Everyplace has weather, and when traveling one shouldn’t judge a destination by it. But I did, on accident, on Copenhagen’s too-straight streets.
Copenhagen has plenty of people vouching for it, saying wonderful things about it like “It’s so clean” and “It’s so quiet and well-behaved,” as if it were a small-town beauty queen or a perfectly-behaved labrador retriever.
But there’s something in the human spirit that craves friction, or contrast, or even violence—some punctuation in the timeline, like a lone volcano on an empty landscape. And I was having trouble finding it along the edge of Sundet, where beautiful people lived in a beautiful city under a grey cloud canopy, earthbound mist heralding the coming sprinkles of rain.
The fine line that stood between mundane and misery was a too-thin rain poncho, a blue garbage bag with a hood, a one-sized-fits-all that rattled like a sail whenever the wind picked up. I looked ridiculous, as most tourists do, and compounded my appearance when I splashed-down into a puddle.
I thought of the first time I visited Paris, about how I hated it but have since come to admire. Time and place matter less on a journey—people matter the most. Spend a week in Paris with someone you’d rather not be around, and you will hate Paris. Spend a few days in Copenhagen anticipating a reunion with someone you miss, and you’ll dislike Copenhagen. Or anywhere. Especially if it’s raining.