Coming off a dusty run through the Middle East and a frosty layover in Finland, I landed in Copenhagen feeling like a ghost. That kind of jet-lagged, soul-hollow loneliness that creeps in somewhere over the Atlantic and tightens its grip with every hour. I missed my kids. A dull ache, like background noise. I missed my wife too—at least the parts of her that didn’t involve passive-aggressive jabs over the dinner table or phone call. I didn’t miss the complaining.
This trip wasn’t for pleasure. I was here on reconnaissance—scouting the city like a war correspondent casing the front lines of future holiday cheer. Years ago, when she was still chasing degrees and idealism, she’d done a school project on Christmas in Denmark. She remembered it fondly. I remembered her face lighting up when she talked about it. So, maybe I could bottle that memory, repackage it as a trip for the kids. A gift. A gesture. Maybe even a peace offering.
I stepped off the plane and into the cold light of the Copenhagen airport. Bone-tired. Out of place. But here.
The taxi ride in was, surprisingly, a lift. Copenhagen—neatly pressed, bicycle-polished Copenhagen—has this undercurrent most tourists never see. A pulse of Arab and Turkish families carving out a better life beneath the postcard-perfect surface. My driver was Syrian. We talked. Not small talk—real conversation. Dubai came up. Its food. Its excess. Its lights. Places he’d been. Places I’d passed through like a shadow. I made sure to tip him well.
I mentioned, vaguely, that I worked with cell towers. I never tell anyone what I actually do. Not really. That story’s for me.
He dropped me at a hotel I booked for fifty bucks a night. Not a hostel—never. I had gear. A camera. A tripod that cost more than the room. Rick told me to buy it. Said I’d thank him one day. I think I did. Maybe not out loud.
I brought lenses too—more ambition than talent, but I was determined to shoot something. Anything. The city. The streets. A bowl of soup that meant something. I wasn’t just here to decompress from the brutal rhythm of 13-hour days, seven days a week—I was here on recon. Could this city carry a Christmas for the kids? For her?
The hotel was exactly what you’d expect for the price. Basic. Sparse. No soul. But that was fine. I wasn’t here to be comfortable. I was here to remember what it felt like to be a person again.
I checked into the hotel and didn’t waste time. Grabbed my gear and hit the streets—camera slung, tripod under arm, chasing that last hour of light. The kind of light that makes cities look honest.
Copenhagen isn’t loud about what it is. It just is. Clean streets, endless bikes, and a walking culture that makes you feel like a slug if you’re not moving. But beneath the polished veneer, there’s a smirk. A sense of humor. Somewhere between charming and obscene. Did I just pass a piece of public art shaped like a dick? Yeah. I think I did. And no one cared. No pearl-clutching. No fences. Just… there. Bold. Unapologetic.
Maybe that’s the thing about this place. You’re allowed to be free—as long as you don’t ruin it for anyone else.
The sun was dropping fast, and I was still hunting. That golden hour was slipping. I made it just in time—just before the last rays dipped below the rooftops and the harbor turned from postcard-perfect to something quietly cinematic. Click. Click. Silence. It was good.
There I was—hunched behind the camera like a wannabe auteur, manually dialing in the shot. ISO, exposure, shutter speed… the quiet language of control in a world that rarely gives it to you. I was still fumbling through F-stops like a kid learning to drive stick, but I knew what I wanted: no blur, no bullshit—just a clean, honest image of something that mattered.
Nyhavn. The harbor. Painted homes lined up like candy-colored soldiers. Touristy, sure. But there’s a reason people come here. Today, I wasn’t just another set of feet on cobblestones—I was present. This moment was mine.
I framed the shot to get every shade of yellow, blue, and red. It wasn’t just for me, of course. Part of it was for the crowd. The digital crowd. The ones who need to know you’re still out there, still moving, still living some curated version of a life worth envying.
The sun dipped. The sky lost its warmth. I packed up the gear, hauled it back to the hotel like a mule carrying glass, and dropped it with care. Then I Googled Thai food in Copenhagen—because sometimes, all the Michelin stars and Nordic fusion in the world can’t beat the comfort of fish sauce and chili.
And I walked. Quiet, content, alone.
I was alone.
Not the kind of alone that feels cinematic or noble—but the kind that wraps around your ribs like a cold hand. I’d been a good boy. I didn’t chase temporary pleasure, didn’t go looking for a warm body to erase the ache. But sometimes, it came anyway. Flirtation with no future. A compliment in broken English. A glance too long. I was flattered—but I stayed seated, alone, at a small table with a tall pilsner and my usual: Thai curry. Always the curry.
As the spice hit and the beer cooled my tongue, I made a silent promise to myself: never again like this. No more solo pilgrimages where I pretend it’s all for the photos. My wife would never come here. Outside of Italy, her passport collected more dust than stamps. Later, I’d come to understand why—anxiety. The kind that drains the joy out of airports and makes even the idea of adventure feel like a threat. My 15-year-old had the same storm brewing inside. I recognized the signs—the fidgeting, the dread, the need to retreat.
I was with the wrong person.
The woman I married—the one who once made me laugh, who danced drunk under fireworks—she wasn’t that person anymore. We were becoming strangers with matching tax forms. I was out here building a future, making money in cities I could barely pronounce while she was still trying to find herself after the Navy. But she didn’t find herself alone. She found someone else. While one kid stayed at my mom’s, the other stayed with her—and her plus one.
I didn’t know the whole story yet. But the breadcrumbs were already there.
The curry was good. Comforting. The kind of meal that doesn’t ask questions. I paid, walked back through cold Danish air, and crawled into a hotel bed built for one.
I missed my family. Not the one I had, maybe, but the idea of what it could’ve been. I queued up Esta Tonne’s Golden Dragon—that haunting guitar I’d first discovered on a lonely train ride somewhere in Europe. It had become my soundtrack for solitude.
And I slept. Sort of.
Sleep didn’t stick. Maybe a few hours. That kind of restless hotel sleep where your body’s horizontal but your mind’s still pacing. I was heading to Kiel, Germany next—but first, I needed one more walk. One more reason to stretch my legs before checking out of another room that held nothing for me.
I had a mission. Somewhere online, I saw a picture—giant concrete elephants standing guard outside the old Carlsberg brewery. Not just beer mascots—monuments. Odd, surreal, and a little majestic. They stuck with me. I knew I had to see them for myself. So I walked. A few miles through waking streets. No map, just the quiet pull of intention.
When I finally reached them, there they were. Massive. Strange. Beautiful in that industrial, European way. I took the shots. Carefully. Patiently. It felt worth it.
Because for years, I wasn’t allowed this. Travel had been rationed out in teaspoons. A trip here, a weekend there. But I wanted the whole goddamn meal. The freedom to disappear into cities, to eat new food, to photograph something no one else I knew had seen.
Later, I’d realize this wasn’t just a detour. This was survival. A way to breathe before going back home to an ex-wife who didn’t know how to stop arguing, who didn’t know how to listen, or offer softness when I needed it most. She didn’t decompress me—she crushed me. I needed tenderness. I needed stillness. She gave me static.
So I bottled it up. Like a coward or a man with no other option.
I drank. I laughed too hard with friends who knew something was wrong but didn’t ask. I drank some more. It was unhealthy, sure. But it worked—until it didn’t.
And now? Now I walk through foreign streets chasing elephants and shadows, camera in hand, trying to get back to myself. One photo at a time.
Checked out. One last look at the sterile hotel room, the crumpled sheets, the camera gear now repacked with surgical care. I headed to the station, bought a ticket the old-fashioned way. No drama. No overthinking. Just a train, a seat, and a window with miles of unknown spilling past.
This was the part I craved—watching the countryside roll by like an old film reel. Open land. Fences. Farmhouses. Pockets of stillness where people lived entire lives without ever needing to explain themselves.
Somewhere along the ride, I thought about her—an ex-girlfriend. She knows who she is. I won’t name her. Not out of drama, but respect. She studied here once, years ago. A foreign exchange trip full of wine, rebellion, and stories that made my brow twitch when she told them. But she needed it. We all did, in our own way. Her hosts showed grace. She learned the language. Became part of the landscape for a while.
She’ll probably shoot me a message when she hears I passed through—maybe with a story too wild for text. We’re on good terms. Most of them are. There are only a couple I’ve exiled from memory. Not out of heartbreak, just… preservation.
On the train, I cracked open a beer. One of those tall cans that pairs well with movement and silence. A guy sat next to me—no words, just a nod. Maybe he thought I was local. Maybe he didn’t care. We just drank together. Strangers. No names. No agenda. A quiet ritual in a moving box of steel.
Eventually, the train slowed. Kiel.
I had a bed waiting. And a friend I hadn’t seen in too long.
Germany would be different. It had to be.