Page 1 of A Copenhagen Snowmance
ChapterOne
Ind og ud. Ind og ud.
It repeats in her head and under her breath. In and out. A mantra to get her through the day, supported by a steady tap of her passport drumming on her bag.
The man in front of Anna, tall and broad, turns to look where the tapping sound is coming from, and scowls. He must be having a bad day. It’s hardly a crime, or loud for that matter. And she really isn’t doing it on purpose. More of a nervous tic. But she does cease and desist as per his scowl as she doesn’t want to cause a scene. Instead, she pages through the passport, pausing only to shuffle closer to the control booth and the policewoman inside it. Each of the many stamps brings her joy. So many trips, and adventures. She won’t get one here, though. This will just be a cursory glance.
Anna gazes to the side, but there are no windows overlooking the planes in this part of Copenhagen airport. Being able to see the planes, parked and readying to leave again, would make her feel better. In and out, she chants again in her head. That’s all this is.
The guy moves to the booth while she stands behind the yellow line on the beautiful floor. Copenhagen airport has the most beautiful cherry-wood floor– all part of the Danish design aesthetic; its building is modern throughout, and if viewed from the sky, the shape of a paper aeroplane. Anna used to love passing through, window-shopping in the modern jewellery design of Georg Jensen and Ole Lynggaard, the homeware of Illum, or having a last-second hot dog from apølsevognstall or grabbing a cinnamon pastry in Ole & Steen. But not now. Now, she feels anxious and her eyes dart about in case she sees someone she knows, because Denmark is a small country, and Copenhagen is a very small capital city.
“In and out, Anna,” she breathes quietly, “in and out.” The ticket on her phone will have her back out this evening.
The scowly guy exits around the side of the booth and it’s her turn.
“Hej,” she says, reaching the desk and handing over the battered burgundy passport.
“Hej,” the policewoman responds, only looking up to check Anna’s face matches the photo.
It won’t be the “carefree, almost smiling, but not quite because The Rules” face in the photo. That photo was taken five years earlier and Anna imagines the face before the policewoman now carries The Weight of Experience. Far more savvy and no way as naïve. Worldly. Clued up. But it probably just translates as wrinkles.
And yet, it must satisfy her, as a second later she shoots Anna a warm smile as she hands the passport back. “Velkommen hjem og God Jul.” Welcome home and merry Christmas.
* * *
Baggage reclaim is rammed, not that Anna has a suitcase to collect. She’s not staying. Strictlyin and out. No, she’s here for thepølsevogn– to buy a hot dog. She’s always thought it a clever move to have one positioned here, where waiting travellers can grab a bite and returners, Anna for example, can immediately get their hot dog fix. She orders a red boiled sausage rather than the grilled alternative– because that’s what she’s in the mood for, it could have gone either way– withallthe trimmings. Three parallel lines of ketchup, mustard and yellow remoulade are squeezed along the long sausage in its small finger bun, before loose spoonfuls of chopped raw onion, crispy onions and pickled cucumber are added on top. This. This is the real deal. Danish through and through. And while, yes, she’s on a tightly timed mission, a girl has to eat, so.
Anna forgets to quell her groan as she horses the first mouthful, the flavours stimulating senses and evoking memories all in one hit. Her eyes being closed during her foodgasm doesn’t help, as she is bumped from behind in the mêlée of harried travellers, and she’s propelled into someone waiting by the carousel, the hot dog mashing between them.
“Hey!” the figure says, turning. Anna’s eyes are frozen to the red, yellow and brown stripes down the back of his coat. She whips the hot dog behind her.
“Undskyld,” she apologises and looks up. Bugger. It’s him, Scowly Guy. His annoyance has definitely ramped up. In spite of his scowl, Anna feels the need to mention the mess on his back, to try to wipe it away. She starts to explain that she was shoved, but he simply turns his back on her, facing the carousel, then moves forward with a start as his suitcase comes around. He’s grabbed it and gone before she can say anything more, apologise further, or remove the slice of pickled cucumber that’s glued with ketchup to his back.
She’s feeling worse now as she wanders through the customs corridor into the Arrivals hall; guilty about the man’s coat, annoyed at his rudeness, gutted about her mauled hot dog, all on top of not wanting to be here at all. The hall is busy. Relatives stand in throngs, with Danish flags– as is the custom– waiting for their loved ones. No one is waiting for Anna. No one knows she’s here except for the people at the clinic and they might be doubtful about her turning up. It’s taken some cajoling. Keeping her head down, Anna steers towards the end of the hall where the metro waits to take her into the city. Despite trying to keep her eyes front and centre, they’re drawn to the large glass windowpanes. The air outside is moving. Snow. Not dainty, confetti flakes, but large fluffy tufts against the dove-grey sky.
Well, that shows how out of practice she is. She hadn’t checked the weather before coming. The Nordics know how to dress for the weather, and although she’s wearing her large woollen coat and leather boots, that’s simply because it’s December and London is chilly, not because she’s checked. It hadn’t occurred to her, in her reluctant prepping for this trip, to consult the forecast. Her plan of landing, making the pick-up and leaving, had somewhat missed all the exterior and contextual detail. Which is ludicrous for a travel specialist. Now, looking about at her fellow metro-users, she sees that even coat and boots allowing, she is still underdressed for Copenhagen. Others wear hats, scarves, gloves and proper winter boots, while the children are in padded one-pieces and earmuffs or balaclavas. She realises her transition is possibly now complete; she’s becomea tourist. In the city where she was born. She isn’t quite sure how she feels about that. A small joy, perhaps, that she’s properly severed a tie, but also a deep-seated embarrassment that she hasn’t got this right.There is no bad weather,states the Danish saying,only poor clothes choices.She’s on the wrong side of that today. Oh my God, she thinks, what an amateur.
She delves into her bag, the one Maiken always said she could live out of for a fortnight, if marooned, with a “Come on. Pleeease,” muttered under her breath. And there, in the depths, Anna gets the first win of the day, which she celebrates with a resounding “Ja!”– scaring the Chinese tourist walking next to her. Her knitted hat– squashed and lightly covered in the smaller detritus of her bag: dust, paper fragments, and… a boiled sweet stuck to the pompom– is gripped in her hand. Encouraged, she checks her coat pockets, hoping she’ll find some gloves, primed to congratulate herself on having some innate, Nordic preservation skills after all, but is disappointed. No matter, she consoles herself, she can stuff her hands in her pockets, unlike her head, so this is the better outcome. Given the size of the snowflakes and the rate they’re falling, this is definitely the better way around.
“Ind og ud,” she repeats. Into the city, make the collection, back on the metro, back on the plane, back to London. Bish bash bosh. Done. One day and it’s over. One single day she’ll sign off and box up in the back of her mind. Provided no one sees her, it will be as if it never happened.
In her hopes, mashed hot dog aside, everything will be smooth today; no hold-ups, no delays, no chance meetings with people she doesn’t want to see. Or even those she might want to see, as they’ll come with recriminations. Why hasn’t she called? Why doesn’t sheevercall? And they’ll invite her to stop for a coffee, as they always have, and she’ll say no and then she’ll feel bad. Plucking the sweet, a mint hexagon with a chocolate inner, from the not-so-tufty pompom, she tucks the hat on her head. Better she keeps her head down and merges into the behatted crowds.
In and out, it comes as a determined mutter, now. She’ll get through the day, and as a reward, just before she heads to her gate, she’ll treat herself to a little moment of nostalgia. Notlonging. Of course not. She left Copenhagen of her own volition. But another hot dog– uninterrupted this time– along with a bottle of Cocio chocolate milk, will be just the pick-me-up she’ll need.
* * *
The metro, a two-carriage driverless shuttle, is crammed with passengers heading into the city, who chat as they look out of the large windows at the island suburb of Amager as they pass. Not so Anna, who keeps her eyes on her phone, resisting the call to fill her vision with the arrival into the city. Before, she would have tried for a front seat with its big pane and savoured the journey, but not now. Now, standing, she checks emails and tries to ignore the fact that with each stop, there seems to be more and more snow falling, much of it being carried into the carriage on passengers’ boots. And more and more passengers come with each stop, too, pushing her further and further in, until they’re squashed like herring in a barrel, as the Danes would say. At this latest surge, Anna finds herself crushed up against someone’s chest. She feels a breath exhale above her head. What strikes her is the tone of the sigh; not a physical reaction to the squeeze of the crowd, but more… dismay? Anna looks up through her lashes at the face above her. And is met by a rigid visage, with steely, blue eyes, which do not look in any way pleased to see her again. She suspects he knows about the cucumber. There’s the slightest scent of ketchup about, too. Casting her eyes quickly down again, Anna acts as if none of this is happening, that she isn’t rubbing against him with every shift of the train, thankful he’s choosing to ignore her and allowing her to do the same, though there’s little room for doubt between them– physically or figuratively– that he doesn’t like her.
It’s an enormous relief, then, when the train reaches Kongens Nytorv, where many of the passengers spill out to move above ground or connect to other lines. Just as the city is small, so too is the metro network, with just four lines, but Anna hopes this is where she and Scowly Guy now go their separate ways, never to cross paths again.
But no. Connecting to the other set of lines, she spies him up ahead. It’s clearly him, the enormous mess on the back of his coat unmissable. He glances back and spots her, which of course garners her another scowl. She wants to march up to him to tell him that obviously she’s not following him, she’s just heading in the same direction, which is totally different. But she doesn’t, because Anna doesn’t do things like that. And she’s trying to fly under the radar. Instead, she fakes adjusting something on her boot, to expand the space between them.
And yet, they end up on the same train, nonetheless. He moves up the carriage, none too subtly, away from her. Anna focuses on her emails, keen for him to see he’s of no interest to her whatsoever, so he can keep his scowls to himself. As the train reaches Østerport station, Anna jumps off as fast as she can, primarily to demonstrate she truly isn’t following him, but secretly also to be in front, should he get off, too. Which he does. Of course he does. Sighing, she keeps her eyes front and centre as they ride up the escalator, but she can’t help but catch a glimpse of his stony face. It’s a shame, she thinks, that he’s such a miserable git, scowly and cross, because by all metrics, that would be an enviable face for a guy to have, objectively speaking; strong cheekbones, striking eyes and a razor-sharp jaw under perfect stubble. And as such, she’s relieved when he takes his face in a different direction when they reach the street. Thank fuck for that.
Everywhere is covered in snow, with more falling, thick and fast. The clinic is two streets from Østerport station and Anna negotiates the walk quickly and with minimal engagement with the scenery and buildings, which is tricky, as her traitorous eyes want to drink it all in. However, as the pavements are already slippy with the snow, attention is needed. Snowflakes keep catching on her eyelashes, which, much as Anna normally loves snow, is annoying. She keeps her hands firmly wedged in her pockets, hoping the wool coat won’t soak up too much meltwater, knowing that naturally it will, and that the locals will be judging.
The banner across the front window says Farvel & Tak, wishing customers “Goodbye and Thanks” as the generations-old clinic is closing for good. Walking in, Anna’s glad of the warmth, although she’s more trying not to think of the last time she was here. She’d been in tears then, and about to have a shedload more crap heaped on her in the following days. Crap she’d not had a single inkling of.
