It’s been a long year, so I scraped together the dregs of my annual leave and booked a flight to Copenhagen.
The unspeakably convenient minibus that previously provided a service from my front door to Luton airport has ceased, so I welded journey out of a tube, a train and a bus to get to my favourite tin shed. As I’m only away for a long weekend, I skipped the check-in queue and whizzed through security, thankfully without having to contort my oversized hand luggage into the tiny metal box representing the permitted dimensions. I chatted to a young half-Polish family over a croissant, then made my way to the gate so efficiently, that I was the first non-priority passenger on the plane.
The flight was over before it started, and I (internally) gasped with wonder as we descended over the wild foaming swell of the North sea, on to the sliver of tarmac. A noiseless metro took me to the centre of the city, and I arrived.
Unable to check in for an hour or so, I grabbed brunch for lunch (because breakfast foods are the most decadent, and best suited to times of leisure), and had a little wander (oversized case in tow) to get my bearings. Once I’d relinquished my cumbersome baggage, I started to follow a man with the intention of partaking in a walking tour.
The man (Jarrod) led aforementioned walking tour, weaving twenty expectant tourists (myself among their number) through the cobbled streets of Christianshavn, past Gothic churches with swirling spindled roofs, into Christiania, the ‘experimental’ and ‘liberal’ Freetown within Copenhagen. I emerged slightly heady from the pungent smog of Pusher Street, thanked Jarrod for his extensive local knowledge, and along with some people from the tour, headed for Paper Island, to one of Copenhagen’s edgy food markets. Stalls provided forays into every cuisine of the world. I settled on a traditional Danish curry, and huddled by the open fire for warmth.
I woke up to a pastel sky and a biting wind. I lingered over a phenomenal chocolate pastry and the first of many coffees, before heading over to Davids Samling; an astonishing collection of Islamic art and European furniture. I lost myself in the flowing filagree and infinite geometry of adorned Koranic texts, marvelled at gargantuan tapestries, salivated over sumptuous jewels, and admired delicate miniatures of richly dressed figures. The chinoiserie in the high-ceilinged chamber looking over Kongens Have kindled a fire of envy in my heart, and I glided from room to room in a bewildered stupor.
The cold air slapped me down to earth, and I joined a second walking tour that took me through squares and passageways past the Rundetaarn and the cathedral. I was conveniently deposited at Torvehallerne where I gorged on artisanal smørrebrød, and briefly regained some warmth.
I spent my afternoon ascending the Rundetaarn, mooching around a cheery exhibition from the Museum of Broken Relationships (on tour from Croatia), lusting after Scandi furniture in Illums Bolighus and sipping coffee number [x] in a chic underground cellar.
I later met a walking tour buddy at Tivoli Gardens, the second-oldest amusement park in Denmark, and the world. By the grace of a gregarious local (with a spare ticket) I got in for free, and was able to appreciate the sparkling lights and stomach-churning rides without wondering if it was worth it. We circled the park sipping gløgg, and absorbing the festive atmosphere.
My final morning in Copenhagen started with the requisite pastry consumption. I then wandered around the elegant Rosenborg Castle. I gazed at ornate porcelain and tiny superfluous trinkets, and gawped at quintessential portraits of people that looked like they could belong to no era but their own. I had a brief rustle through the palm houses at the Botanical Garden, then snaffled another smørrebrød before heading up to see the statue of the Little Mermaid that everyone complains about. It was actually bigger than I thought it would be; have low expectations in life and avoid disappointment. I traipsed back across town, cut across Nyhavn, and returned to the hostel where I finished War and Peace. Finishing War and Peace is not a ‘must-do’ in Copenhagen, but as a semi-significant life event I thought I’d record it here for posterity.
Copenhagen is cool. As in, Shoreditch edgy hipster cool. I’ve had great coffee, great food, and great weather, which is all that I really wanted. The weather was merely circumstantial, but remains part of my experience. The locals have been friendly, and have explained the fashionable concept of hygge to me in a way that I can semi-understand, and can by no means do justice to here (but I’ll try). My hygge is a meditative state of presence and absence. The presence of the self, the moment, the sensation, the absence of the external; obligation, responsibility.
This break, just like my last, has brought me back to myself, because everything I’ve done has been for me. That’s the beauty of solo travel, and whilst it sounds selfish, (and I do sometimes wish I could share an experience), ultimately any perception of a place will be internal, individual and inexpressible to others. Which negates the purpose of this self-indulgent blog, but hey, you read it.
My next trip is going to be with friends (yeah I have some), and whilst the majority of my recent adventures have been ones of self-discovery, I think it’s time to discover a self with others.
nativeoyster 