Page 35 of The Wandering Season

Week Four: Denmark

Nyhavn District, Copenhagen

Though it wasn’t even close to peak season, the streets of Copenhagen were far from empty, and I felt glad for the day I’d spent with the girls in Milan as a reminder of city life after my long absence from Denver. After the time spent in the country outside of Westport and the rambling cobblestone streets of Beynac-et-Cazenac, I’d grown comfortable with the solitude. The sensation of people milling about was enough to give me a vague feeling of vertigo.

Of all the countries Avery had scheduled me to visit on this trip, Denmark was the one I was least familiar with and the one I had the most reservations about. I didn’t speak the language at all, which was disconcerting even if most of the people in the capital spoke English better than I did. I’d never yearned to visit Denmark as I had the other countries. But as the metro from the airport let me out at the city square, the charm of the colorful merchant city was undeniable.

The vacation rental Avery had secured for me was an apartment above a restaurant in Nyhavn. The building’s fa?ade was a vibrant shade of cornflower blue, and the rest of the buildings refused to be shown up. Kelly green, brick red, and sunflower yellow all did their best to ward off the gloom of winter. Given the temperatures that fought to stay above freezing and the sun setting at four in the afternoon, I better understood the Danish affinity for bold colors. Somehow, it did make everything seem a little less cold and bleak.

The apartment was large, especially by European standards, and tastefully decorated in a style that wasn’t too spartan, nor too frilly. The undefinable Danish word hygge came to mind. Mom had read several books on the topic a few years ago, not that she needed any help making her home feel cozy and welcoming. She’d also mastered the art of finding the joy in food, friends, and family and dragged Dad along for the ride, especially now that he was retired. And I realized for the eleventy billionth time what a good match they were. Mom could show Dad how to slow down—and he desperately needed the lesson. And on the flip side, Dad was able to guide Mom with her business so she could turn a profit without working herself into the ground to do it.

Was that why I’d gravitated to Jonathan? I saw something resembling Dad’s business acumen and worldliness and thought he would complement me as Dad did Mom? The difference was that Dad was so head over heels in love with Mom, he’d have mortgaged the heavens to make her dreams come true. They were so lucky to have found each other. Had their relationship set too high of a benchmark for my own? How could Jonathan have hoped to compete with that standard?

I let myself into the rental with the code Avery had sent via text. The airy apartment had high ceilings and massive glass doors that opened up to what was by all accounts a lovely balcony. Well, it would be lovely in summer with a nice Danish and coffee, even if unthinkably uncomfortable in winter.

I would have been happy to crawl into bed, take a nap, and remind myself that being alone had some true joys—like blissfully undisturbed sleep—but it would have been bad for my body clock to nap in the midafternoon.

I grabbed my day bag and headed back onto the street. The rain was light and insistent but not to the point where going out of doors was wholly unpleasant. And of course Avery had packed for every eventuality, espousing the mantra, “There is no bad weather, only bad clothes.”

I wandered in the area near Nyhavn, which was supposedly one of the trendiest parts of town. In better weather it might have been enchanting, with more people milling about by the waterside and dining at outdoor café tables, but the cold had driven even the hardiest of locals to dine inside. And I understood how they felt. January was traditionally colder than December, which meant the rain transitioned to snow, but apparently the weather hadn’t gotten the memo to update its calendar. I’d take a light to medium snow over any sort of rain any day of the week, but that was likely the Denverite in me talking. Snow could be brushed off, while rain penetrated everything and seemed impossible to escape.

Another reason moving to Ireland would have been a terrible idea. The bogs and the rain would have driven me mad. No matter how pleasant the fire and how warm the kitchens. No matter how lovely Niall was. I’d still have to deal with months of soggy gloom.

And even in my head it was the silliest of excuses. Would the rain really have mattered if I’d decided to uproot myself and move to Ireland? Hardly. At least not at first. But the time might have come when the charms of Blackthorn, and Niall himself, would cease to be enough to distract me from the unending drizzle.

But as Niall had once said, Blackthorn might get swept up by a hurricane one day too. And I hated how much my heart lifted with every text and email he’d sent. I’d promised to be a faithful respondent, and I would honor that pledge, but I was convinced my proposed clean break would have been easier on us both.

I wandered into a small bodega-style grocery. Having some coffee and a few snacks for the vacation rental might be wise. While I was usually consumed with inspiration in such a spot, I found the perfectly ordered rows of packaged foods, the immaculate meat counter, and the vibrant produce almost annoying in their perfection. I quickly decided on what appeared to be some basic wheat crackers, digestive biscuits with chocolate, and some decent coffee. Bland, dependable, and absolutely uninspired.

I wandered another hour and did my best to lose myself in the city’s charm. I perused restaurants, scanning menus and taking note of interesting fare or unique ambiance. I picked up a few trinkets for the family and even a soft sage-green pashmina for myself. I treated myself to coffee and a slice of Danish brunsviger—a hearty yeast cake with a lovely butter and brown sugar topping, but even baked goods failed to materially improve my mood. Perhaps it was the loneliness of traveling alone, but I didn’t think so. My job had me traveling all over the American West sourcing ingredients, and I was perfectly content on my own. But this time the lack of company meant I’d have to face my demons without distraction.

And it was all I could do not to find a dark spot and hole away from them until they retreated into the shadows. But no matter how long I cowered, they would be waiting for me. And these were the sort of beasties who grew fangs when left too long to fester.

The irony that I felt shrouded in a wet blanket of depression in what so many news outlets dubbed “one of the happiest countries in the world”

was not lost on me. But wasn’t it true that happiness was so much more dependent on the people in our lives than on where we were? I thought of all the times Dad had said when we were kids that he’d rather live in the gutter with us than in a mansion by himself. I’d thought it hyperbolic at the time, but as an adult I realized it was more or less the unvarnished truth.

And I was lucky to have four people in my life—Mom, Dad, Avery, and Stephanie—who were on my “gutter list.”

Many people didn’t have as much. But it was clear to me, as the chilling rain intensified and I looped back toward the vacation rental, Jonathan wasn’t on that list anymore. What was more striking, the more I considered it, was that I was fairly certain I’d never been on his. Not really. I held the “girlfriend”

slot, but it was because of the position I held in his life, not who I was as a person, that made me important to him.

And acknowledging that I deserved an unconditional place on his list was a leap forward. For so long, since that lonely day we learned about genetic traits in biology, I’d allowed myself to believe that because I hadn’t been on my birth parents’ gutter list, I didn’t believe I belonged on anyone’s list at all. And that wasn’t true. It was taking me a long time to own that, but I’d get there fully in time.

The rain had become torrential by this point and closer to sleet than actual rain. By the time I reached the rental, I was soaked through and ready to curl up for several months, sodden clothes and all, but I forced myself out of the layers of wet cotton and wool and into the hot shower before eating a handful of crackers. I begged my Danish foremother, whoever she was, to give me a pass that night. I crawled into the plush bed and hoped I’d find answers somewhere in the goose down.