First, to my fellow Americans - have you even heard of the Faroe Islands? Do you know where they are, or anything about them? I’ll be honest: before this trip, I had only the vaguest notions of rugged islands sort of near Iceland, and I was pretty sure I’d eaten Faroese salmon. Turns out I wasn’t completely wrong. The Faroe Islands are an 18-island mountainous archipelago with a population of around 55,000 and a land mass of around 540 square miles, located in the North Atlantic Ocean north of Scotland and southeast of Iceland. They are a self-governing nation that is part of the Kingdom of Denmark (along with Greenland). The Faroese have their own currency and their own language, derivative of Nordic languages - Føroyar (Faroe Islands) translates to Sheep Islands. For both cultural and political reasons, the Faroes are closely aligned with Europe, the Nordic nations in particular. (For an American to get there one would need to travel via Reykjavik, or Copenhagen, or Dublin.)

I experienced the Faroes as both oddly familiar and very foreign - and even a tiny bit otherworldly. In Tórshavn, the capital where I spent much of my time, well-to-do Scandinavian culture, evidenced in high-end boutiques, hotels, restaurants and cars, was interspersed with the quirks of infrastructure and commerce I’ve come to associate with remote island living (picture the odd mix of food products and other necessities available in - and missing from - Monhegan, Maine’s one grocery store). This was juxtaposed with the extreme qualities of the physical environment. In May, the sun set around 2300 and rose around 0300, making sleep a challenge. Cliffs drop precipitously down into fjords in every direction. Mountain streams run through the capital.

Sheep roam the landscape - my airport taxi ride was interrupted by ovine wanderers several times. I stayed in what was considered an urban boutique hotel (where Bill Clinton once stayed), located on the hill above the city center adjoining a meadow and forested area. This was my view. Each morning, on my walk down into town, I heard baaaa-ing and found sheep grazing along the shoulder of the road into the city center. I experienced this place as a set of confusing contradictions that, in retrospect, is funny - should I put on my Patagonia gear and head into the wilderness? Do I pull on my Muckboots and help round up wayward sheep? (Because I could, actually, do that.) Or do I put on my beautiful new Faroese handknit sweater and some mascara and enjoy salmon tartare in a Scandinavian haut cuisine (fish)farm-to-table restaurant?

And yet everything I’ve just described was just the background for what I was really there to do: study the Arctic and the blue economy. During my visit I became entranced by what I’ll call the Faroe Islands’ maritime-ness. The Faroe Islands have a rich maritime history and culture centered around fishing and seafaring. This heritage is almost overwhelming in Tórshavn harbor, which is real in every way - this is not a place where fishermen have been relegated to stylized pictures on shop logos and artwork in museums, and boats exist only to ferry tourists around the island.

That the Faroes honor their maritime heritage is also evident in the fact that rowing is considered by some to be the national sport. They row in traditional wooden vessels in open waters and hold a prestigious national competition each year. I had the privilege of watching some teams practice right in the harbor - as a former coxswain, I was blown away by their skill.

But let’s get down to business here - maritime business. All evidence suggests the Faroese blue economy is booming, 21st-century style. I saw fisheries, aquaculture, passenger ferries, cruise ship tourism, maritime transport, marine recreation, and maritime heritage activities at play everywhere around me\. Per capita, the Faroe Islands are the largest exporter of seafood in the world - 95% of their exported goods are seafood. This is a combination of wild fisheries and aquaculture: the Faroese report that in 2019 they exported 625,000 tons of fish products. Both their commercial fishing and aquaculture sector have achieved a level of scale and technical sophistication that, admittedly, took me aback, given my years of work in small-scale Northeastern U.S. fisheries and aquaculture.

The Faroese fishing vessels I saw were new, sleek, enormous, and in some cases yacht-like, similar to European pelagic vessels that I saw in Hirtshals and Skagen, Denmark. These will be entirely foreign to my U.S. east coast friends. My colleagues tell me that these are the result of industry consolidation driven by the individual transferrable quota system. (Note that these are just first impressions as I have more research to do…). The real takeaway is that, for better or worse, this is the new, 21st century blue economy - and a universe away from the trawlers of New England. This has raised so many questions for me - and I hope some of you will help me think through once I’m back home.

Perhaps the biggest eye-opener of all was my visit to Bakkafrost, a Faroese salmon aquaculture business - a unique opportunity thanks to the research workshop in which I participated. That Faroese salmon you’ve eaten was likely produced by Bakkafrost, who I learned is the third largest fish farming business in the world. Between their facilities in the Faroes and Scotland, they produced 90.7 thousand tons of salmon in 2024. There is so much to say about salmon aquaculture - we can leave that for beers around the firepit. But the point I need to make here was that visiting their facility was like traveling to the future. Their corporate headquarters reminded me of my visits to Google and other Silicon Valley campuses. Our team of scientists got a *very* corporate, polished presentation from their ESG lead, followed by a tour of their sophisticated processing facility by their group harvest director. The evidence of not only their economic success but their sustainability performance is, on the surface, quite impressive. But this visit made me realize how little I know - there is so much more I need to understand. Bakkafrost is an enormous, highly sophisticated endeavor that forced me to question my understanding of aquaculture, its conflicts with other uses, and its place in the new blue economy.

One last thought on the Faroese blue economy. It is worth mentioning the one activity Faroese wanted to talk to me about, as the lone American at this workshop, when I had the opportunity to ask what outsiders might not understand about the Faroe Islands. The Faroese still hunt whales. They herd whales (primarily pilot whales) into shallow bays, kill them, butcher them, and eat whale meat as part of their cuisine. The Faroese I spoke with - who were all either scientists/researchers or professional mariners - fiercely defend this as part of their heritage. They view this as a sustainable activity that is an important part of their maritime culture. They decried organizations like Greenpeace and Sea Shepherds for getting involved and bringing them bad publicity. And, most fascinating to me were their comments that opposition from “outsiders” had only strengthened Faroese interest in and support for the annual “whale drive.” Considering this alongside the sleek Bakkafrost sustainability presentation, and so many other signs of the Faroes’ commitment to sustainability, I found myself more confused than ever. How does this all add up?

The Faroe Islands fascinated me like no other place that I can remember. I am full of questions, wanting to make sense of all these apparent contradictions, this mix of land and sea, urban and rugged, history and future, heritage and innovation. I hope to return someday. I hope to read and learn more. And I hope I have piqued your interest to do the same, as I suspect there is much we can learn by studying this unique maritime nation.

Sustainability initiatives in Denmark are hard to avoid. Signs with the U.N. Sustainable Development Goals are mainstream decor. There are no ordinary trashcans or dumpsters anywhere. In the international student/faculty housing where I live, we’re given tiny trash bags and told to take trash out to the street and sort it in one of these bins. At home I’m the cause of family jokes because I am obsessive about recycling, but here, I’ve made mistakes each and every time because there are so many different bins. This is recycling utopia!

Lest you think this is just green propaganda because I’m at a university, you are wrong. This same practice was evident during my tour last week of CS Wind Offshore, an industrial manufacturing facility for offshore wind monopiles, transition pieces, and substations. My tour guide told me that this was not unique to offshore wind, either, but is simply part of doing business in Denmark - and a condition of their corporate certifications, such as DNV.

And, of course, it’s Denmark so there are wind turbines are everywhere, and I’ve got to give you at least one of these classic images.

But let’s bring this back around to the blue economy. I came here to study marine industries, and yet I keep stumbling headfirst into sustainability and the green transition, even though I’ve not gone looking for it.

First, of course, there is Denmark’s leadership in offshore wind - which I saw firsthand at CS Wind, where I had the privilege of viewing components which will soon head to the USA for installation as part of the Coastal Virginia Offshore Wind Project. (I also saw evidence of the U.S.’s retraction on renewable energy. Two purpose-built substations sat completed but idle due to the cancellation of one U.S. project; as they were wired for the U.S. electrical system, they cannot be sold or repurposed for use elsewhere. What a waste. But I digress.)

But here’s the thing - it’s not all offshore wind by any means. I’ve now visited two ports which are actively pursuing green innovation, and, indeed, are promoting themselves because of these initiatives. In fact, this is all port managers wanted to talk about. One example, is here in Aalborg, where a major initiative of the Port of Aalborg is green transition research and development. For example, they are working with university partners on a Power-to-X test facility (i.e., converting renewable electricity into something else) - what you see below is a test e-methanol plant (I’m told). Bear with me, I’m still learning, and will get to ask more questions during a tour later this week, so stay tuned.

In another example, last week I learned about the Port of Hirtshals, up in the northwest corner of Denmark. I was at Denmark’s enormous annual “Nature Meeting” (yep, we’re back to green again and again) and had the opportunity to speak at length with the port manager. He tells me that one of their many initiatives is innovation with fish waste. Yep, you heard me - fish waste. After filleting salmon for human consumption and setting aside the piece you’ll grill next week, they are taking the remainder (think heads, tails, bones) and making products like biogas - a green fuel - and collagen - a profitable supplement.

In chatting with my new port friend, I bemoaned the fact that we don’t have many such activities in the region where I work. His response is what has stayed with me the longest. Despite our lengthy and enthusiastic talk about all the port’s green initiatives, he did not respond as I thought he might, with a comment on U.S. environmental policy. He just shrugged, smiled, and (I’m paraphrasing) said, ‘We’re making a lot of money.’

So here’s what’s got me scratching my head. First: Where is all this innovation in the U.S.? I’ve got to get out of my bubble and find these innovators, big thinkers, these future-oriented folks - because while we are certainly not out in front like the Danish, I suspect there are some interesting things happening in U.S. ports and coastal communities that I simply haven’t seen. I want to see them, because these innovations give me such hope and inspiration. Second: What are the barriers to such innovation? Not the news headlines and social media conspiracies, but the actual legal and economic barriers, to growing such businesses in the U.S.? There must be some, and I’d find it really gratifying to tackle them. And finally, What makes green work here in Denmark? How can we do this at home? What would it take to make this a normal part of everyday life? Not a far-left, hippy, crunchy, woke, moralistic, self-righteous, liberal elite, snowflake, science evangelist, you-snotty-Northeasterners-with-your-Subarus-and-shopping-bags blah blah blah thing. Not a blue vs. red thing. But about great jobs and interesting companies and solving problems, and trading old smelly dumpsters and trash heaps for a clean and inspiring future. Not an easily solvable problem, but one that is interesting to think about. Let’s discuss over that grilled salmon and a beer when I get home, shall we?

I mean, dear readers! Allow me to start with a note of apology: I have been far too busy traveling, and learning, and figuring out how to live abroad, and navigating the dynamics of being an American overseas in 2025, and more. I have a backlog of posts in my head, and will say more in the coming days.

While there is much to say about maritime affairs, bear with me - I must start by writing about crying in museums in Denmark. Because, that is what I have been doing on my weekends.

First, a note to all you worriers out there - Please don’t. I am fine. In fact I am great! Certainly a thousand times better than a few months ago. And I am not sobbing, nor even causing my mascara to run all that much. But I have been walking around for lengths of time with a lump in my throat, and tears pricking my eyes, and the inability to speak [unrelated to my terrible attempts at Danish]. And it keeps happening.

What museums and cultural institutions are causing all this crying? Lovely ones, but nothing very famous that would be familiar to my American readers. The first weekend it was here in Aalborg: the Kunsten Museum of Modern Art and the Utzon Center, an architecture and design center on the waterfront. That weekend, I thought it was just exhaustion and relief: months and months of hard work, angst and travel had finally gotten me here and I could finally feel the adrenaline start to recede. But then it happened the second weekend up in Skagen: Den Tilsandede Kirke, or the sand-buried church. And the third, too, at Besaettelses Museet, or the Occupation Museum, and Den Gamle By (“The Old Town”), an open-air, village-style history museum, both down in Aarhus.

So what is going on? I’m still processing, but here’s what I’ve got so far: It’s light. History. And memory.

Light.

The light is different here, with a clarity and crispness that I can’t quite explain. It’s not just that the days are long (sunrise 0447, sunset 2147 today). There is a clean purity to it that is amplified by the simplicity of Scandinavian modern art and design. The Utzon Center was designed by and is a tribute to Jørn Utzon, the architect who is best known for the Sydney Opera House. I’ve lost whatever vocabulary I once had to articulate what I find moving about architecture and art (sorry, Columbia), but I can say this - in Jørn’s building, I felt my shoulders drop and my lungs enlarge and my brain somehow decompress, and I felt that light absorb into my skin and my chest and my heart. It changed me, untangling knots that have been tied for longer than I care to acknowledge. And it made me wonder - what happens to our humanity when we don’t give ourselves this gift? When art and architecture are understood only to be eccentric luxuries and taxpayer burdens?

History.

There is no way to avoid history here, of course - but what has been particularly meaningful to me are the ways in which the Danish remember World War II. Denmark was occupied by Nazi Germany for five years during the war. A resistance formed during this time which I have just begun to learn about. In Aarhus, the Occupation Museum tells these stories with a candor that I am learning is a very Danish characteristic. Before I entered the museum, an English-speaking docent greeted me with a lengthy and very thoughtful exhibit overview. She pointed out how the exhibits explored moral conundrums of this time, including the difficult decisions ordinary Danish citizens were faced with. I became engrossed in this museum, its tales of real people, and its reluctance to paint this story as one of heroes and villains. Stories of struggle are relatable when they are human, when they embrace the grey space that we occupy daily, even if we choose to deny it. Who would I have been? What would I have done? In my darker moments, I wonder if I could have been as courageous as was called for.

And it made me wonder - what does it mean for a people to look its darkest history in the eye? To acknowledge weakness? Failure? Indeed, how can one confront these questions without a few tears?

Memory.

I’ve been lost in memory lately, especially on these long walks by myself through foreign streets and museums and galleries. Ironic, yes, given that I’ve never been here before and therefore have no memory of these places. Is it just the amount of time I’m having to myself that causes my brain to wander into the past? This opportunity to live a simpler life, reminiscent of my post-college 20s? I miss that girl. But I digress….

I experienced a strange and overwhelming whiplash of memory and deja vu at Den Gamle By. Yes, on the surface, this outdoor history museum is reminiscent of Mystic Seaport Museum (Connecticut) and Greenfield Village (Michigan). But here is what walloped me: they have entire streets, with residences and stores, depicting not only more distant history but the years 1974 and 2014. These streets have multi-story residential buildings and storefronts moved from cities around Denmark. In these buildings, each floor is set up as an ordinary apartment, like you’ve walked into someone’s home. No museum signs - just regular people’s things laying around as though they’d just stepped out. It was as if I’d literally walked back into the Bronx in the 1970s into my family members’ homes, and my 20-something mom or aunt was just down the hall. I burst into tears when I walked into the first home, saw the stereo receiver and records, the closet full of 1970s women’s dresses that could well have been my mom’s. Gosh, I can’t even write about this without starting all over again.

Why does this still hit me so hard? It’s because oof, do I feel my age lately. I’m struggling with the passage of time and I don’t know how to talk about this meaningfully with the people around me. But it’s also this grief that’s had me knocked down for so long. For some time now I’ve had this overwhelming sense that we have lost something profound - social cohesion, shared values, a commitment to something bigger than ourselves, so much more. Was 1974 perfect? Of course not. Far from it. But something is wrong now, in 2025. And these simple exhibits enabled me to acknowledge this so much better than any op-ed or podcast.

While I’m not one for tears, and emotional displays are certainly not a thing here in Denmark, I’m most grateful for all of this. For the chance to go to these beautiful, thought-provoking, enriching places. For long chunks of time to wander and explore and reflect. And for the opportunity to process heavy stuff. I hope you find your own Crying in Museums in Denmark experience. It might turn out you really needed it.

Aalborg is hardly a large city - the town itself has a population around 120,000 - though it is the fourth largest city in Denmark. Located over 400 km northwest of Copenhagen, it sits on the Limfjord, which connects to the Kattegat to the east. Aalborg has a rich history in shipbuilding, and today hosts the Port of Aalborg (outside of town) - a major “inland” port and one of the world’s leading offshore wind hubs. I’ll make my way to the Port eventually…but this weekend I am learning the old city. And so, reminiscent of Melville (“circumambulate the city”), I walked the length of Aalborg’s waterfront: from the Musikkens Hus (Music House), past the Aalborg University building where my office is, past museums and parks and restaurants (all set far back from the water), through marinas and the Maritime Experience Center, to the Marina Fjordparken.

Aalborg reminds me of my grad school years learning about waterfront planning and development. In many ways, its post-industrial waterfront is no different than that of Providence or Portland. Shipbuildings have left, manufacturing has vacated waterfront mill buildings, recreation is on the rise. In so many U.S. locations this has meant condos and hotels, blocking access - physical or visual - to the city’s former lifeblood. Yet here this has meant sleek, Scandinavian water-oriented design. Steps invite us to the water. A viewing platform enables visitors to step out over the water and view traffic along the Limfjord. Yes, I’ve begun seeing design like this in some U.S. waterfront areas - but far too little, and in many cases too late.

But here is my absolute favorite discovery, the likes of which I’ve never seen before: the Vestre Fjordpark, an outdoor swimming park right in the city. The tall structure in the image is a swim platform. This “swimming bath” is evidently quite popular even in colder weather - I saw a few swimmers on this blustery Saturday.

What can we take from this? Well, an urban swimming park is only possible through strong environmental management (water quality) and innovative waterfront planning and design. At home we are turning our back on the former, though I hope the latter will survive.

Yet there is a third ingredient, which is what drew me to Scandinavia in the first place: a water orientation. Do we face the water or do we turn away? Do we build steps and platforms, or fences and wall-like buildings? Are we clear-eyed about challenges like floods and storms, or do we pretend, a la Hans Christian Andersen (a Danish hero), that the emperor is fully clothed? Do we see the sea at all?

I am quickly falling in love with Aalborg. My waterfront tour has made me miss the earlier days of my marine affairs career, when I focused on local coastal and waterfront planning and development. Good inspiration for further exploration here in Denmark. Yet I wonder - how can I rekindle a local, community-oriented focus in the next phase of my professional life? I spend too much time lately thinking that it’s too late (for pretty much anything). Maybe it’s time for an attitude change.

Well, that and a marine biologist. As a girl, I went back and forth between writing stories and dreaming about whales. In college, I dreamed of finding a woodsy retreat in Connecticut and writing my book. At the same time, my interests in the marine world morphed into those best suited to my skills in the humanities and social sciences. I wrote a thesis on whaling captains’ wives. I read women’s journals on microfiche in museums and historical societies at places like the Nantucket Whaling Museum, relishing the saltiness of the New England coast, the escape from the isle of Manahatta. I achieved no brilliant insights - but I loved the subject, the place, and the work.

These memories surface often, of late. Because, fast forward 30 years since those microfiche days, I find myself preoccupied with questions about my career, my profession, my country, my life. I had envisioned my one-year sabbatical as my time to reconsider my path, to revisit these long-forgotten dreams and interests. Even to relearn how to write (like a human, not an academic). And yet here I am, nearing the end of the sabbatical, more confused than ever. Will I have a job much longer? Do I want my job? What should I do with the rest of my life? What *can* I do, given the rapid and wrenching dissolution of my marine and environmental management community? Have I accomplished what I set out to achieve? What would that 12-year old lover of dolphins, or that 21-year-old lover of ships and old things, make of middle-aged me?

The good news, as I tell myself, is that it’s not too late. Sabbatical isn’t over. In fact, tomorrow I board a plane and embark on an overseas adventure that is part professional growth, part bucket list. I will learn about the blue economy and blue governance in Denmark. And I will learn about the Arctic, through collaboration with colleagues and a side trip to the Faroe Islands. But I will also “study abroad” for the first time in my life. I will glean the ocean and environmental expertise of my Scandinavian counterparts. And I will drench myself in the culture of people who have understood the maritime world far better and celebrated its value far more than we ever have.

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Would you like to join me on this journey? This will be part travelogue, part commentary on what I learn about our oceans and coasts during my time away. But it will also be a personal challenge: to pull myself out of the funk that has made it impossible to get up and at it these past few months. To remember the passion and curiosity that first set me on this path so many years ago. And perhaps even to figure out what’s next. I hope to write once or twice a week during my five weeks of travel. And I may continue this writing and reflection adventure once I return home.

Thank you for coming aboard. It is always best to travel in good company.