Returning

“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.”

Charles Dickens

In the 10 months or so since I left Copenhagen, the city remained on my mind. I think I knew already, on that balmy May day as I said goodbye to the cobbled streets and open spaces that I had explored over the past month, that I would be back. That I couldn’t possibly find another place that I would rather want to make my home.

But in returning to the city this past week, I found myself fearful. The city had grown to almost a mythical status in my mind from how much I’d spoken about it, thought of it; imagined my life there. What if my (frequently overactive) imagination had ballooned the experience into something it never was? What if I had romanticised my life there to a point with which reality could never hope to compete? What if went back, and that spark I’d felt so strongly a year ago was simply gone?

I had other reasons to be nervous about my return. It had all seemed so simple to talk about: that I’d find a job, and find somewhere to live, and by the spring, I’d be happily entrenched in my new life as a Danish resident. Reality is not so kind, least of all in today’s tumultuous socioeconomic climate; me, the humble middle-management arts administrator. In a sea of job applications that seemed to be disappearing into the ether for all the responses I’d received, this was my chance to get myself in front of some actual human beings and wow them. Or, at least try to.

My first steps into the city from the train station, I felt some of that anxious buzzing in the pit of my stomach dissipate. My feet knew the way without me having to think much of it, the streets achingly familiar. It wasn’t the spark of new love, nor the haze of the honeymoon period. This was true love, me and this city. And she welcomed me back now with open arms and gentle, tender whispers.

It was to be a difficult week for all the other reasons. I find myself lost in the conference I am there to attend in a way I haven’t felt at similar events in the past. I make scarcely an inch of progress in trying to find work, even with those few kindly souls who are willing to speak with me. 

And amongst this all, I am attending a film festival that is, by nature, focused on the state of the world. If I’d thought that state was pretty bad upon arrival, I now was left with the sense that it was absolutely doomed.

In the quiet sanctuary of my hotel room overlooking Vesterbrogade, I return each day exhausted, and on the verge of tears. Or maybe in tears. (I think one day I was in tears because the next afternoon, I return to my room to find hotel reception has left me a kind note and a small selection of chocolates on the desk.)

Yet, I do not resent the city for my despair. If anything, it is further affirmation that I am in the right place. For if I can be sad here, and still wish to be nowhere else in the world, then this must be home.

It is bittersweet, then, to have to leave once more. My flight is in the evening so I post up for a while a café attached to one of my favourite cinemas in the city. It’s gently art deco in style, and the speakers hum with a selection of songs from the middle of the last century—it could be my own regular playlist they have on rotation. 

For that moment, existence is timeless. It could be 2026, or 1956. And in that, I find some solace. There is no rush (save for the possible impending doom of the planet but I am trying very hard not to bring the cloak of pessimism from a week of documentaries back with me). I will find my way to this city, and my place in its working world, in time. Come hell or high water. 

Because there is nowhere else I am meant to be, but right here. In this delightful city by the sea.