København

As our train continued north, the scenery outside the window grew increasingly flat—thatches of trees and clearings briefly disappeared beneath a late-autumn fog before reappearing again.

Occasionally, the train would ascend a viaduct or bridge and reveal the countryside dotted with quaint villages. As we neared the border of our next country, the train slowed before coming to rest at a rustic, rather overgrown platform on the edge of a village. Aside from the one or two commuters waiting in the cold, six uniformed soldiers bearing the Dannebrog on their shoulders boarded the train. The lead soldier muttered something unrecognizable before saying the universal word: passport. After combing through the train, the six men seemed satisfied and waved us on to our final European country: Denmark.

An overview of European culture hardly seemed complete without a visit to the Scandinavian region. Consistency ranking near or at the top of the World Happiness Report, Denmark is a small, nordic nation situated on the Baltic Sea. Despite the northerly latitude, dark winters, and lack of mountains, the Danes manage to not just get by but build practical, fulfilling lifestyles for themselves. It’s a bit perplexing. I feel like we Americans tend to hear the statistics and treat Denmark like some far-off fairytale. A 34-hour work week? They must have to take out second jobs just to pay the taxes. Earlier in the year, I read two books on the matter and wanted to see the country for myself. Despite two failed attempts and a whole host of coronavirus cancellations, the shores of the Baltic were finally coming into view. 

Our train let us off in Copenhagen’s central station to a flurry of smartly-dressed Danes quickly navigating the dozens of platforms. A 48-hour pass gave us unlimited access to all the local and regional transit which we took to our hotel, one of the lone structures standing above the marshes on the south side of the island. I fought back a cringe as I saw the charge come through on my phone. Good thing we’re not staying long.

The first day, we spent $50 USD on tacos. In most parts of the world, that would get you between fifteen and twenty tacos, but in Copenhagen, it will only get you seven. Still, after two months any tacos is better than no tacos, and the Vikings use way more flavor than the French—désolé.

Our mission for the afternoon was finding rain coats given that we hadn’t planned on staying in Europe past the turn of the season and certainly hadn’t packed for Denmark in November. Strøget, a pedestrian way that leads through the historic district, was the first of its kind to eliminate vehicle traffic in the 1960s. Initially a trial, the economic boost was such a success that the ban on cars remained, and similar rezoning has been replicated in congested city centers around the world. Tori and I decided to walk the length from the main train station to the old fishing district of Nyhavn. Even though it was fairly early in the season, Christmas markets had taken over the main plazas, and lights were strung at intervals between the nineteenth-century facades. We were both taken aback at the sheer number of people in the streets—as if we had somehow stepped back into an evening in 2019. Still, despite the crowds, there was an order and efficiency to it. Pedestrians kept to the right side of the walkways. Raised bike lanes formed their own network through the city, and if a lingering tourist happened to step into one, a chorus of bells and polite reprimands would erupt from either direction.

The eastern terminus of the street spilled out into a cobbled plaza that sat at the head of an inlet. Situated along the inlet were the brightly-colored Scandinavian buildings you might see on a postcard or guidebook. It was obvious we had stepped out of the local patterns and into a more touristy district, so we snapped a few photos before returning to the city to find a local coffee spot.

A latte in central Copenhagen will set you back close to $10 USD but, given the right roaster, it will make up for it in smoothness. As we sipped on our warm coffees in front of a massive window overlooking the street, I noticed a young mother pushing a pram. Tori noticed it, too. As she stopped to zip up her baby before darting inside the coffee shop, Tori leaned over to say: It’s happening! We had always heard that it was safe enough in Denmark to leave your baby on the street, but I always pictured a summer afternoon in a quaint town—probably with a cafe terrace nearby. Even that seemed far-off. But not as far-off as a windy, autumn day in the city center of 800,000. I felt somewhat responsible to make sure nothing happened to the little guy, but no one else seemed fazed.

There’s a high degree of trust in Denmark. It’s really what makes the whole place tick. On the smaller scale, Danes trust one another to do the right thing. On a larger scale, they place their trust in their government to function and provide the services they designate: anything from public healthcare to free education to maternity/paternity leave to stipends should you choose to change careers. The public safety nets are cast wide, so there’s less reason to worry should you stumble. If you don’t enjoy the work you’re doing, take some time off or go back to school. There’s some latitude there for trial and error. Because of that, the poverty rate is one of the lowest in the world, and conversely, it’s largely frowned upon to build wealth past a certain degree leaving more people on equal footing than in other wealthy countries. The Danish work ethic is one of moderation and efficiency. They focus on fewer hours of higher productivity so that work can give way to other things like spending time with others, pursuing interests, or just sitting by the fire enjoying the one Danish word you might know; hygge.

Hygge is loosely defined as “coziness,” but to me, it seems more centered around intention. It’s not just lighting candles; it’s carving out space to spend time with people or being intentional about curating your surroundings to make them inviting. I think it’s that intention and simplicity that draws me, like so many others, to Scandinavian design: the high contrast, the space needed to draw your eye to a few, select focal points, the warm wood tones that pair with intentional lighting to create an inviting feel. There’s a disciple required to do more with less that challenges you to tread just a bit lighter. These thoughts circled my mind as we perused an home and design store before abruptly being halted by the realization that if I knocked anything over, we’d instantly be bankrupt. 

Having found our Danish rain coats, we stepped back into the cool air. Even though it was only five in the afternoon, the full moon hung low over the rooftops. The whole plaza seemed to pause for a moment to watch the lunar surface inch into full view casting beams down the light-strung streets. Next to a massive Christmas tree and beneath the old Viking spires, it felt as if the North Pole could be just over the horizon. This tiny kingdom seemed to be its own world on the edge of the sea.

The next morning, I woke up early to get some photos before heading to the airport. It was a short walk from our hotel to the nearest train station and only about a ten-minute ride downtown. With a fresh hair cut and not not a scrap of cotton fabric on me, I felt like I could fit in. It occurred to me that this was the first modern city we had visited. Yes, there’s a historic core, but the city really feels like it’s moving with the ages, looking forward more than its looking back. It’s a beautiful fusion of steel and glass and cobblestone. It also occurred to me that this was one of the first places I’ve just wanted to stay for awhile—not to visit but to dive into a project or work, to learn the local spots and rhythms. Because the rhythms here seem worth learning. We set out on this trip with questions about the world, about how we approach work and life and how that differs from the rest of the world. Traveling hasn’t satiated any of those questions; it’s only fanned the flame. But, on the shores of the Baltic in a tiny, modern country—that’s not a fairytale, I knew I was at least asking the right ones.