Copenhagen

A bell chimes in greeting as we enter the bakery.

My frostbitten cheeks flush and fingers defrost. A record spins on a turntable in the corner, motor whirring as it serenades us. Books with Danish titles are stacked beside it. Dræb Ikke en Sangfugl. Løven, Heksen og Skabet. Notesbogen.

A soft yellow light bathes the room. It spills through the bakery windows onto the sidewalk outdoors, where evening cloaks Copenhagen’s cobblestone streets. Passersby watch us like characters in a silent film.

I play the part of the patron, browsing glass display cases brimming with pastries: cardamom buns, cinnamon rolls, spandauers, croissants, bundt cakes. We unwrap our winter layers and slide into a corner booth.

My sourdough bun steams as I tear it apart. Pillowy whipped butter is piled onto a saucer, forming ripples akin to those that lap in Copenhagen’s canals.

Just around the corner, the colorful shops and cafés of Nyhavn are strung with Christmas lights. Holiday markets line the waterfront. Children weave through the crowd cradling hot dogs with mittened hands. Their parents sip on beers.

They’re characters in another film. We can hear them from the bakery. The butter melts into my bun as our lattes arrive.