Brok rhymes with clock, and it is a Danish word that describes the petty complaints that are common in one of the happiest countries in the world, and one of the richest.

It's complaining as a social activity, usually about things that are more irritating than dangerous.

I feel there's more Danish brok in the summer because people come into contact with each other, the joy of spring is gone, and the bugs are coming out, and it can be so hot.

But really brok can be a year-round occupation.

It's particularly common in the coffee room or lunchroom on job sites, where Danes complain about their working conditions, the Danish government, the Danish public health system, Danish public transport, in particular the national train service DSB or, the all-time favorite, the exasperating Danish weather.

Brok is a way of bonding – aren't we all irritated by the same thing? And a way of blowing off steam without ever confronting anyone directly, which is always a bit dangerous in Denmark, because the country is so small and you will run into the same people again and again.

These are the light times in Denmark. In May and June, it's light until 10 or 11 in the evening, and then the sun is back around 4am. It's a nice contrast to the dark times in winter, although all that light can make you feel a bit jittery and overstimulated. It's also one of the few times a year that the Danes close their curtains.

They do that so the first rays of sunshine won't wake them up at a painfully early hour.

At other times of the year, the curtains to homes and apartments are often wide open, and visitors to Denmark are sometimes surprised that they can see right into people's homes as they eat dinner or watch TV.

Keeping curtains open makes sense for the darker times of the Danish year when you're desperate for as much sunlight as possible. But it's also a sign of confidence in who you are and what you are presenting to the world, that you have nothing to hide. This is me. This is who I am.

Authenticity is a basic Danish value, just like trust and transparency and having a sense of humor about yourself. Denmark is not a status culture, it's not a place where you fake it until you make it. It's a place where you're expected to present yourself warts and all.

One thing no one ever tells you about moving to a new country is the incredible awkwardness of it. As a newcomer, you are constantly doing or saying or planning the wrong thing, something that would be perfectly reasonable in your home culture but is weird or laughable in your new location.

Like eating alone in a restaurant.

Eating alone is no big deal in Manhattan, where I was coming from, and it's also common in Japan, Korea, and Hong Kong, where I had briefly lived. But not in Denmark.

When I arrived in Denmark 25 years ago, I already had a job, as a content creator for a small tech company. What I didn't have was any friends, or any more than a superficial knowledge of Danish language or culture.

My new colleagues were very pleasant, but like most Danes over 25, they had already built their social networks and weren't really looking for someone to hang out with after work. So I spent most of my free time alone, living temporarily at a small hotel by Peblinge Sø, where I chatted aimlessly with the receptionist (who believed I was in love with him, I later found out). Then I went out to eat by myself at a local restaurant.

Danes generally don't eat alone at restaurants, so after a while I became a familiar figure that the staff called "the hamburger girl" after my standard order.

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This episode of the "How to Live in Denmark" podcast is the introduction of my new book, The Danish Year, available exclusively for download on Amazon Kindle.