. For birthdays the flag is put on cakes, wrapping paper, and cards. With the normal reverence and respect used for the American flag, I was surprised at this aspect of Danish life when I first arrived, but now I realize that it's not that the Danes have no respect for their flag, they have just as much as the average American does for theirs, it's just that in this, as in most other things, the Danes don't take themselves too seriously, but their flag is a big part of their national identity, which they value highly.

The day came. I had been out with some friends rather later the night before, so my host parents allowed me to sleep later than usual, so when I woke up and came down the stairs the living room was already set out with silverware and a few covered dishes of food for the party. Birthday parties are done in the mid afternoon, with lots of cakes and pastries, the most prominent of mine being a pastry man with a large marzipan heart in the middle, saying "Kennon 16," along with two kinds of "Lag Kage" which is a layer cake with whipped cream and usually fruit filling.

The guests arrived. My host mother and I had invited the entire host family, with my host siblings and my host grandparents, and even my host niece, who is two years old. Also there were two of my exchange student friends, Sarina, from Australia, and Francesca, from Italy. It was an afternoon filled with good conversations. My host grandmother asked me questions about America, and my fellow exchange students and I discussed our experiences thus far. I enjoy being able to talk to them, they are the only two other American Field Service students in the area, so they are the ones I speak to on a regular basis, though I have exchange student friends spread all over Denmark.

Not only was my host family celebrating, I got packages from my Mom, Dad, and godmother, with cards and emails from friends and family. I had been wished happy birthday so much, that by the time Tuesday came along, I was halfway happy for the sign that things would soon be back to normal. I hoped to get through the day with a minimum fuss, since I thought no one would know that it was my birthday.

I was wrong.

"Kennon," my friend Katja asks during first period, "isn't it your birthday today?"

I affirm this quietly, but it's too late, already other members of my class are giving me their regards. Before I know it, someone has taken a small Danish flag into the room and placed it by my desk, then the class is singing one of the numerous birthday songs that Danes sing. Thinking that to be the end of it, I went on in my day. In my culture class, though, the teacher, Lise Lotte, had other plans.

"As some of you know, today is Kennon's sixteenth birthday."

"Oh, no" I thought to myself. Then the class sang a different birthday song for me. For the rest of the period everyone made me little cards. It was a bit embarrassing, assuming that I had hoped to get through the day without too much trouble.

That night I sat in my room with the detritus of a birthday passed around me. I smiled, listening to the Beatles; song "Birthday". I hadn't wanted for this birthday to a big deal, but it had, and now that it's passed and I'm filing the cards and notes I've received, I'm glad it was.

If I had decided not to celebrate this year, then I would have not gotten the chance to experience a Danish birthday and truly, that is an experience that is too good to be missed.

10th Article: The Park

"Did you see this?" asked my host mother one Friday; it was a paper advertisement for a concert in the nearby town of Grena. I glanced over it, the text was in Danish so I could not understand the most part of it, but the words "Preservation Hall" and "Jazz" caught my eye.

It seems as though a few musicians from New Orleans were traveling to Grena for a jazz concert. The performance sounded like fun, but the rest of my host family was going to be busy otherwise that night, so if I were going to go, I would be forced to go alone. After I expressed my interest, my host mother, Susanne, told me that I should probably try getting to the culture center on my own before buying the tickets, since I had never even seen the place.

That afternoon when school was out, I deterred from my normal route through Grena straight to the bus stop and set down one of the side shopping streets into a part of the town of 12,000 which I had not visited before. It was mostly residential, and it was easy enough to follow the blue and silver signs that read "Kultur Hus" so I found my mind wandering as I walked along.

All this talk about New Orleans had brought back memories of the city and all the great parts of my life that have happened to me there. There's going to Mardi Gras that one time when I was very young, the vague memories of loud music, vivid lights, and bright colors. Then Christmases at my Grandparents' house, which would bring my mother's side of the family together from all over the country. Oh, those Christmases, with trips into the French Quarter, late night card games, and Christmas in the Oaks, one of my favorite traditions of the week or two we would spend with the family. We would all bundle up into my grandparents' two cars and drive through the exhibits.

The lights in the trees and botanical gardens of New Orleans' City Park always added a magical quality to Christmas for me. In recent years, we have stopped having Christmases in New Orleans, and instead have moved on around to other members of the family for our gatherings. I felt a twinge of regret that I would not be there this year, it's the first year I will not be home for Christmas, since in my exchange program, you are not able to travel home until your return date, which for me is in late June.

Trees are one of the main things I miss about home, the oaks and swamp trees which always will remind me of New Orleans, and the pine and evergreens of my home in southern Mississippi. I didn't know how much I would miss the endless forests in Mississippi and Louisiana until they were replaced with the endless fields of Denmark's Djursland Peninsula. The change in landscape was so startling to me that when I first arrived in my small town of Lyngby, I had to fight a sense of disorientation any time I would step outside. I was comforting myself with these memories when I turned a corner in my walk and saw something that made me stop cold in my tracks.

There it was, right there in front of me. City Park, with well kept trees and a manicured lawn in a large clearing, with a deeper forest beyond. I had to check myself for a moment, I wasn't in New Orleans, not even in America, but there were trees, more that I had probably seen together in the last nine weeks. It was so startling that it almost took my breath away. After I was able to recover from it, I was able to see that the culture center where the jazz concert was going to be held and had brought me to this part of town in the first place was right to my left. I went in, made sure this was the right place, and paused before I turned back to leave the way I had come. The living greens of the forest and park were more inviting the prospect of going back to the bank in Grena to buy the tickets, so I headed on into the trees.

It's one of the best things I have done in Denmark to date. The mercilessly cold wind that rips and screams along the fields and beaches of Djursland was muted to a gentle whisper here, and was almost pleasant. I walked past the lawn, which had a large playground off to one side, and down a dirt path, which was lined with large, spaced trees and led into the deeper forest.

As I strolled along the path, I recalled an email that my aunt had sent me. She travels quite frequently, and had given me this advice: She told me to find a place where I could just let go and be myself. I closed my eyes, feeling the wind and hearing the soft sounds of branches and leaves slowly moving and knew that I had found it. My mind was totally at peace, and I walked back into Grena with the purpose of buying the tickets for the concert, which I had all but forgotten at this point. The bank where I could have bought them was closed, so I never did make it, but the experience of finding the place had outdone any experience I could have had listening to Preservation Hall.

9th column -- Friday, October 6th, 2000

I had been living in Denmark for almost a month and a half when I received a phone call that left me a little bewildered. My host mother told me I had a call, and when I answered the phone, a tired sounding male voice with a slight Danish accent on the other end said, "Hi, is this Kennon?"

"Yeah," I answered warily.

"Oh, ok," said the voice on the other end, "My name's Jonas and, I guess I'm your AFS contact person."

We chatted on for a few minutes, but all the time I was thinking "Who is this guy?"

The American Field Service (AFS), the exchange organization I traveled to Denmark with, supplies each of the current exchange students within a country with a person who has already been through the program. I had hitherto not heard from mine yet, and as I spoke to Jonas I guessed he must be it. We agreed to meet the next Wednesday, and as the day approached, I felt a bit apprehensive.

This acquaints me with a feeling that I have had several times up to this point, it's an odd assurance that before I left for Denmark I would have never visited a strange college guy on just the strength of a phone call. I remember not wanting to call people that AFS had recommended as former exchange students because I was never really comfortable with it. The fact that I went at all is a great testament to the affect which two months as an exchange student has had on me. I feel as though being around so many people whom are different from me has helped me become more attentive to what I say and do, and also has given me a little more guts when it comes to doing things I would not normally.

He lived in the apartment complex on the grounds of the Grena Technical School which served as a dormitory. I walked up to his apartment, still feeling crazy for coming at all, and knocked on the door. I waited there on the threshold so long that I considered forgetting the whole deal and heading on home.

The man who eventually answered looked about twenty years old. He was around six-foot-three with a pale complexion, bushy goatee, and fiery read hair -- which was shoulder length and dreaded. At the time I met him, two in the afternoon, he was wearing flannel pants, a white shirt, and one sock.

As I entered the apartment, I was met with the normal "guys live here smell " Anyone who has a brother or has had the chance to experience this knows what I mean. Strange as it seems, I was comforted by that faint odor of old laundry and stale pizza; it reminded me of my older brother back home. He introduced himself as Jonas in the same sleepy voice I had heard on the phone, and led me on back to the living room. After dislodging a pile of clothes and a pair of shoes, I sat down on the couch and we were able to begin talking.

Jonas is a pretty nice guy. I could clearly see he was as clueless about what to do as I was, he had been an exchange student to the US staying in Washington State, and he had just received my information about a week before he had called me, and he was not really given an agenda to cover with me, so our conversation was filled with long pauses in which we both tried to think of something to say.

Eventually I left, not really feeling as though I had gained much from the visit. But, it is always good to know that there is someone to help if something goes wrong, which is the basic reason which AFS provides its exchange students with contact people. He was just one part of a net of support that stretched out all the way from him as my personal contact, to a teacher at my school, my regional director, and eventually even to the Danish national office in Copenhagen, not including my friends which I have made through AFS, with fellow exchange students and various AFS representatives which sometimes organize trips. These many sources of support are intended to allow students like myself to be able to handle any problems that come along.

That was the only time we've met up till now, and neither of us have really planned anything, but I have seen him one more time. I was walking home from school one day, when he passed me on his bike. We both waved and smiled, but didn't exchange a word, because neither of us stopped moving.

Two people brought together by the AFS program, neither really knowing what we're doing or why we're there, but like I said, Jonas was a nice guy, and it's always good to know who's there to help you.

8th Installment -- Received Sept. 19th

The bell of my alarm woke me from my dreams. I wanted to go back to sleep, but as I lethargically got up and ready for school I managed keep myself awake. I caught the bus into Grena, still feeling half asleep, and after getting off at my stop, walked the fifteen minutes to my school. The day droned on. The classes were in Danish, as is to be expected, and I was unable to get myself to pay enough attention to make any sense of it. The last week had not been easy. Now in school and settled into my life as an American exchange student I had time to think about and digest the happenings of the prior two months since I had arrived in Denmark.

I was very happy to be here, and wasn't homesick, but I felt a sullen depression settle over me. Things were so different here. Denmark is flat, and most of it is farming land. Fields, seemingly endless fields surround my small village of Lyngby, and my daily bus ride to Grena is along roads lined with them in every direction. Coming from Mississippi, just the sense of all that space was mind-boggling for me. I am used to a close horizon of trees, and now the horizon is just a line separating the earth from the sky several miles away.

The language seemed to be no better. I have heard the joke that Danish is not as much a language as a disease of the throat, and now that I am here I am prepared to believe it. Danish is very hard, and to the unaccustomed ear seems as though it is completely made up of vowels. Danish school is tough, not because of the curriculum, but simply because every class is conducted in Danish. I sat through the classes and felt overwhelmed. I could do the things they assigned, but only after it was explained in English, and not every teacher had the time to explain. And I was still tired.

I thankfully left the school building and started the twenty-minute walk to the center of the city of Grena, the only place where I could catch a bus at this time of day As if the weather wanted to complement my mood, it started to rain halfway through my trip. Though I may have wanted to blame my sullen feeling on not getting a good night of sleep, or on frustration, or on any other petty grievance I may have had that day, I had a moment of clarity during that walk and was finally able to place the reason. As I was wondering why I felt this way, a thought suddenly appeared in my mind. Ahh, so this is culture shock.

They had warned us about it every step of the way in the exchange program orientations. They had told us that we would, at some point in the year, be utterly frustrated by everything around us. It is a condition known as culture shock, where the culture of the place where you are staying hits you with full force. It's good, because after you've experienced it, you can begin to accept the difference around you, but it's bad because it's frustrating and mentally exhausting.

As soon as that realization stole over me, I knew what I needed to do. I went home on the bus and as soon as I had walked to my host family's house, I was barely coherent. I stumbled up the stairs and into my room, and was asleep before I hit the pillow. I slept fifteen hours, until the alarm woke me up the next morning. I got up and ready for school, thought today, there was more of a bounce in my step. My first class that day was physics, and though I couldn't understand a word of it, I enjoyed it. I was feeling so good that day, in fact, that I stopped in a little caf­ to get a drink while I waited for my bus. As I sat there, it began to rain in solid sheets of water. When the time came for me to catch my ride home, I smiled and stepped out into the downpour, running from storefront to storefront to try and dodge the rain. Despite my efforts, I was utterly soaked by the time I got to the station.

I then thought about the differences that I liked about Denmark, like the solid family base, or the general open-mindedness of the people. The fact that you can layer clothes in mid-august and hear church bells every hour. It's all a matter of perspective.

Later that day my host sister Tina came over with her three-year-old daughter, Rebecca, and I thought I would try my grasp, however so shaky, of the Danish language. Rebecca and I had a conversation, as much as it's possible to do so with a young child, and I actually think she understood me.

I went to sleep that night feeling content with my current situation. Culture shock. It's one of those things that you are told to expect in an experience like this, but in truth, nothing can prepare you for.

Here is a copy of Kennon's 7th column from Denmark. She has included a photo below of herself with her host family (left to right are Kennon, parents Susanne and Arne and sister Pernille. Select photos to see the full-size version. Close that screen to return to this one.

7th Installment

Home in Lyngby

Kennon, parents Susanne and Arne, and sister Pernille

Other members of the nuclear family are Mikael, who is twenty-six and works in landscaping, and Tina, twenty-three, who is married with one child, Rebecca, who is three. I come from a singe parent family, with one brother who lives a state away, and a dog that is exclusively an outside pet. I am now with a two-parent family with one sister who lives in the same house and two siblings who are over at least once a day -- and three cats, two of which currently have decided that my room is now their home. A few nights ago I left my door open, and I woke up in at 3:00 a.m. with one cat sleeping at the foot of my bed and another peacefully slumbering on my back.

The only thing similar with my life back home is that I have a mother here. It is odd for me to have a father in the same time zone, much less the same house. My parents were divorced when I was ten years old, and my father now lives in Boston. It's a weird feeling having a middle-aged man involved in my life on a daily basis. I've also never had a sister, but Pernille and I are getting along and I feel as though I may have a friend there.

Church in Grena?

Lyngby is a town of two hundred and fifty residents, most of which are rather elderly and don't get out much. As has already been pointed out, the only store in town is the Daily Co-Op, which is about the size of a gas station quick stop. If any real shopping is to take place, then I must travel to the large grocery store in Grena, which would be dwarfed by the superstores in Hattiesburg and many American cities.

Biking is very popular in Denmark and one day we took a bike trip for several kilometers through the Danish countryside. Though I am not the most athletic person, it was one of the best experiences of my time here thus far. We traveled on isolated country roads and through one-horse towns while the Danish weather threatened as it always did of rain. At one point we reached a slight rise in the landscape and I was able to view mist in a valley dotted with windmills, forests, and pastures. Northern Europe is like no other place on earth, and on that cool August afternoon I could fully appreciate it.

Many of my exchange student friends were placed on farms, or in big cities, and I think any of that would have been fine. I had really dreamed of living in Arhus or Copenhagen, the two largest cities in Denmark, when I filled out the AFS application, so when I was placed in Lyngby, a town I could hardly find on a map, I was a little disappointed. I remember laughing as I was unpacking my suitcase when I arrived here, thinking that someone back home was going to get a huge laugh about the irony of this situation.

Main Street, Lyngby

6th Installment -- Monday, August 28th

It rains a lot in Denmark, usually in fine, almost mist-like droplets. It was doing this, in fact, the day I went to visit my school building for the first time. I was going to start classes in a week, and I was, surprisingly, looking forward to it. It had been two weeks since I had met my host family and settled into life in Lyngby, Denmark as an exchange student.

Danish school is required until the ninth grade, at which point a student can choose to continue their education or enter the workforce. For those students unsure of what to do with their future, there is tenth class - basically a year to try whatever it is that one is interested in. This is what I have now entered. It includes short days, an interim period in November, and three academic "lines" to build a course of study around - culture, athletics, and business.

There are no schools in Lyngby, so the only way I can get to a tenth class is to commute into Grena, the nearest town. My daily trip includes a thirty-minute bus ride to the city, and a further twenty-minute walk to the building, which is mostly a huge public gym. Up a flight of stairs is the space for the "10. Klasse Center Djursland" as they called it. It is only two rooms for 108 students, so some classes are held in the hallway, outside, or in other schools entirely.

The academic line I chose was culture, and when my first day came along, I became aware of one nagging fact. My classes were not going to be conducted in English, in fact nothing was going to be conducted in English, except possibly English class, and I don't speak Danish, the language of Denmark. This could be considered one of those very important cultural differences. So I naturally felt a little scared as I walked into the school building and the students started to file in, instantly greeting their old friends and speaking together in Danish.

I sat against a wall, listening to their conversations and sighing deeply as no one came over to speak to me. I understood though, it's schoolyard politics. I am the newcomer; I haven't been the "new girl" in school in a long time, having gone to the same school for the past five years. As the new one, I had to find some way to fit in.

Eventually the teachers herded us into one of the airy classrooms and the principal addressed us. Since the lecture was in Danish, I tried to understand, but I could only pick out a few words that sounded familiar. I was introduced halfway through the talk as an American exchange student. I was approached after that by a group of girls, some of who spoke English quite well, and I was able to make a few friends.

A difference between American and Danish schools is that instead of starting the first week off with normal classes, there are two short days of class and then there is a three day camp in which the object is to get to know your fellow classmates and teachers. On Wednesday I came to the school at 3:00 p.m. with my sleeping bag and a bicycle that I borrowed from my host family not knowing what to expect. That night we slept in the gym, but for the most part watched movies and did some indoor sports.

The gym in this building is one of the best facilities I have ever seen. Its most impressive feature is a full climbing wall set into one of the sports arenas. Climbing is a sport that I enjoy very much, but do not have a chance to do very often, and as I approached the cluster of fellow students around the base of one course I knew that I needed to give this wall a try, not because it was particularly hard, but because I was the new one in the group, and I had the most to prove, so I got into the line to try my hand.

The teacher who was running the operation offered to help me with my harness, but I said "it's ok, I've done this kind of thing before" I secured the harness, and as soon as I was hooked up, I shot up the thirty-six foot wall in a little under a minute and a half. As I rappelled smartly down to the applause of my classmates, I felt as though I had broken down a barrier between my classmates and myself though now I think that barrier was only in my own mind.

Over the course of the next few days, I got to know more of my class, and I realized why not many of them had spoken to me -- most of them were very shy about their English skills. As more people started conversations with me, I started getting questions about America, some a little absurd. I explained some about American culture; many of my friends were also fascinated by the concept of instant macaroni and cheese ("So you put a powder in water and you call that food?"). Denmark is a country in which almost every night the whole family sits down to dinner.

On the second night of the camp, the entire class was gathered around a teacher who had brought a guitar and was conducting a "sing-a-long." One of the songs in the provided songbook was Hotel California, and one of the people in the class suggested that I sing it, since it was an American song. So with the accompaniment of a guitar, I sang the entire song through. I was nearly to the end when I noticed that the normal background conversations of any group of teenagers gathered together had thinned out and then stopped. I finished the song, and looked up as the spell was broken and the class started to clap. Once again I felt as though I had broken down a barrier.

Danish school is going to be hard enough as it is, and now I feel as though I have at least become a little less of an outsider.

5th Installment - Published on August 14th, 2000

Some people told me I had a lot of courage to become an exchange student. This is not entirely true. The prospect and the process of it was easy and as I see it, almost anyone can board a plane, meet interesting people from all over the world, and attend a few camps. Real courage comes into play when you are called to told to step off a train with everything you own in a city you have never seen, to find people you have never met, and plan to live with them for the next eleven months, and do it alone.

Needless to say, I felt sick to my stomach when the stop for Arhus was called. The AFS representative who was traveling with me this far helped me with my suitcases and waved me a final goodbye as I stood there on the platform, trying not to think about what I had just done.

I searched the faces passing me for ones that resembled the ones in the pictures I had been sent, until finally a woman's face stood out. With her was a man and a tall, slender girl. The man and girl did not look very much like the pictures, but there were certain similarities that suggested that my pictures were not very recent. I was sure though, this was Suzanne and Arne Rasmussen, with their daughter Pernille. I smiled weakly, and Suzanne smiled back.

I was in a daze, and trying not to cry from nervousness and shock. Arne and Pernille helped me with my bags while Suzanne made polite conversation. I answered monosyllabically, because I was too awed to talk too much. At one point I got up the courage to ask "So, how many people live in Lyngby?"

Suzanne looked puzzled and relayed the question to Arne in Danish. He smirked and said "treogtyve."

Suzanne started to laugh. "He says twenty-three."

One of the many interesting things about Denmark is that windmills supply much of the power, though they do not look like the windmills we usually think of. These are great, white poles with a propeller on the top. They dotted the landscape as we drove from Arhus to the small village of Lyngby, where I as going to live. We passed a few houses on our way into town, all one or two story and quite small. Two roads crossed -- apparently the center of town -- and eventually my host mother said, "Ah, and here's our house."

The road was a straightaway with a field of barley on one side, and a few clustered houses on the other. The second of these was gray stucco, two stories with an overgrown garden and gravel path to the back. We traveled up this to a backyard with a swing and a woodpile that took up more space than the house itself. As we walked through the house, Suzanne gave me a tour.

"Here is the kitchen, and through here is our bedroom, that door by the bed is the bathroom and" at this point she turned to me, to make the point "we only have one." We moved up the stairs, and she showed me to my room. It was about eight feet wide and twelve feet long, with a sloping roof and lime-green walls. I was finally left alone and able to start the process of unpacking.

I had been living out of my suitcases for the last week and a half, through the numerous orientations I had to attend, so it was a relief to finally move my stuff out of them. I had transferred the entirety of my largest suitcase into the closet provided when I came upon the book. Before I had left, my church had thrown a surprise going away party for me. One of the gifts I had been given was a scrapbook filled with notes from my friends. Before I left, I asked my mother to write me one too. This is what I read.

By the end of it, all of the pent-up emotion and shock from the entire day and experience came out. I sat there and cried, but it was good. I needed that to let the rest of the pain of leaving go. I felt that I had now properly said goodbye, and was able to finally live as an exchange student. Before that moment I had the feeling that all of this was a trip, or a vacation. That note made it final in my mind that this was permanent for the next eleven months. It made everything seem better.

I had been using unpacking as an excuse to avoid my host family. After I had a good cry, I cleaned myself up and went downstairs. There was a family friend there, and he and Arne were speaking in Danish. Every once in a while Suzanne gave me a translation when they said something funny or the conversation switched subjects. That night I sank into bed gratefully, a pillow and sheets are wonderful things after living on an air mattress for a week. I was asleep in minutes and I was able to wake up late the next morning. I wasn't in Copenhagen, like I had wanted to be, or in Arhus, which would have been just as good; I was in Lyngby, population 250.

It wasn't what I expected, but right now it's exactly what I want.

4th Installment - Published on August 7th, 2000

I got off my plane in a busy La Guardia airport. After I claimed my luggage I made my way to the place where I was supposed to meet my AFS representative. It was 1:00 in the afternoon, and I had been up since 3:00 that morning, traveling all day. After only a few minutes of searching, I spotted the bright red shirt I had been looking out for. There were already several people with him -- travel-weary and next to huge suitcases -- so I introduced myself and we all exchanged questions as more students joined us.

When we left, there was a long ride into New York State during which we were able to get to know each other better. We met the rest of the group at the college dorm where we were going to spend the night. There were sixteen of us, and no two were the same. Most were from the Northeast US, I was the only one from the South, and most of us were going to Jutland, the mainland of Denmark, but one was going to Greenland, another to Bornholm, and yet another to Zealand, the island on which Copenhagen is located.

Over the next twenty-four hours we became very close, and as we exchanged stories and experiences I felt as though I had known these people all my life. At this orientation, we participated in discussions of Danish culture, played some Danish games, and asked general questions about the year to come. One thing we learned was that instead of going straight to our host families when we landed in Denmark, as we had thought we would be doing, we would spend a week at a language camp where we could meet the rest of the Danish exchange students and learn about culture, while developing a base in the Danish language.

We left the next afternoon for JFK airport, and boarded our plane. It was an eight-hour flight, but I enjoyed it with these newfound friends. We had a six-hour layover in Helsinki, but it was the most fun I've ever had being stuck in an airport. I slept during most of the connecting flight into Copenhagen, the first time I was able to since the dorm in New York, but I woke up right before we landed.

Above the cloud cover it was sunny and clear, but as we started our descent, the clouds changed from white to a gradually darkening gray. As the last wisps of cloud flew away, the panorama that was Denmark lay before me. Fields and gentle hills dominated the landscape, with an occasional farm or small forest. Then a cow pasture became a runway, and I felt a wave of relief and joy as we landed. I was here. I was finally, finally, here.

An AFS representative met us as we got off the plane. We were given a number, one through six, which grouped us by the region in which we were staying. We collected our baggage and were taken through customs, and then we stepped outside and saw Copenhagen in the summer.

It was raining. That is the normal state of Denmark at this time of year.

A short walk took us to a school cafeteria, where we had some supper and were separated into our numbered groups. I said goodbye to my friends from America who were in other groups and sat down at a table with the rest of mine. They were from all over the world. A girl was from Tasmania, a boy was from Japan, Italy, Morocco, and most of South America was represented. We were herded onto a bus and during the night we drove six hours from Copenhagen to a small town in northern Jutland called Jerup (pronounced like Europe). I slept the entire way, and it was 1:00 a.m. when I woke up.

There was a faint glow on the horizon, which could easily have been the sun setting or rising. At this time of year in Denmark the days are extraordinarily long. The leaders of the camp led us into a building and we fell thankfully into the air mattresses that were provided.

The camp was held at an elementary school, where we slept in three of the classrooms and ate in the science laboratory. We had three hours of Danish a day, two of culture, and the rest of the day was filled with planned activities and free time. Jerup was small. So small in fact that it was possible to walk from one end to the other in about three minutes. One day we went to Skagen, the northern point of Jutland, where the buildings are all a creamy yellow with red tile roofs. We walked to the end of Jutland across fields of heather and beaches where the sand was fine as sugar. I became friends with many people from all over the world, and I was able to understand their cultures more.

On Friday, at the end of the week, one by one we all left. I boarded a train for Arhus, the city in which I would meet my host family. The train ride lasted three hours, and the landscape stayed pretty much the same through the entire trip. When my stop was called, I felt the sudden grip of terror. I was absolutely terrified by the unknowns about what was to come, and for the first time in my entire exchange experience I didn't want to go on.

3rd Installment Published Monday, July 24th, 2000

The letter came when I was in Boston. Mom called me and filled me in on what few details she had. "The parents are Arne and Suzanne Rasmussen, and they live in Lyngby, which is a town on the Jutland peninsula, though I don't know where. They have three children and one grandchild. Their youngest daughter, Pernille, lives with them. She's seventeen."

She kept on piecing together a life that was worlds away from what I had imagined my host family would be like. The more I listened, the more I felt as if I needed to get out of the apartment. After telling me everything she knew, mom asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"I think I need some time to digest this." We said our goodbyes and I got off the phone as quickly as possible. My mind was racing as I stepped out the door of my father's apartment and walked into the street. It wasn't that I was disappointed, or even all that sad, it was that it was finally real. I also wasn't satisfied with the ambiguous description of my surroundings. As I was sitting in Copley Square, an idea struck me. The marble facade of the Boston Public Library loomed ahead of me, and I decided to find where I was living next year. In a corner of the reference section a librarian gave me what I needed. On the an outcrop of land known as the Djursland peninsula in eastern Jutland a small town known as Lyngby lies ten kilometers from Grenaa. So small in fact, that the only map which I could find it on was yellowed with age. Later on I found some more information on the region. There are many castles and forests, and it contains Denmark's second largest city, Aarhus.

I was in Boston to visit my father one last time before I left. My brother was up there with me too, but while I was staying there for only a week, he was staying there for the entire month of July to train in a few martial arts styles. Being my older brother, he and I have always had our differences. This summer I finally felt like we got along. Our personalities and ideals are different, yet we are very much the same in both good ways and bad. I was leaving Boston very early in the morning for home, so on my last night I said my goodbyes to Dave. As I looked up into his open face, I said "David, I'm really going to miss you" and I realized that there was a lump in my throat.

"Don't worry" he said. "That year will go by like no time at all." And I hugged him. I got into bed, and put my face toward the wall, as I heard him getting ready for bed and getting situated on his air mattress, my eyes teared up. After he turned off the light, silent tears rolled down my cheeks. I knew that this was the end.

I did not sleep much in the short time I was given. I would read, toss, turn, and stare at the ceiling, thinking. I thought about the past, the future, and everything in between. I must have drifted off for a while, because Dad woke me up at three AM and we were out of the house by four-thirty. The car ride to the airport was extraordinarily quiet. We filled the time waiting for my flight with small talk. Eventually my plane started to board.

"Well, Dad," I said, "if you ever find yourself in Lyngby, be sure to give me a call." "I'll be sure to" he says, and he gives me one of his big bear hugs.

I tell him I love him and walk out of the door saying to myself "Don't turn around, don't turn around" because I know that if I turn around now, and see my dad standing there, all alone, I'll burst into tears.

Hattiesburg is waiting for me when I return home. Every day is filled with appointments and packages and people telling me how much I'll be missed. One day, my mother and I traveled down to New Orleans to visit my grandparents, who had always had a few reservations about me leaving. On that day, I felt I had finally received their blessing. They are two of the most intelligent people I know, and I felt as though I was cleared to leave, having finally gained their approval.

At the end of the day there was a surprise party thrown by my youth group, and that also gave me a feeling that I was able to leave. I then said goodbye to my friends, and realized that the more I let go, the better I felt. There was one last person I needed to say goodbye to, and this was going to be the hardest and most painful one to let go. My mom. She had been going through just as much, if not more pain in the grief process than I have. I am her second child, and the last one to leave home.

Mom is not taking my departure very well. She is going to miss me the most. She wakes me up early on Wednesday, the 19th, and we drive to Gulfport to catch my flight. When my plane boards, there are tears, hugs, and goodbyes. With one final look and smile at my mom, I board the plane and leave all that I know behind.

2nd Column Published Monday, July 3rd, 2000

"Hi Kennon!" says Jane "Wow, I heard you were going to Denmark next year, when do you leave?"

This is the point at which I switch to automatic "Oh, on July 19th I leave for New York and I actually arrive in Denmark on the twenty-first." I can't count how many times I have had this exact conversation. I know what the next question will be.

"Wow, that's really great. Why did you choose Denmark?"

I smile to myself at my foresight. When people ask that I get the same feeling that I got when my AFS Sending Coordinator asked me that question, and I give the same textbook answer.

"Well," I start, "It's cold up there, and I love cold weather, but it really just felt like the right place to go."

Maybe Jane asks me some more questions or tells me that she would never have the guts to leave her family for a year, but more or less the rest of the conversation is always the same.

I guess that right now I'm feeling a great amount of stress. A few days ago I realized that there is less than a month until the day I leave. The feeling is equivalent to realizing a research paper is due tomorrow and you haven't been near the library. I've been studying in-depth about the country and culture of Denmark, by reading travel books, searching the Internet, trying to discover whatever I can about Danish culture. I rented a subtitled movie from Denmark and stared in abject terror as I realized that Danish, the language of Denmark, is pronounced nothing like it's written. I also found a webcam that is positioned overlooking Copenhagen's town hall square. It refreshes itself every few minutes, and I will sit there at my computer watching life go by.

I'm starting to feel the pre-departure anxiety also. I'll be at the mall with my friends, talking or arguing about those things you talk and argue about when you are a teenager, and get a sinking feeling, because I know this is the end. I'll hear about a concert or see a preview for a movie, and feel sad that I'm not even going to be on this continent when that happens.

Then I think, 'There will be movies in Denmark and concerts too.'

A few weeks ago I traveled to Nashville with my mother for my pre-departure orientation. It was held on a beautiful Saturday in a church youth center. As I walked into the reception area I felt as awkward as I always do in sudden social situations full of people I don't know. Around the room I saw teenagers of different nationalities talking in groups of threes and fours -- exchange students to America there for their last orientation before they return to their respective countries -- but closer to the door were a few teens about my own age who looked just as uncomfortable as I felt. These were the other pre-exchange students.

I walked up to the group and asked "So, where are y'all going?" in what I hoped was an open and cheerful way. I got a chorus of answers.

Most of them were going to South America, and only one was going to Scandinavia like myself. After a while, we were divided up into our pre-departure and pre-return groups. Most of the day was spent discussing packing, culture shock, and possible situations we could encounter. Right before lunch, a few of the current exchange students talked to us about what some of their preconceptions about Americans had been. Most had been gathered from American movies, TV shows, and news stories that had gotten to their countries. I was then introduced to a fair young man from Norway. I was finally able to talk to someone about Scandinavian life.

My mother, who was in the parent's section of the orientation, was able to talk to other parents of exchange students and many of her questions had been answered.

After we both said our good-byes to the group, she and I felt much better about the whole process, which we had not fully understood. A week later, my mother, brother, and I packed up and flew to the West Coast to attend my cousins' graduations. My older cousin, Siri, was graduating from the University of Oregon in Eugene and my other cousin, Sati, was graduating from High School in Claremont, California. This had gathered my entire family, and the more time I spent with them, the better I felt.

The best thing was when I would get a chance to sit down and enjoy being with my grandparents, my cousins, or any other family members I didn't see nearly enough. Two days before we left, we took a driving trip into LA. Down Sunset Boulevard and through Beverly Hills, we chatted and saw the sights. We had a great dinner and on the ride home, I got that haunting, odd feeling that I am getting more often these days.

I understood, with a kind of cold certainty, that this is a time to be savored. I understood that I will not see all of these people in over a year, and we will not gather as a family in more than that time. I understood that as I packed for the flight home, and as I said my good-byes. I thought it over as I read a travel book about Denmark on the plane. And I think of it now with less than a month until I leave and so much to be done, so much to be appreciated, and so many people to be cherished.

Student Readies for Overseas Trip
from the Hattiesburg American, June 12, 2000

Editor's note [from the Hattiesburg American newspaper of Hattiesburg, Mississippi]: Kennon Hulett, 14, of Hattiesburg, a student at Presbyterian Christian School, leaves July 19 for Denmark, where she will spend a year as an exchange student. Each month, she will write about her experiences. This is her first column.

I felt numb as I peered around my mother and into the mailbox. There was a large, white envelope. I opened it with trembling hands and when I read the Congratulations! I started to smile. It was done. Next year I m living in Denmark.

But I m getting ahead of myself. My name is Kennon Hulett. I ve always been interested in travel, and like many teenagers in Hattiesburg, I have wondered about living somewhere else. I talked to the counselor at my school and she gave me some information about an exchange student organization called American Field Service.

Research

A week before I started the school year, I spent several days at the Hattiesburg Library. I settled into a study room, and with a list of all the countries I was eligible for through AFS I started researching. By the end of the first day, I had a list of countries and a general idea of what I was looking for.

First, I wanted a program that was a year long. Second, I wanted a culture that was different from America s but still economically stable and relatively safe. Third, I wanted a country that would be cold. I ve always been partial to cold weather, probably because it is fairly hot and humid here in Hattiesburg. A climate that would include snow in some ways would be interesting to try.

After three days at the library and on the Internet, I narrowed my 20 or so choices down to three: England, Hong Kong and Denmark. I didn t know anything about Denmark, but my mother suggested it. I eliminated England because all that was available through AFS was a one- semester program; I also wanted to learn a new language. My mother ruled out Hong Kong because she did not want me to be on the other side of the planet. That left Denmark.

Application

I sent off the preliminary application in mid-September 1999, which was simply a sheet of paper from the brochure that told AFS that I was interested in their program. The second application arrived about three weeks later. This form was where you introduce and describe yourself, with letters of recommendation, a letter to your host family, a transcript of your grades, and even a page of pictures of yourself. I finished the parts of the application I could complete myself, but the real problem was getting my parent s signatures on the parental consent form. That took from October to Christmas.

My father lives in Boston. I needed his signature on the last page of the application, along with my mother s, which, I have to say, was a lot harder to acquire than my father s. Mom had some misgivings about sending her daughter away to a distant country for a year. I spent hours satisfying her questions and concerns and trying to get her to sign. Two days before Christmas, when my dad was visiting, I was able to get them both around a table to look at the application in full. When I finally saw my parents sign the papers, I let out a huge sigh of relief. All that was left now was the interview.

My regional sending coordinator first called me after I sent in my preliminary application. He lives in Tennessee where the AFS area team of volunteers is based. I was surprised when he offered to come down and interview me personally.

The first two hours of the interview, I was very tense. The worst part was when he asked to talk to my brother, David. He s four years older than I am and did not seem at all concerned,-- a striking contrast to my sisters. He was asked questions for about 15 minutes about family dynamics and our childhood.

Calming down

Finally David was excused. As I started to just chat with my interviewer, I calmed down a little. When he asked me about some of my interests, I began to forget that this was an interview. He asked me a question about drama, and I was completely at ease. I like talking about drama.

At the end of the meeting he told me what status of recommendation he was giving me. He looked at me and said Guaranteed. Guaranteed placement. Before I knew it, I was walking them to the door and we were saying our goodbyes. I watched them walk to their car and let out another sigh of relief. Another step had been completed. Now came the waiting. The normal time for an acceptance letter to arrive is six weeks after the interviewer sends his opinion to the main office in New York. Mine came in three, and that was two months ago.

Right now my mind is filled with questions of what to pack, how to prepare, and how to say goodbye. A lot is not certain, but one thing is: next year is going to be spectacular.

Kennon Hulett can be e-mailed at rejsende@excite.com.

For information about hosting a foregin student, or living abroad, contact any "Miss Tennky" Area Team volunteer leader. If you like, they can put you in touch with Host Families or US students who have gone abroad to ask how great it is. Or, you can call (800) AFS-INFO.