By denmarkguy on Skatehive
I was 12 years old when my mother decided to pack up all our earthly possessions and move us across Europe, from Denmark to the south of Spain, so that we could go live with the man I eventually came to think of as my stepdad. At that point, my parents had been doing their separate things for about three years, and she had no particular love of Denmark. I didn't really have much to say about it, because my "normal" had already been that we moved constantly and had been doing so ever since I was a tiny kid. My ambivalence, of course, was not informed by the small detail that this move to Spain was permanent, unlike our previous moves, where we would spend 4-9 months abroad and then return back to Denmark. I had pretty much also given zero thought to the reality that people where we were going would likely speak neither English nor Danish. It was an oversight that ultimately didn't turn out to be as serious as it could have been. After all, we were moving to an enclave of predominantly E