Autumn.

And so. It’s September. Summer is drawing to a close, the leaves begin to turn, we start adding an extra layer and if you’re anything like me, thoughts turn to warm winter coats (which I’ve been fantasising about since at least July) and boot choices. It’s the first month of the year where we all start to get a bit more introspective. What have we achieved? Are we where we thought we would be?…And, how the hell did it get to be this late in the year already?

But, despite feeling like it’s winding down time, I’ve always associated September with new beginnings. Perhaps it’s the connotations of the school year, the academic calendar – memories of new shoes, a new pencil set and a new school bag. Newness.

And so it is again this year. Back from a stint abroad for a 4 months, I’m back. Thinking about (read needing a) new job, new wardrobe and a new city. Ready for a new beginning. Or maybe just a new chapter. With new projects in the pipeline. Watch this space…

The importance of getting lost.

This week my phone’s 3G finally decided to give up the ghost right before I set off for a flat-viewing, rendering Google Maps somewhat entirely pointless. My beloved iphone 4s that I’m still “rocking” (thanks, Tom) looks like it might be on its last legs…(I could get into how something purchased in 2014 is seen as a charmingly Luddite object in 2016, but that’s another post for another day).

And so it was that, without even a paper (imagine?!) map to go by, I found myself attempting to navigate from one side of the city to the other, with only my gut instinct and my innate ‘sense of direction’ (what is that exactly?) as my guides.

I seem to have a deep seated fear of looking ‘foreign’, or ‘not from round these parts’; I’m an independent woman goddammit, I know where I’m going.

Have I been here before?

Well…No.

But, you know, I’ll work it out. No, no – put away your maps, your GPS – I’ll just keep walking/cycling purposefully in some sort of direction, and I’ll get there.

This attitude, coupled with my lack of knowledge and confidence in the rules of the cycle lane (along with being a people-pleaser who doesn’t want to piss anyone off) has lead me astray many times thus far. I’ve missed countless turnoffs, ended up many a dead-end, taken an unplanned trip around deep-suburbia (but not before circumnavigating a building site first) and many times just had to call it a day – and get off my bike and start walking.

But, through my unplanned meanderings, I’ve discovered areas of the city that I didn’t know before. I’m stumbling across landmarks by mistake, well-known coffee shops that I’d read about, beautiful statues and stately buildings. (Don’t get me wrong, I’ve also cycled into the red light district without meaning to, too).

Without wishing to sound like a framed motto you’d buy in a gift shop, it’s nice to be lost sometimes. To piece a city’s many parts together in your head. The interchanges, the side streets, the rat runs; the parks, the cobbled streets, the roadworks. Discovering there are public trampolines near the harbour, cycling across what will become your favourite bridge, finding the perfect cortado.

So, whilst I will never feel comfortable unfolding a map the size of myself right in the middle of town ( I mean, come on), I’m slowly beginning to get used to the fact that, well, I’m not from round here. I don’t know all the rules yet. I mean, hell, I only just realised my bike has gears ffs.

Oh and, did I make it to the church [flat] on time? I did, dear Reader. With time even to spare. Maybe that ‘sense of direction’ exists after all…

 

Salt and licorice. That’s right. Together.

I’ve always thought you can judge a lot by a country’s relationship with confectionery.

My Scottish homeland has a full-on love affair with all things glucose-based. Nothing fancy, mind. Often, the cheaper, the better.  Tablet, boilings, Tunnock’s teacakes, gums.  Here, have a poke of sugar for that healthy-looking stick of fresh rhubarb.

What’s that you say? Deep fry it? Well, better be hung for a sheep than a goat. Or however the saying goes.  I mean, sure, it means our collective cholesterol counts leave a little lot to be desired, and yes, many of us sport a definite pallor, but nothing could curb our love of penny mixes and fizzy drinks that come with warnings about their colourings ( the charmingly named ‘Sunset Yellow’ amongst them) and their subsequent affect on schoolchildren’s behaviour.  We’ve got our priorities in order.

 

Denmark, I’ve been pleased to find out, have a similar familiarity with the inside of a confectioner’s. I was delighted to learn of the Danes’ penchant for late night (well, 10pm, but still) sweetie shops where you can cure your night hankering for strawberry laces (preach) as well as their version of the humble teacake, or flødeboller (although, some look much fancier than I’ve ever seen at home). And so it was with some excitement, and in the name of cultural integration of course, that I (in hindsight, carelessly) slung a bag of licorice into my shopping basket last week.

It appears that I must have missed the, admittedly rather large, ‘STRONG AND SALTY’ sticker on the packet and was surprised to learn just how much salt they put in this stuff. And here was I thinking standard licorice was already an acquired taste. Now I have another level to contend with.

And I’m still to understand WHY? Perhaps it is not for us to question…

One week on, I’m still persevering. As a Scot, I wouldn’t want to leave any confectionery stone unturned. But suffice to say; never trust a packet of Haribo emblazoned with pirates.

Hej!

And so. After much discussion, planning, saving, thinking, and just plain boring all my family, friends and colleagues to tears – I have finally taken the plunge, and followed a long-held ambition to move to Copenhagen from my home in Scotland.

I’ll be updating this as regularly as possible with thoughts, as I get to know this beautiful city…