Where Have You Been All Day?

May, 2022

Copenhagen, Denmark

I walk an average of five miles a day. These walks are nothing short of sacred to me; my phone rests silently in my pocket, and I listen only to the air. Copenhagen is a city for walking. The city is known for its bikers, and I respect them, but I find that a city can be known most intimately on foot. The streets stretch far and each turn reveals a new architectural personality. Colors shift from yellow to blue to gray as I walk through the neighborhoods. Norrebro has spunk and grit, while Fredericksburg has a clean and polished feel. I duck into alleyways and meander around the harbor with a curiosity that two wheels would hinder. 

At home, I was embarrassed to walk alone. I would walk fast, on a runway of my own creation, to seem cool and mysterious, rather than lonely. Even just when walking, I was tailoring my existence to external perception. That was then. Here I walk as if I am invisible. I float through the streets like a gentle gust of wind --- not looking to be seen, but to see. This has helped me notice things that I would have normally sauntered past. 

On one of my walks, I stumbled upon a small cafe. Nestled between two banal white buildings, it boasted a burst of yellow paint and black window trimming. In Copenhagen, I have grown accustomed to such pops of color, but this yellow cafe was so confidently bright that I felt I had to enter. Walking solo allows for these sporadic changes in route.

I used to hate being alone. The silence always seemed deafening; making spaces meaningless without some sort of chatter. I blamed it on my extroversion. Talking gave me energy and moments seemed more special when shared. Conversation has always come easily to me, and being around people made me feel valuable. I came to Copenhagen alone. It is my final semester of college, and most of my peers are meandering through their normal routines at my school. When I shared the news I was traveling abroad, I received a torrent of raised eyebrows and tilted heads. 

“But it’s your senior year” they would say. “Don't you want to be with the people who know you?”

Though I would brush it off and tell them I was excited, there was a small sprout of nerves in my chest that bloomed as time moved on. I had many fears about traveling abroad, mainly that I was going to be alone. My extroverted tendencies had waned over my college years, along with my confidence in making connections. 

After engaging in a persistent cycle of love and heartbreak during my college experience, I had not let myself be completely alone. When I would witness something great, I would instinctively share this moment with my significant other. It was as if my life was only meaningful under the gaze of someone else. 

I left my close friends behind when I arrived in Denmark. Just a week prior, I ended my relationship, as an act of self-love. I was on a quest for true independence.

The inside of the cafe was cramped --- but in a comfortable way. The window sills were lined with lit candles and small succulents. It reminded me of the small plants I would often neglect in my college dorm room. On walls hung eclectic art pieces: framed collages, and small sculptures. In one corner, there was a glass case displaying three different fedoras. Strange. I thought. Throughout the room, there were mirrors of different shapes and sizes, catching different pieces of my reflection. I only glanced at them briefly.

There was a boy working behind the counter. He subtly nodded his head to the song playing through the tiny speaker on the windowsill as he cleaned the espresso machine. Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon was blasting with a tinny crackle. Immediately, I noticed his overalls. They were bright red with white vertical stripes. Where’s Waldo? I thought to myself. His back was turned to me. I started to get the feeling that I was about to scare the crap out of this poor employee. I cleared my throat. The head bobbing continued without a flinch. I noticed a small silver bell on the counter and, after much deliberation, tapped it once with a wince. 

During my solo walks, I always become shy. I find that being alone with myself often causes me to retreat inward, at times rendering me incapable of social interaction. 

Ding. What a cute little sound. The boy’s shoulders shuddered swiftly and I swear I heard him let out a small yelp. He definitely did not hear me come in. I chuckled to myself. I really am the wind. He turned around and met my gaze. His eyes were as complicated as his overalls, with flecks of green and blue; like lily pads on a still pond. A toothy smile spread on his face.

“You startled me! I am sorry I didn’t see you there.” He says with a slightly raspy chuckle. I smile back at him. 

“I love this song,” I say, noticing that I started bobbing my head too. “I have to say that I have never heard it played in a Danish cafe.” 

“That makes sense, the Danes don’t appreciate good music!”

“Ouch! You must not be Danish then, or you are just extremely cynical.” I say, not used to critiques of Danish culture. “What is your name?”

“Rasmus”

“Oh, you’re definitely Danish.” 

“Guilty!”

My eyes scanned the space. I noticed a narrow yellow wooden staircase leading upstairs. Small potted ferns were placed on each step. 

“What’s up there?” I ask. 

“More seating, if you’d like a little view. What is your name then?”

“Willa.”

“I’ve never heard that one before. Are you German?”

“Do I sound German?” I say with thick sarcasm. 

“Touchée!” He giggles. 

I ordered a dirty chai latte --- a chai with a little oomph--- and ascended the rickety staircase. Each step groaned and squeaked under my Converse. It reminded me of my staircase at home that kept me from ever sneaking out. This cafe had so many little pockets of home: the tarnished gold mirrors, the strange art, the pale yellow walls. When I was seven, my mom and I spent three days painting my room yellow. The paint spilled everywhere and we ended up being covered in subtle yellow splotches. I breathed a sigh of nostalgia.

Being here alone made this cafe feel entirely mine. The succulents, the creaking stairs, and the friendly Waldo-Esque barista were all special only to me. The inner dialogue in my brain would only make me laugh, thus sharing it with someone else would only damper the experience. Is this what it’s like to be introverted? I had always defined myself as an extrovert, practically since birth. But can extroverts ever be happy alone? 

I considered this as I settled into my seat. The upstairs of the cafe was more open, but the hygge initiatives continued. Hygge, for those who are not entrenched in Danish culture, translates to "the art of cozy," or in layman's terms, putting soft lighting wherever possible. Despite a fire hazard.

There were plants everywhere upstairs. Long leaves of spider plants, thick cacti, and vines intertwined and curtained the space. The entire room had a yellow glow. It was overcast outside, and a weak natural light hobbled through the windows. Candles dripping with wax sat on each table in tarnished gold holders. The space sported a marriage of modern New York City chic and medieval Viking opulence. It reminded me of the painfully mismatched furniture in my living room. I loved the awkwardness of it. I sat near the window and took in the quiet side street. Copenhagen can at once feel like a thriving metropolis and a suburban neighborhood. This street resembled the tranquil slow-paced nature of my hometown. People walked slowly. I saw a dog off its leash gleefully sniffing, then eating, a discarded hot dog. The city seemed far away. 

The stairs begin to sing as Rasmus bounds up the stairs with my drink. 

“You know how I know you’re American?” He says. I can sense the coy comment brewing through the flicker of his blue eyes. I lean back and cross my arms over my chest, looking at him with exaggerated curiosity.

“This is the first time I have ever had to make a dirty chai.” He chuckles at himself. I always appreciate people who laugh at their own jokes. I look down at possibly the most beautiful latte art I have ever seen. Rasmus notices my shock and smiles.

“What, do they not have pretty coffees in America?” Another chuckle. Waldo really cracks himself up. 

“I suppose we need to up our game!” I say with a smirk. “Are you an artist?”

“Oh come on, it’s not that good. But yes I am an artist!” His eyes glitter as he notices the word artist piquing my curiosity. 

“Let me guess… music?” It's a shot in the dark, but based on the overalls, this man’s confidence has to come from somewhere. Has my inner monologue become rude?

“Guitar,” Rasmus responds. He begins miming a ferocious guitar solo. This dude is nutty. 

We spoke about his extensive musical experience in Copenhagen. He has his own band that he insists is going to blow up any day now. He has been playing the electric and acoustic guitar for 12 years and has never ceased to love the instrument. I had never been so fascinated by a stranger. He had the cadence of a young child, but the certainty of an old man. He insisted he knew guitar better than anyone in the world, and for a moment, I believed him. 

“I practice 6 hours a day sometimes.” He tells me. He crosses his arms and nods like he was overcome with pride just talking about his dedication. 

“Do you ever get tired?” I say, genuinely curious. 

“Practicing for me is like resting. I feel so at peace---as if I am asleep. Maybe that’s why people say they can do things in their sleep. Ha! I get home from work and what I need to unwind is not TV or my phone, I just need my strings.”

I considered this. I couldn’t imagine feeling so comfortable in a talent. I suppose that is what happens when you find your purpose. 

I smiled the entire walk home, not caring that I probably looked a little creepy. The tall, thin, colorful buildings guided me as I walked. The wind pinched my nose and ears and swirled my hair in its chilly fingers. Despite the bone-numbing chill of Copenhagen March, I walked slowly. If it had been a few months ago, I would have rushed home to tell someone about this peculiar person I had met. I would have told the story quickly and excitedly, awaiting their reaction and input. I would be intentional about my wording, to make them laugh or pique their curiosity. My life always needed to appear interesting to others. That day, I didn’t care. I was alone the entire day and hardly noticed. My interaction with Rasmus was entirely my own, and I felt no urge to share it. 

I returned home and my roommate was quietly doing her work at our shared desk. The soft hum of the tea kettle made me feel warmer somehow. 

“Where have you been all day?” She asks.

“I just went for a walk on my own.”