The first time I visited Copenhagen I decided to quit my job. I had spent five years working nearly 60 hours per week as an editor, I never took vacation, I was struggling with finances, and I was deeply unhappy.
My parents, who were closing in on retirement, had been to Ireland not long before and the travel bug for Europe had struck. Now they chose Denmark. To my good fortune, they treated their three adult children to this August trip. The old, brightly painted buildings house pubs and tattoo shops and high-priced apartments.
Canal boat tours run steadily. The outdoor seats at the waterside restaurants blend together and the tourists share tables. You eat open-faced sandwiches, salads, maybe a sausage.
You drink a pint of Tuborg or a glass of wine. During that first visit, I noticed a basement shop with a handwritten sign on the door. No sex. As I sat harborside, I watched the sun come up on the Opera House. The sharply angled roof reminded me of a pulp mystery fedora. A young woman jogged near the wall where I sat with my notebook, touched the pillar just past me, and smiled. Within four months of that first trip, I was working independently.
I made more money but took on more debt. I traveled considerably. My brother married in October. January returned and my sister married. Meanwhile, in that month period I had spent four months in other cities. Still, I was homesick. I went to the bar on my corner on a night I normally would not have been thereβ¦and subsequently met the love of my life.
