The Aarhus-bound Danske Statsbaner train looked nothing like a steampunk locomotive, but it had WiFi onboard, smart red trim on black seats, and snacks. I help myself to an instant coffee and tomato and basil crispbread crackers, wait patiently at the border check, and idly watch Danish landscapes roll by. We change trains at Fredericia Station and arrive on time at Copenhagen Central, built in the Nordic style, with soaring arches and stained-glass windows. I remember to change some kroner on the well-organized concourse before climbing into a cab.
Eyes as large as the Round Tower
I decide that the rest of the afternoon will be devoted to exploring the neighborhood. Across the hotel is a 17th-century astronomical observatory, the Rundetaarn. I’ve always wondered about the third dog in The Tinderbox: he had “eyes as large as the Round Tower,” and today seems like a good day to find out what that means.
And since I never saw a round tower I didn’t climb, I venture inside. Rather than stairs, though, it has an equestrian staircase, built for horse-drawn carriage access, and was very notably ascended by Peter the Great on horseback. Modern-day serfs must make do with the pleasant alternative of going up the spiral ramp on foot.
On the way down, I pop into the tower gallery to visit an exhibit on wolves, before meandering around the white and gold Trinitatis Kirke next door, and wandering into a nearby bookstore.
The cozy expedition ends with streetside hot chocolate and a ristet hotdog, piled high with creamy remoulade, pickled cucumbers, crisp fried onions, mustard and ketchup, all wrapped up in a bun, and hearty enough to tide me over to dinner.
Dreams from Ole Lukoie
The hotel lends itself to all sorts of whimsical musings, like the pretty pictures on the umbrella that the Dream God brings to children.
My room is a long way from the lift, through a mazy series of turns round brightly decorated walls. Not an adventure for the easily overstimulated.
The bed is perfectly delicious; there will be no Princess and the Pea-like struggles here. A muted red-and-white armchair and snug fringed throw loll against creamy walls trimmed in soft pistachio, and high arched windows to let in the mild Danish sunlight.
Above the headboard is a colorful portrait of finches, bright against what looks like a reproduction of Darwin’s journeys on the map. On the shelves, a collection of curiosities: cockatoo and parrot figurines; a quaint View-Master atop a pile of books, by Darwin naturally; a handful of indigo butterflies underneath a glass dome. The parquet floor gives way to the fully heated blue and white tiled floor, blush-pink walls, and splashes of vivid yellow in the bathroom. And the most magical bit of all: a complimentary minibar.
Even the lifts are a surprise: one is set up like the cafe, with a plush canary-yellow ottoman and table, another completely papered over with cocktail pictures.
There is a tuck shop, what looks like a floating book installation at reception, and a record room. Dark green fronds and elegant prints in coral-pink alcoves adorn the lobby. The breakfast room looks like a giant greenhouse, and yes, indeed, there is a pterodactyl soaring above the circular bar.
The food is of a Levantine spirit, with one of the better shakshukas at breakfast, and popcorn falafel with lemon, ginger, soy and tahina. (I order this at least twice.)
The Steadfast Tin Soldiers
Fully recovered by the warm embrace of hygge living, I set out to explore the palaces next, and discover that the Danish royals have exquisite taste (not to mention imperial Russian connections).
Rosenborg was a beautiful little treasure box, and some of my favorites include a marble-topped egg-blue gilt cabinet, narwhal tusks, silk ottomans, the Crown Jewels and the Danish Crown Regalia, and of course the magnificent Knights’ Hall, with its ornate, richly frescoed stucco ceiling emblazoned with the Danish coat of arms, and the canopied queen’s throne with three life-sized silver lions resplendent in front. The Glass Cabinet was also very special, a sublime collection gifted to Frederik IV by the city of Venice.
Next to the castle is the barracks of the Royal Life Guards, and I’m fortunate enough to catch sight of the regimental band performing. The luxuriant Kongens Have, Denmark’s oldest royal garden, is also next door, with graceful tree-lined avenues that lead to a pensive statue of Hans Christian Andersen.
I find a sun-dappled bench and breathe in a tranquil moment before continuing to Amalienborg.
On my way, I run into a cobalt-clad company of Royal Life Guards on the road, marching to the daily changing of the guard at the queen’s official residence. The band is playing a jaunty martial tune with pipes and bugles, and they look so much like a troop of fairytale tin soldiers come to life that I feel a mild case of cute aggression coming on.
At Amalienborg there are more shimmering tiaras and dazzling Russian jewels to gawk at, while a statue of Frederik V on horseback looms over the crowds milling around in the palace square. One of the fairytale tin soldiers barks at a tourist sitting on the ground.
Outside, Frederiks Kirke, the Marble Church, floats against Copenhagen’s celestial blue skies.
The Little Match Girl
On the coldest day of the week, with sullen skies and air so chilly you could almost imagine the Snow Queen sweeping up in flurries of deathly frost, I visit Nyhavn and take a boat tour of the canals.
The tour guide is a standout, with a warm sense of humor and a spiel that eases through stories about the Danish navy, houses on the lake, and of course, one of the highlights: squeezing through the narrowest canal. The captain handles it like a pro.
I hunker down and peer through rain-streaked windows and promise myself I’m going to return and climb that spiral staircase of the Church of our Saviour.
The other highlight was finally catching a glimpse of the little mermaid. My grandfather had once lived in Copenhagen and brought back the bronze lady. For years, she rested on a shelf in the living room, an enigmatic souvenir of that faraway country. In life, she looked nothing like Disney’s red-haired, green-tailed princess; instead she was the doomed beauty that Andersen created, her gaze eternally fixed on the sea foam.
Back on land, I warm myself with hot wine and open-faced sandwiches, a brazier glowing on the table. Like a melancholy little match girl, only with a happy ending.
The Galoshes of Fortune
On my last day in this enchanting city, I entertain thoughts of going over to Malmo for lunch, but decide against it. I also can’t work up the energy to visit the Tivoli Gardens, so I finally let my feet take me where they will.
First I visit lushly perfumed Illum, with its woven art installation, before drifting down the streets, past masses of autumn blooms and inviting shopfronts. I buy stamps here, hygge candles there, empanadas from a little stand because why not, and resist the urge to take home an armful of flowers. I brave a crush of people along the Klosterstraede and a horde of kids, young and grown alike, inside a Lego store.
The Copenhagen airport was also attractive and I wish I’d been in a better state to appreciate all the things on display, but by then I was miserably in the throes of a cold brought about by that freezing morning in Nyhavn. Fully bundled up in Danish wool, I bid goodbye to fairytales and hygge as the plane takes off for Vienna.
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