The days leading to my departure for a semester abroad in Denmark were marked by a deep sadness rather than the excitement I expected. My city was bracingly cold. It was January, and as the snow fell outside my mum's apartment windows, I told her that the reason for the ferocity of this emotion was that it felt as if I was saying goodbye for good. And in a way, I was. That was five years ago, and I still haven’t gone back, not really.
I found a life in Copenhagen. It started with the old buildings, tall, jaunty and leaning, sporting candy colours that I’d only seen in illustrated children’s books. Then, it was the lights. I arrived in February, and while we had one more hour of darkness than where I came from, I hardly noticed it. The cosy lights that shone through windows as I wandered the streets with my American roommates lit my way. The warm glow of candles in cafes, lit early in the day and replaced every few hours as the wicks shortened to small punctuation points, lifted my mood. The large windows and white walls of the homes and spaces I entered, allowed as much natural light in as possible.
I fell in love with the aesthetics of Copenhagen before I fell in love with the city, and eventually, Andreas, the Dane who I would marry. And for a long time, I was consumed with making it work. I rode my bike to Danish night classes, charging through rain and sleet a grimace on my face as I blinked rain from my eyelashes. Awful but invigorating. I was earning this, and, with each exhausted step I would take up to our 5th floor walk-up, I would feel vindicated. Sopping wet, dark circles under my eyes, I would let myself into our apartment and feel accomplished. I focused on watching Danish TV and forced myself to try my fledgling language skills in coffee shops and grocery store queue. I reveled in compliments from Danish friends on my language skills and ability to ‘blend in’. A friend once called me “the most Scandi non-Scandi” they’d ever met–I loved it.
But, “Wherever you go, you are” as the old adage goes. Something started to eat at me. I have forever been great at assimilating, able to make conversation with almost anyone a pleasurable exercise for them, though not necessarily for me. My third winter in Denmark, I reached a breaking point. I felt an itch. I resented the way that I had so wholeheartedly waved goodbye to my home, my traditions, myself. I had eradicated most colours from my wardrobe as part of my Copenhagen makeover, and for some reason, realizing this was the turning point for me.
Standing in a change room, I held a bright red puffer jacket in my hands. It felt like something my parents would have clothed me in as a child. Offensively bright, more of a safety vest than a piece of clothing, I loved it. I paused, realising what it would mean to wear this in the monotone streets of my adopted city. It would mark me as an outsider, and prompt at least a double-take. Antithetical to the blending strategy that I’d so expertly adopted over the previous years. And yet… I held onto it. I left the store with Andreas without buying it, me still expounding on the charm of said outerwear.
A week went by, and I continued to wear my daily black. Then one day, I stepped into the warm glow of our car after Danish class, the weather especially cold that day, Andreas had come to pick me up. We strapped my bike to the back of the car, and I opened the passenger door, about to sit down when I noticed a paper bag sitting on my seat, a glint of red peeked through the wrapping paper. I felt like an old friend was in the car. The next day, red puffer zipped up and bike helmet buckled, I pedaled the short distance to work. Was it just me, or were people staring? I giggled as I looked as far down the street as possible, and saw that not one person was wearing something that could hold a candle to this jacket. A month later, as the January sales started, I walked by the shop window. The jacket was on sale. I smiled to myself and kept walking.
