Riding Into Research: My First Spring in Copenhagen as a Postdoc

When I stepped off the plane in Copenhagen with two suitcases and a postdoc contract, the air smelled faintly of rain and new leaves. I didn’t know the difference between a CPR number and a tax card, or how to ride in a river of cyclists without getting scolded by a bell. By May, I could balance a tote of groceries on my back rack, say “tak for i dag” at the end of meetings without overthinking it, and find my way by the scent of lilacs along the lakes. It wasn’t seamless getting here—but each small win felt like the click of a gear engaging.

The Paperwork That Makes You Real

Before the cherry blossoms at Langelinie, there was the researcher visa. My department’s HR at the university handled a surprising amount, but I still spent evenings scanning documents and refreshing the SIRI portal. As a non-EU researcher, I applied under the “researcher scheme,” which required my employment contract, passport, and a few supporting forms. The fee, the biometrics appointment at the visa center in Shanghai, and the waiting were the hard parts—about six weeks of checking email every morning with a small knot in my stomach.

I asked about Denmark’s “researcher tax scheme,” the special flat rate for foreign researchers, but I didn’t qualify under the salary rules. That was a deflating moment in an otherwise happy process. In the end, I’m on the regular progressive income tax like most people here. Not glamorous, but predictable.

Arriving in Copenhagen, the next steps felt like a scavenger hunt:

• Register my address to get a CPR number (the personal ID that unlocks everything).
• Visit International House Copenhagen, who guided me through MitID (secure login), my tax card, and choosing a GP.
• Open a bank account and set up a NemKonto (so my salary actually lands somewhere). You need CPR and MitID for most banks, so plan for a couple of weeks of overlap.
• Finally, MobilePay, which everyone uses to split bills and buy a bun at the campus café.

When the yellow health card arrived, I held it like it was a diploma. It meant I was real here.

Finding a Home, One Creaky Staircase at a Time

I was warned the housing market in Copenhagen can be competitive; the warnings were accurate. I spent two weeks viewing rooms in shared apartments: one with a bathtub in the kitchen (historic charm, they said), another that smelled like an old attic. I finally found a sunny room in Amagerbro, ten minutes by bike from the city center, with a tiny balcony that faces a courtyard where kids kick a soccer ball until dinner.

Expect to pay a deposit of up to three months’ rent plus one month prepaid, and be cautious of anything that seems too good to be true—scams exist. I used a mix of housing websites and Facebook groups. For context, rooms in shared flats here commonly range from around 5,000–7,500 DKK per month, and a one-bedroom closer to the center can easily be double that. Heating and electricity are often separate and can make winter months pricier than spring.

Furniture came from a combination of IKEA and secondhand finds. I discovered the joy of “genbrug” shops and a Danish talent for giving furniture a second, third, and fourth life.

Learning to Live on Two Wheels

I hadn’t ridden a bike regularly since middle school. Copenhagen doesn’t care; it lifts you onto the saddle. There are wide cycle lanes, bike traffic lights, and rules I learned quickly: keep right, signal with your hands, have lights at night, and never stop abruptly. My most humbling moment was hesitating at a green light and earning a chorus of bells—brief, impatient, then forgotten.

By mid-April, the city turned soft. Cherry trees at Bispebjerg Cemetery peered over crowds of people taking photos in pink tunnels. I started enjoying detours along Sortedams Sø, where the surface can be a mirror or a ripple, depending on the wind. I learned a rain jacket is non-negotiable, and that if you dress for wind first, you’ll be OK. My favorite spring ritual now is coasting home past the lakes while the sky stretches into the evening, tulips bright against the grey.

Inside the Lab: Danish Work Culture, Up Close

The biggest adjustment at work wasn’t the science—it was the flat hierarchy. My first week, my PI asked my opinion in a meeting, then actually changed the plan based on it. People use first names, even with senior professors. Meetings start on time and have clear agendas. If someone disagrees, they say it directly, and it’s not an attack. At first it felt blunt; now it feels respectful.

Work-life balance is real here. I see colleagues leave at 3:30 to pick up children and log in later if needed, or simply leave because the day has ended. We have a “fredagsbar” on Fridays—a casual beer in the department lounge to mark the week’s end—where I learned the difference between awkward silence and comfortable quiet. I’m still working on not over-apologizing in meetings. My benchmark for fitting in was the day a colleague told me I was “very Danish” for turning down a third meeting that day: “Li, maybe we talk next week—we have calendars.”

Language, and the Small Door It Opens

Almost everyone speaks excellent English. That can be a trap. For two months, I avoided trying Danish beyond “tak,” “hej,” and “undskyld.” But the first time I ordered coffee in Danish and the barista answered me in Danish, it lit a tiny light inside me.

I signed up for subsidized Danish classes through the municipality. Classes are in the evening, full of people from everywhere who now all can pronounce “rødgrød med fløde” with varying success. Danish still surprises me: so many swallowed sounds, like the language is shy. But knowing a bit changes everything—neighbors greet you differently, and admin tasks feel less like a maze.

Socially, Danes plan ahead. Spontaneous plans happen, but invitations are often made weeks before. I found friends slowly: through my lab group, a women-in-science meetup, and the language class where we bonded over consonants. Saying yes to a colleague’s dinner invitation felt risky the first time; now I bring dessert and leave my shoes at the door without being told.

Healthcare, Safety Nets, and the Unromantic But Important Bits

With the CPR number, I got a GP assigned, and visits are covered. For urgent medical advice when clinics are closed, there’s the 1813 line; for emergencies, it’s 112. Dental care mostly isn’t covered, so I budget for cleanings. Prescriptions aren’t fully free, but costs taper as you spend more over the year. In an unexpected win, the nurse who gave me a vaccine appointment asked about my research and then recommended a biking route to avoid traffic on my commute. Healthcare with a side of route planning.

I joined an a-kasse (unemployment insurance) and a union for academics—common here and helpful if your contract is fixed-term like mine. It’s not romantic to talk about, but a safety net is a form of self-care in a new country.

The Cost of Everyday Life

Groceries are pricier than I was used to in Beijing, but manageable if you cook. I’ve become loyal to rye bread, eggs, and seasonal greens from the market at Torvehallerne if I’m feeling fancy, or the discount aisle if I’m not. Eating out is occasional: a smørrebrød lunch can be 60–90 DKK, and dinner at a casual place easily doubles that.

Biking keeps transportation costs low. When I take the metro, I use a Rejsekort—tap in, tap out, and trying not to overthink zones at first. Monthly passes exist if you commute by train often, but my legs are my pass these days.

Spring, and Learning to Stay

Spring made me want to stay. On May 1st, I watched a sea of red flags in Fælledparken for Workers’ Day, then a family next to me unpacked homemade buns and offered me one, laughing when I called it “stor kage” instead of “bolle.” My labmates insisted we do an early picnic even when the forecast was “light showers.” It did rain. We huddled under a beech tree and shared strawberries that tasted like the idea of summer.

At home, I planted herbs in balcony pots—dill that never sprouts and mint that won’t stop. Strangers asked for directions in Danish and sometimes I understood. I learned to accept the wind as a fact of life, like email or taxes, and to celebrate the minutes of daylight piling up each week. You won’t find that on a checklist, but it matters.

If You’re Considering This Path

• Start your visa early, and keep tidy digital copies of everything. The SIRI portal is efficient, but you’ll sleep better with a folder of PDFs.
• If you can, arrive with enough savings for deposits and the first month or two. The housing costs at move-in can be a shock.
• Say yes to structured help: International House Copenhagen, university onboarding, a-kasse info sessions. The systems can look bureaucratic, but the people inside them are often kind.
• Buy a secondhand bike and good rain gear. Learn the hand signals on YouTube, then practice at off-peak hours. A bell is not an insult; it’s communication.
• Try Danish class even if everyone switches to English. It’s not just language; it’s entry into how people think.
• Embrace the calendar. Suggest coffee two weeks out. Show up on time. Leave on time.
• Make rituals that tie you here: a weekly bakery run, a Sunday swim at Islands Brygge when it’s warm enough, a Thursday call home.

My life here isn’t perfect. Some evenings I miss the noise of my parents’ kitchen so much it feels like a physical ache. I still overpay for fish sauce because I panic in unfamiliar aisles. And there are days when experiments fail and the sky is the color of dishwater and staying inside seems safer than trying again.

But this spring, in a city that built lanes for people to move themselves, I found a rhythm. Work that challenges me, a way of traveling that makes sense at human speed, and a community that grows one planned coffee at a time. It turns out that belonging can feel like balance: hands steady, eyes ahead, bell at the ready—not to warn, just to say, I’m here too.

Best wishes from Copenhagen,