Send More Spices: On Food, Memory, and Finding Home in Nørrebro

Whenever I feel a little homesick, I don’t call home right away. Instead, I go looking for more spices.

For me, that usually means starting my day at Send More Spices in Nørrebro. It’s where I come to study, people-watch, and feel quietly held by the space around me. I’ll sit there for hours with my laptop, pretending I’m being productive while really soaking in the atmosphere—the sound of different languages floating through the room, the smell of cumin and cardamom, the steady rhythm of a place that doesn’t rush you out.

The food is cooked by women whose cooking feels unmistakably like home. Not my home exactly, but a shared one—food that carries memory, care, and repetition. The kind of food that tastes like it has been cooked many times before, for many people. Eating there always feels like being trusted with something intimate.

The name Send More Spices comes from the stories of women who migrated to Denmark in the 1980s and 1990s, when ingredients from home were hard to find and families would ask relatives to send spices from abroad. Those spices carried more than flavor—they carried memory, familiarity, and a sense of continuity in an unfamiliar place. For me, the name captures exactly what I look for when I go there: not just food, but the small comforts that make distance from home feel manageable.

Just across the street is Muhabet, a place where I sometimes volunteer. My tasks are simple but grounding: cutting bread (which I’ve learned requires surprisingly strong arm muscles), setting things up, and sitting at the table talking with people. We move between languages—me trying to practice my Danish, and at other times helping with English or Arabic translation. These small acts make me feel useful, but they also teach me a different Denmark, one seen through the lives of migrants and refugees. It’s a perspective you don’t get from classrooms or guidebooks, but from conversation, shared labor, and being present.

Conversations at Muhabet are never rushed. You can talk about nothing, or about everything. It’s one of those rare spaces where you’re allowed to exist without having to explain yourself. In many ways, it’s another kind of spice—one you don’t taste, but feel.

On my way home, I almost always stop for takeaway shawarma from one of the Syrian or Palestinian spots nearby. These are not anonymous transactions. You talk to the chef while they work, exchange small comments about the weather or the day, maybe joke a little while waiting. The food is fast, but the interaction isn’t. It’s familiar in a way that feels deeply comforting.

With food in hand, I walk past Den Røde Plads, bright and chaotic, and then through Assistens Cemetery. This is where Nørrebro slows down. People picnic next to gravestones, kids run past history, couples sit quietly on benches. It’s multiculturalism at its most ordinary and most beautiful—no performance, no explanation needed.

By the time I get home, I realize that this walk has given me exactly what I was looking for. Not one thing, but many small things layered together: food, music, conversation, shared space, familiarity.

These are my spices.

They’re what make this city livable for me. What turn studying abroad from something impressive into something deeply human. And whenever I start to miss home, I don’t ask for less distance: I just ask for more spices.