18th August 2025
There’s such beauty in the wistful nostalgia you feel in a place where you were once grew up. One step back into that place and a thousand memories come back, memories that shape the version of you that now exists in the world.
Normally it happens somewhere you were once a child. I wasn’t expecting the feeling to hit so hard in Copenhagen. I wasn’t a child there, but it was the place I finally had the space to grow into myself.
From the moment I got off the plane earlier this month, it felt like I was 19 again, welcomed by a cool Scandinavian breeze and a world of possibilities. Then the memories of arriving at that same airport came flooding back. Stumbling off the plane with friends after whirlwind trips to European cities, still drunk on laughter and youth and beer from the night before.
It had been 10 years since I left, but one foot on the ground and I was plunged back into the person I was in that chapter. If I really thought about it, it was the last time I’d felt entirely myself, living a life that felt entirely mine. Until now, of course.
My trip to Copenhagen was the final stage of the hug-my-loved-ones chapter of my travels this year. I came here to see my two much-loved Danish friends. But truthfully I also came here to feel connected to my life back then. Before him. Before all of the sharp realities of adulthood took over. And boy did I feel it.
I found my way to my hotel, just a block away from where I’d once lived. I hired a bike and set out to cruise some streets and see all the main landmarks. The heavy metal karaoke bar, the kebab store that’s open 24/7, the ping-pong bar, the spot by the lake where we’d drink beers and watch the sun go down, the apartment block where we lived and loved and drank way too much Tuborg. Who wants to see the Little Mermaid when you’ve got landmarks like this?
I then made my way to meet one of my friends at a local bar we used to frequent. Hugging her felt like another little part in me was healing. She’d lived in my city back home for a few years between now and when we’d last been to this bar, and she was one of those older female friends who feel like a big sister. When I met her I was 19 and she was 23, which felt like she was practically middle aged. Now we’re in our 30s and the age gap feels smaller, our place in life feels more similar, but she still feels like my older, wiser friend. Age perspective changes with time, but apparently relationship dynamics don’t necessarily follow suit.
We traded memories and stories and caught each other up on life to date. I went back to her place to say hi to her partner and child. I think the way your friends’ faces shine through in their children’s smiles is one of the most surprising joys I’ve had in life. You’re seeing the image of someone you love in a brand new person, like their presence in the world has doubled. Seeing the love your friends have for their children is another massive joy in life too, but I’ll get into that another day.
I went on to catch up with my other Danish friend the following day and went through the same process of reliving memories and sharing new ones, appreciating these moments that I get to share with them. She has a baby on the way and getting to talk about all the pre-motherhood existential crisis was challenging but weirdly cathartic. I don’t plan to have children soon, but it’s nice to be in tune with those thoughts.
Over the next week, I spent time roaming Copenhagen’s neighbourhoods, sharing meals with friends and their loved ones, and spending time in the glorious rays of Danish sunshine, a rare phenomenon I hadn’t had the privilege of experiencing when I was living there. I even swam a few times.
I bought artwork I couldn’t afford when I’d lived there as a student, ate way too many pastries and spent so much time enjoying the same happiness I’d felt while living there years ago.
This little trip felt like the confirmation I’d needed to feel in touch with the life I’d loved so much, the people I loved so much, while I was growing up in Copenhagen. I’d lived on my own for the first time there, and lived through so many other firsts there too – first chest infection, first night clubbing, first time I stole a pint glass, first time I kissed a girl. Processing those things 10 years on felt wholesome.
It was all incredibly affirming and made me feel like I understood my place in the world a little more. I was ready to leave with a full heart and sense on content.
And then I met the American girl.
I’m in Turkey now, and I cannot get her out of my head.
Notes from a semi-reformed tomboy 