...and then we each ate our own pizza.

The local pizza guys are the first Danes I've met who cannot speak a single lick of English.
And Callie and I were hungry.

I call the local pizza place and in my most innocent American voice say, "Hi! I'd like to order some pizza?" [oh yea, I went for the statement said in question form.]
Neither the first nor second man I speak with can understand English.
After telling me they would not make pizza for my lazy American ass presumably explaining that I should walk down to the restaurant and order there the curt gentleman says, "okay?"
A hesitant "Okay..."is my response.
He hangs up.

I text my host brother asking for help.
He calls and has a good chuckle at my trouble.
He tells me to walk down there and point to the menu at what I want, and if they don't understand the desperate gestures of a hungry American and her friend, then we could call him and he would translate to Danish for us.

We venture down the block.
We enter a pizza parlor the size of my dorm room behind the red brick wall.
We are greeted with suspicion.
We act in earnest awkwardness.

I, very aware of my close proximity to the other six, staring customers in the small restaurant (if it were a pair of boobs, would be a proud member of the itty bitty titty committee) attempt to tell the only Dane I've met that doesn't speak English that I want two number ones.

The transaction is completed.

We listen to the music, speak in the quietest voices our American selves can muster, and wait for our pizza.

I mumble/silently say 'thank you' on our way out. [I was already afraid that they spit in our pizza, and they knew I didn't speak Danish and I know they didn't speak English and I didn't want to butcher a Danish thank you or offend them with an English one...even in a 10 second moment I managed to transcend the awkwardness and overthink it.]

The pizza was delicious, by the way.