Alone, I sat contemplating my glass of rose (I only drink red wine) and smørrebrød (I avoid bread due to a self-inflicted gluten intolerance) in the first bistro I spotted to shelter myself from the unexpected thunderstorm (I always dedicate ample time in selecting the highest reviewed spots). To make matters worse, my phone had just died, so it now sat charging at the bar because I failed to invest in a portable charger before the trip. I was now faced with my meal and a grey, blurred, flickering scene outside, without even a book to read or a notebook to write in. (Yes! I'm the worst!)
Rather than wolfing down my meal and drink as fast-paced New York life has so aggressively ingrained in me, I took care to pace my bites, chew my food, and just sit. There was nothing else to do, after all. It was weird. For once, there was nowhere I needed to be rushing off to, and no one else to be accommodating. At the risk of sounding like a total privileged white girl who has some time to travel and "find herself" a la Eat Pray Love cliché, I didn’t remember the last time I felt so...present. What they don’t always tell you is that it can be a little uncomfortable and awkward. Mind you, traveling solo is absolutely just as refreshing and liberating, but (unsurprisingly) unsettling getting reacquainted with yourself and what’s actually around you. Also, it can sometimes be just very unromantically boring and underwhelming. (Sorry? But bear with me — this is actually a good thing.)
So I can’t tell you what I was thinking about in that moment, but my musings were suddenly interrupted.
“Lovely weather, isn’t it?”
It took me a beat to realize the question was directed toward me and was coming from the gentleman seated next to me, also dining solo. His graying hair was loosely tied in a pony tail that hung low at his neck. I couldn't quite make out his features — it was dimly lit and I never allow myself to look at someone for too long anyway, but I decided he had a kind face.
“Right — seemed to come out of nowhere. Forced me in here to duck for cover. Probably for the best.” I took another sip of my rose. God I hate small talk.
He nodded. “What brings you to Copenhagen?”
Stay open, Nance! You are a free spirit engaging with a fellow traveler. Don't be a hypocrite. What the hell.
"Well, I'm on a mini solo Euro-tour. I'm actually visiting a family friend in Malmo and ventured out here for the day. And what about you? Are you from around here?" Though I take pride in my language skills and ability to discern accents, I actually wasn't able to figure his out, but his English was close to perfect.
"No, no — Germany is home. I am a pilot so just here for the day. You are American?"
"Oh, very nice!" I chirped in the pseudo-enthusiastic tone American insecurity has also ingrained in me. "My grandfather is also a pilot, as was my mother before immigrating to the States. Yes, American, but first-generation born Bulgarian so I've spent a lot of time there in my childhood." I always feel the need to justify this bit to anyone who asks. I'm American, but not that American. I'm a third culture kid. I'm not ignorant. Hella confused and plagued by a constant identity crisis and sprinkle of imposter syndrome, but never ignorant.
This did not seem to impress him. "Where in America?"
"New York," I answered shortly.
This, however, as it often did when sharing this detail overseas, had an effect. His face lit up, stern lines softening.
"Ahh, my daughter will be studying there. The Fashion Institute of Technology. She's very talented, brilliant girl, she is. Got into every school she applied to here in Europe. But she wants to be a fashion designer and she wants to do it in New York."
"Well she'll certainly be in the right place," I smiled, a little sadly. Do I tell him I'm trying to find a way out? That New York life has burnt me out to a quicker degree I could imagine possible? On the other hand, I'd met some incredibly talented and successful wardrobe stylists on set who wouldn't see themselves anywhere else; sticking to their steadfast New York loyalty. I took another bite of my smørrebrød.
As if reading my mind he replied, "I think we're all just on the run. We'll find whatever it is we're looking for when we're ready for it, wherever that may be." He took a final sip of his beer and asked for his check.
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