My First 24 Hours in Copenhagen

Description

In the spring of 2016, I studied abroad as an exchange student in Copenhagen, Denmark, a land full of bicycles and happy people. I had many adventures there, but in this recording, I’ll just talk about the amazing things that happened on my very first day.

The picture above is two views of the apartment where I satayed. You can see the river on the left, and the entranceway columns on the right.

I’m particularly proud of how this one turned out from a production standpoint. The music, sound effects, and timing are all really fun, so I hope you enjoy!!

Credits

Except for the first song, all music is from the Bakemonogatari OST by MONACA and by the genius Satoru Kosaki. Music used in this recording, in order of appearance:

• “Way Back (feat. Cozi Zuehlsdorff)” by Vicetone
• “Sanpo”
• “Hourousha”
• “Sappuukei”
• “Shianchuu”

Text Notes

Author’s note: I had a ton of fun producing the audio version of this post, and I think it turned out great. I hope you give the audio a shot!

It’s story time, and I’m gonna do it over the OST to Bakemonogatari because I can!

It’s January 2016, which makes me just over 19 years old. I don’t remember my plane ride from Atlanta to Copenhagen being anything but uneventful, even considering the 1 hour transfer window in Amsterdam and the fact that I was battling a nasal infection. I touched down in the really wonderful Copenhagen airport, with it’s really aesthetic little shops and wood paneled floors and big windows, though it was completely foreign to me at the time.

My goal was to get from here to the apartment where I’d be living, and I had come prepared, kinda. There wasn’t any accessible wifi at the airport, and I didn’t have cell phone with a European SIM card, so I had no way to contact the outside world. Not like there was anyone waiting for me anyway. To help me not lose my way (reference?), I had printed off some a Google map with the route, which was now in my hand. Now I had to execute my three step process. Step 1, get my bags and find my way out of the airport to the trains. Step 2, take the right train and get off at the right stop. Step 3, walk to the right building. Simple enough.

Ok step 1. While waiting for my bags at the carousel, I realized that I had no idea what was required to ride the train. I’d probably need a ticket, but where do I get one of those? To be honest, I don’t remember what drew me to the little ticket kiosk at the end of the baggage claim. Does the sign over the machine say “Tickets” in English? I can’t remember. I know it says “Billetter” in Danish, because you see that white text on a maroon background at every metro and train stop.

Copenhagen transportation works on a zone system. The city is divided into zones. The more zones you pass through on your trip, the more you pay. And, for visitors, you buy a ticket declaring the number of zones you want to travel before you begin your ride. Given my prior experience as a traveler… I had never seen this system before, and I unconfidently way overpaid out of fear of not knowing how far I would need to go. Turns out, I would be traveling less than 2 zones, the minimum payment required.

So, with a ticket for 6 zones or so in pocket, one suitcase in each hand, and a duffel bag on my back, I followed the signs into the main hub of the airport. The big windows revealed that it was grey and cloudy, and 1pm afternoon in the local time. There were not many people by the ticketing counter or kiosks in the large space, much fewer than I would come to see in future visits. And ah, there was the sign for the trains, which conveniently stopped at a station underneath the airport. Step 1 done.

Oh wait, there are actually four signs for trains. Why are there four train platforms? Let’s see, one goes northwest, one goes east, and, oh wait, the other two are just alternate ways to get down to the train platform. So, in pursuit of step 2, to take the right train and get off at the right stop, I headed to the platform for the train going east. The escalator going down to the underground level wasn’t stepped. It was a smooth slant, which was cool and all, except that both my suitcases were wheeled. Let’s say it was an awkward effort keeping the heavy things from rolling away from me as we descended.

The platform was domed with stone and the airport above. Two lines of tracks lay in the middle, presumably going one way or the other. Before I could step out towards the track, I had to pass two employees in uniform, conversing in what I assumed at the time to be Danish (it was). Were they there to check my ticket? Could I communicate with them? I approached them, curious to find out and holding my ticket up to them. One of them, the male with navy blue cap, warm wrinkles around his eyes, and a hefty silver white mustache, spotted my ticket and nodded without looking too hard. He asked me something in Danish, and I definitely heard the word “pas.”

“Is this ticket okay?” I said in English, shaking the little piece of paper gently. I had paid decent money for my ticket, though I wasn’t convinced that it was a sufficient pass for a train ride. I don’t remember what else I was expecting at the time.

A familiar realization replaced his neutral grin, and he graciously switched languages for me. “May I see your passport please?” Turns out, “pas” means passport, not pass.

“Why would he want my passport here?” I asked myself, but I pulled the little blue book from my bag. Unsurprisingly, the question was readable in my face and body language.

“Where are you trying to go?” the man asked. “You know this train goes to Sweden?”

Sweden! No, Sweden was definitely not part of Step 2. I learned from the man that I was on the wrong side of the tracks, and that I should go back up to the airport hub and down to the platform on the other side. Looking back, I also learned that it was because of current refuge issues that passports were being checked, and that they often weren’t for the Denmark-Sweden train. At a different time, it might have been that I had gotten on that train, and that would have ended my Denmark visit real quick.

So Josh Koh, professional traveler, re-ascended the escalator ramp to the airport and overcoming another cumbersome fight against gravity as my bags tried to roll down to Sweden. And Josh Koh, professional traveler, took the second of four ramps down to the train platforms, still unsure. Was this the right platform? As I stepped out, I saw that a train had pulled on the opposing platform side and was now idle. Another uniformed lady blocked my way.

She looked up at my bag filled arms as I approached. “Does this train not go to Sweden?” I prompted.

“Oh, yes it does,” she said. “If you want to go towards the city, you need to be on the opposite site. And you’d better hurry, that train is pulling out soon.” She pointed to the train that sat idly across the tracks. I looked around, and behold, there were the two folks that I had spoken to before, on the same side of the platform as me, just on the other end.

And so, Josh Koh, professional traveler, re-ascended again, after making the wrong choice of train platform twice. I was a too pressed with urgency to recognize my embarrasment. The train was leaving soon? How long did I have? When would the next train be? I went down ramp 3, letting the weight of my bags pull me forward at an accelerated speed. There were no security folks on this side, presumably because there was no need to check passports for a domestic train ride. I stepped onto the train, and the doors closed about 90 seconds later. We were off.

This was a real train, not like a metro or the Atlanta MARTA. The seats were nice and cushioned, and there was a little table between each set of opposing chair rows. There were only a few people in my car, and I don’t remember anything about any of them. I observed the train’s route posted on the wall, and saw that my destination, Ørestad, was only three stops away. Not far at all. Professional traveler that I was, I had worn my contact lenses for the flight over from the States, and my tired eyes were killing me. I took the time to retrieve my toiletry bag and swap for glasses. Six minutes later, we were close. The cab’s intercom beeped to life. “Naeste stop, Ørestad.” I was the only one to get off on my stop. Step 2, complete.

It was a lonely little train platform I stepped onto, just a slab of concrete with foliage on both sides and open to the quiet foggy winter day that was only half passed. It was a little strange, to have left home at 7 in the evening, to have flown for 11 hours, and to have landed in the afternoon, 16 hours later. If you asked my body what time it was, it would say breakfast time.

Outside, it was cold, but not at all bitterly so. I had on a sweater and that was more than comfortable enough. I exited the empty platform through a small tunnel and ascended some stairs to the street level. I looked around at my first real view of this new country that I’d be calling home for the next half a year. I was on the top of a small hill, looking down a long stretch of straight paved street that ran down hill then up again, disappearing into the cloudy horizon. The sidewalk was uneven gray stones, hard to roll bags on but very aesthetically pleasing. Above me was another staircase leading up a metal tower to some more tracks. The then unfamiliar but incredibly useful metro. But what caught my eye the most was this gigantic building immediately across the street from where I alighted. “Fields” read gigantic silver letters attached to the side of the building. Its size and height cannot be understated, something between a shopping mall and a football stadium. Aside from its name, the building boasted no other features, just plain, high walls and nothing to indicate exactly what it was.

In any case, the paper map that had returned to my hand routed me down the hill, alongside this Field’s building, then turning left at its far corner to walk about the same distance to my destination. Not far at all. So that’s the way I went. It was a bit surreal going down the street, because I didn’t encounter a single person or see a single vehicle, bicycle nor car, in my 5 minute walk. There were not even any visible parking lots or unoccupied cars. As I got more accustomed to my surroundings, I had noticed a few business buildings encased in dark glass, farther down the street and back in the direction I had come, but they gave no indication of having any life in them. It was as if the town was completely abandoned, though of course it actually wasn’t. Looking back, I think it was probably just a combination of the time of year and current weather and the time of day that kept people indoors, but I’m not positive. It felt very unusual to walk a ghost town though.

I was suddenly concerned that I would have serious issues if I became lost or couldn’t find my apartment, as there appeared to be no one to help me. I’d just have to find the apartment right away.

The scenery changed after turning left. The Fields was still to my left, continuing all down the street. On the right, were some of those dark glass buildings, very bank-looking in nature. There were two parallel lanes of sidewalk to the right of the road, one very smooth and the other those aesthetic, baggage un-friendly stones, separated by a channel of shallow but moving water about 10 feet across, with bridges every so often to connect the two lanes. As far as I know, the water was only there for aesthetic purposes, and I never met any other paths in Denmark with similar sidewalk rivers. I strongly feel that Atlanta would do well to consider them as a design option, as they were very nice to look at and walk over. Of course, I took the smoother sidewalk until needing to cross over the little wet channel to the far right side where my apartment was. I would later find out that what I thought was smooth sidewalk was actually the bike lane. Not that I would have known since there were no bikers that day.

Ah, and there was my apartment building, right where it was supposed to be. Step 3 complete! And I should note at this point that this was a student apartment, but it wasn’t associated with any school. It was merely a normal apartment complex with normal tenants; the owners just prioritized students attending a nearby university. But what an interesting building it was. It stood on five concrete “turret”-like columns with hollow interiors. These were the entrance ways. Each entrance had at ground level a set of mailboxes in the walls, an elevator shaft, and a stairwell, both leading up. The first floor of actual building content was actually 50 feet or more off the ground, such that you would need to pass into one of the entrance ways, ideally the one closest to your room, and then walk or ride up to whichever of the five floors was yours. Beyond this, at ground level, there was also a small office where the housing managers worked, and another glass-windowed room with laundry machines and a couple of foosball tables. On this particular day, there was clearly some maintenance being done on the laundry room, as six black washing machines were sitting out on the pavement outside the room, half-wrapped in their packaging like giant metal cupcakes. Two men with all the looks of maintenance workers were standing near the machines, occasionally speaking to each other in Danish. The first and only two humans I would see at Ørestad for some time that day.

Having taken this all in, I realized that there was a Step 4 that I hadn’t considered: how to get into my room. The door into the mail room slash elevator slash stairwell was locked behind a key FOB scanner, the FOB that I didn’t yet have. I knew which room was supposed to be mine, room A1-105, and I had been instructed to visit the housing office to get my key. I dragged my bags to the housing office door, but surprising no one, the lights were off and there was no one inside. They had told me while I was still stateside that they closed at 1pm normally for the day and would try to wait for me, but it was now already 2. I had missed them. Further, for whatever reason, they were only in on Monday’s and Wednesdays for those few morning hours. It was Monday today, so no one would back in the office until Wednesday. Oh boy.

I circled around the housing office again, then the entrance way again. The apartment entranceway door was glass and I could see inside to the elevator, just standing there waiting to take me up. Taunting. Inaccessible. What could I do now? I had been stuck circling back and forth for about 20 minutes now. I could call the housing… no, I didn’t have a working phone. I could go to… I don’t know where, I hadn’t prepared to navigate anywhere but here, and I couldn’t wander off far for fear of getting lost and not being able to find my way back. I could talk to… no one, I hadn’t seen anyone except Mr. and Mr. Laundry-worker. And that’s when Mr. Laundry-worker walked up to me… not that one, the other one.

His name was Bjern, the first Danish person I met by name. He might have been in his 40s or even 50s, but he was still handsome. The sharp European jaw line and not a lot of silver brown hair but styled in messy spikes, very cool. Maybe my memory has idealized him as my physical savior, I don’t know. To make a long set of interactions short, as a maintenance guy, he had access to the housing office as well as the cabinets. With his all-powerful keyring, he was able to get me my housing contract, my set of room keys, and my FOB. He told me, “Just come back down some time when the housing people are in and let them know what happened, and you can give the signed contract back to them then.”

I thanked him as we parted ways, he returning to the machinery on the sidewalk and I to the entranceway. My bags and I rode our quiet elevator up to the first floor. I ignored the zoo of stickers and marker-inscribed writings on the walls of this particular cabin. The elevator opened to a door to my immediate left and right. My room was on the right. I unlocked the door and stepped in. Step 4 complete!

I could go on to tell about how I took a well-needed shower immediately after and enjoyed the common heated floors in the tile bathrooms of most living spaces there. Or how I kept a prearranged appointment with someone only an hour later to buy a bike. Or the conditions of the living space I was in, both its highlights and lowlights. Maybe one day I will.

For now, I’ll just point out two things. One, just how incredible it was how everything worked out with getting my key. I don’t believe the whole situation was anything but God telling me that he was with me even in this strange and exciting new place. That very evening, I was thinking about what might have happened if it hadn’t been Swap-Out-All-The-Laundary-Machines Day. Not like that’s a common occurrence. I could have walked up to the apartment and seen no Bjern and no black cupcakes and then what would have happened? The way things worked out all around me without me making hardly one conscious decision in all of it is just crazy, and it’s become one of my favorite stories to tell, so thanks for listening through it with me.

The other thing to point out in closing: I wonder if my method of getting my room keys and contract struck you as odd, as it did me at the time. Anyone who’s been through a housing process in the States would surely find it odd or even pushing legally questionable to hear of a maintenance guy handing out keys and housing contracts to some random asian guy clearly out of place. And to be clear, he verified my passport against my contract before making the exchange, but still. Looking back though on my Denmark experience, this wasn’t nearly the odd or unprofessional event that I first thought. Rather, it’s a great example of just how chill and laidback the entire country is, both its systems and its people. Things are done responsibly and the people in general have incredible amounts of integrity, and this both causes and results in an incredibly relational and chilled out atmosphere, where Bjern can do that, and the housing department people later completely understand and aren’t phased at all. This is just one of the stories that contributes to making Copenhagen my favorite place to live. But for all the other stories and reasons why, you’ll have to stay tuned. So thanks for listening for today, especially if you didn’t hear this story when I blogged it. Please let me know what you think. All of the music used here is listed on my website, blog.joshuakoh.me. I hope you enjoyed, thanks for listening, and see you next time for another story!