daisy in denmark

Kære blide læser,

Sorry, sorry. I’ve assimilated so seamlessly into the culture in Copenhagen that I’m even writing in Danish! As I type, I am sitting in a TikTok-verified Copenhagen brunch staple — Atelier September. I’ve ordered two drinks because I filled up at the hotel breakfast buffet. I figured out this method of morning overeating to combat the (g)astronomical prices here. I thought that no city could be more expensive than London, but this place wins. No coffee is less than £6. Any sandwich or supermarket salad is about £15. Of course, I have indulged and spent way more than my Monzo pot budget allowed, but I am on holiday after all. My most frivolous expense was not the GANNI outlet (seriously disappointing tbh), or the ceramic ghosts at Studio Arhoj, but the accidental £20 tip I left at the restaurant last night. Maths was never my strong suit.

Men jeg afviger (but alas, I digress). Let’s go back to the start. I booked this trip back in January. Christmas and New Year slid past without me quite noticing. It was a new year, but I was still at the shop. Still stomping that aggravating tube line change at Paddington. I was fucking bored. Then my manager said I had some annual leave to take before the end of the tax year. Two whole weeks in fact. I felt smug and combined them with Easter weekend, which my family always celebrate despite being staunch atheists. The promise of this break got me through the slow start of the year. Retail is quiet in January. Everyone spent all their money on Christmas and seems to be scared to go shopping in the new year. Days at the shop felt like years, and corporate wasn’t happy that we weren’t making any money. And the rain. Remember the rain? Every day for about 7 weeks. But all this while, I had Copenhagen up my sleeve. A secret I couldn’t stop talking about — literally. I bumped into someone a few years below me from drama school at the Royal Court, and he asked me when I was moving to Denmark. Apparently, my Instagram stories were radiating at such a high frequency that a 4-day trip had evolved into a Danish relocation.

I had saved some money from my last telly job and booked flights and a nice hotel — breakfast included. I am crap at booking flights. I am web-literate and somewhat smart, but for some reason, the SkyScanner website fills me with the same dread as a GCSE Physics test on mechanics. One summer, I flew out to meet my parents in Italy. I booked the wrong flight on the wrong day, to the wrong city. And on the way home, I ended up in Luton. Nightmare. But I didn’t do that this time around. I paid the extra fees to fly from and return to Heathrow, and booked the double room. Where this was a solo trip, I’m not a backpacking-hostel type. I have respect for those who can, but I have the self-awareness to know that I cannot.

In the run-up to the trip, I was worried about three things:

1. What do I wear?

2. What do I do?

3. Will I be lonely?

The first is an obvious anxiety. According to my style icons, Milan is not the fashion capital of the world; Copenhagen is. I studded my Pinterest boards with Gore-Tex, striped scarves and colourful sunglasses. This preparation was less about planning my own actual outfits and more about laying the aesthetic groundwork for what to expect. I had to enter the Danish mindset, hack the Scandi mainframe. The weather was also a big player — luckily it has been cold but sunny, my favourite fashion conditions (good coat, cool sunglasses, scarf/bonnet). Also, my wardrobe is 90% from the shop1, which is Swedish, so I was also fortunate in the scandi-fashion regard. The idea is to look like you bike places. Not in an over-50s male, Lycra-clad crotch, reflective sunglasses way. But an East London, girl-in-cap, topologie-bag, carabina and perello olives type of way. I’m terrified of cycling, but I want to dress like I’m not. I hope that makes sense.

The second question was mainly answered by TikTok. Search ‘Copenhagen Solo Trip’, and you’ll get thousands of videos made by girls, just like me, in search of a better life and the perfect cardomon bun. My list of ceramic studios, galleries and museums was practically made for me by the algorithm.

Lastly, the question of “loneliness”. I describe myself as fiercely independent and self-sufficient (in all ways but financial, for now). But my solo life has only ever extended to days spent in my flat and the occasional short-haul flight. I’ve never been in a foreign country without family or friends within hand- grabbing distance. My parents suggested I take this trip with friends. But that was besides the point. I wanted to prove that I could do it alone. In all honesty, this was the sort of trip I had saved in my head for when I get a partner. A romantic mini-break with a 6ft poet with a mysterious and bottomless stream of income, who would pay for everything and ask for nothing. I thought of Berlin, Porto, and Stockholm through the lens of a 35mm film camera held by someone that I love. Candid photographs of me looking windswept and smug in a cocktail bar that I would post to Instagram with the caption: 'Before Sunrise-core’. But with my recent flurry of disappointing dates, mirror selfies would have to suffice. Why wait for a man to take me around the world? I can do it myself.

So I did.

I had 5 hours before I could check into my hotel, so I dropped off my bags and headed forth. I began a routine that I would follow for the rest of my time in the city. I would find a cafe, read my book until I got bored, and then ask the shop girl where to go next. They always assumed that I was Danish, which I took as a huge compliment. When I would reply in my native tongue, a dash of disappointment would flash across their face before they’d reply in perfect English, complete with a modern RP accent. A lot of the shop girls had better grammar than I do. They’d suggest a boutique, a flower shop or a pop-up nearby. I’d plug it into my Google Maps and trundle away. Each day, I managed over 20,000 steps, and with each one, I thanked my mother for lending me her arch-support insoles.

In this way, I managed to visit all of the afore-mentioned TikTok-verified hot spots and find some hidden gems. I learnt the history behind the iconic Danish chairs at the Design Museum, and ate at the old meat-packing district turned indy foodie hub. I loved the Louisiana Art Gallery, mainly for the actual building and seaside location rather than the art housed within (which was a bit naff aside from the sculpture garden).

I was, however, disappointed with the clothes shopping. All the Danish stores the internet told me were the height of scandi-chic were overpriced and overwhelmingly acrylic. The main shopping area was like any middling high street in London, but with less diversity.

I turned the corner and found the Copenhagen branch of the shop where I work. I wasn’t going to go in, but my curiosity got the better of me. Surely they have different stock, I thought. But no, it was the same. Same layout, same clothes, same fucking hangers. I saw a girl behind the till. Blonde bobbed hair, a small, fine-line tattoo by her elbow, with a bored and wistful expression on her flawless face. Danish Daisy, with much better skin. A glitch in the matrix. A gap in the space-time continuum. Danish Daisy didn’t look like she was having any more fun than London Daisy. I wanted to say something like, I work here too. But I realised I was wearing the exact outfit that was on the mannequin in the window, and she might think I was some kind of mega fan of the brand and be weirded out. So I left, shoulders hunched and shuddering. The Hyde to her Jekyll.

At around 4 pm each day, I would have a pint. I’m not a huge drinker. Friends have suggested I may have an alcohol intolerance, for I am fully pissed after 2 drinks and can not stomach a drop more. I prefer to think I am a lightweight because I am so little and dainty, though I know I am of average height and build - sigh. I justified my day drinking by claiming that it would be unsafe for me to drink in the evenings, as a solo female traveller. But I must say, I have never felt safer in a city.

The best thing I did on this trip was indulge in a Nordic Sauna experience. No, not like that community steam room in a shed that your running-club mates go to, a proper Danish Sauna. One of my Danish shop girl friends suggested her local, a traditional sauna class led by a trained Saunagus on the outskirts of the city. I was nervous to get my very British legs out in front of strangers, but I let the fear guide me out of my comfort zone, and I took the (cold) plunge into the unknown.

The sauna was located in the yard of a graffiti-covered warehouse in a seemingly abandoned industrial estate. I assumed I was being scammed/about to be killed until I saw Liva. I recognised her from the website. A woman in her late twenties, with long blonde hair and a radiant smile. She welcomed me in Danish, but didn’t look too disappointed when I replied in English. She code-switched effortlessly and asked if I’d like her to lead the class in English as well. Boldly, I said, “No, want to be immersed”, which I instantly regretted. If she were to set out any important health and safety regulations, I wouldn’t know. There were 4 girls about my age in the group, one boyfriend and one guy in his thirties. They all seemed like they’d done this before. Liva told me to use the outdoor shower before heading into the hot box of death, and to leave all my belongings in the changing room. No lockers - my phone, wallet, headphones and Kindle were apparently safe in there (Copenhagen was ranked 8th in a list of the safest cities in the world).

I donned my little felt cap and surrendered to the process. We filed into the sauna, and Liva began the class. A speaker played lo-fi house beats, a genre I usually ignore, but again, I surrendered. It was fucking hot, I can’t lie. Liva poured some essential oils onto the coals and began waving a massive fan. I closed my eyes, struggling to relax. As she fanned, waves of heat crashed over me. Surely this is too hot??? Liva added more oils, lavender, then eucalyptus, then patouchli. I felt dizzy, but couldn’t back out now.

I’m not sure how much time passed, but at some point, Liva opened the door and ushered us to the cold plunge. I stood in the icy bath, convinced my feet were going to explode. I shrugged off my pride and asked Liva what the fuck was going on. She explained that the session involves 3 rounds of sauna, each one rising in temperature with different essential oils, designed to relax different areas of the body. In between the rounds, you do the cold plunge.

‘Do people do this a lot?’ I asked, still breathless from the ice bath, unsure why people pay to endure this level of body torture.

‘Every week. Some people come after work every day, but it depends. It’s not really seen as a luxury here. It’s part of a wellness culture. As normal as going to the gym or having a smoothie.’ Liva replied, lining up the oils for the next round.

I nodded, attempting to hide my surprise. I gulped down my fear and headed back in.

The second round was harder. The heat was almost unbearable, and I didn’t know if my eyeballs were sweating or if I was crying. However, after the second cold plunge, the numbness gave way to a tingle in my toes. Pins and needles crept up my pale thighs and throughout my body. I sat in a plastic garden chair and, in that moment, I had never felt so calm. I turned to Liva in my reverie and smiled. I think I get it, I murmured. She laughed and handed me a cup of water. I was excited to go back in.

Third round. More heat, more oils, more music. A deeper calm. My mind was empty. I wasn’t thinking about the bus back, my unprotected phone in the changing room, or the stretch marks peeking out of my swimming costume. I was just me, hot and calm and still.

After the final cold plunge, we all sat around in the garden drying off in the late afternoon sun. I hadn’t felt this relaxed since the age of 15, when I mistook codeine for paracetamol after getting my train-tracks tightened. I’m no good at drugs; I only ever get panicky, but this seemed to be the high that everyone chases. Eventually, I got up to leave. Still dizzy and unsteady on my feet, I was offered a vegan nut bar and a bottle of water. I thanked Liva for her kindness and wandered back through the industrial lots with a new sense of serenity.

On my last morning in the city, I indulged once more in the extortionately-priced cardomon bun and began writing this. I got so carried away, I almost forgot about my flight home. The crackhead who screamed at me by the airport shuttle station helped bring me back to reality, the remnants of the sauna-high falling away just in time for passport control. And then I was back in my flat above the post office, with rancid milk in the fridge and no clean pants. I felt a twinge of resentment thinking about Danish Daisy. I want to be sweating in a sauna right now, not on the Bakerloo line, I thought. But then I remembered her bored and wistful face, not too dissimilar to the one staring back at me in the darkened window. Then I heard Niamh laughing in the sitting room, and Tansy singing upstairs. And I wasn’t sad to be back at all.

I loved my time away. I will do it again. But I guess the thing I learnt is that wherever you go, there you are. You ought to learn to sit with yourself and enjoy it, no matter where you are — although sometimes that is easier to do in a sauna in Copenhagen than in the disabled cubicle at work.

Where should I go next (Monzo pot depending)?

Thank you for reading and, as always, bevare troen2

Daisy x