Copinghagen

Copinghagen

So far, if I were to write a “36 Hours in Copenhagen” for The New York Times, it would consist of the following: See people do heroin while en route to hostel. Eat all-you-can-eat sushi with three strangers. Drink a little too much a lot too much at The Drunken Flamingo. Go to McDonalds at 4 a.m. and accidentally offer french fries to a prostitute.

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Dan-ish

Dan-ish

I give their hands a little squeeze before letting go and looking out the window. I can’t quite believe this is happening. The sting of the shock hasn’t worn off. And it’s not the goodbye that kills me – we were always good at those – it’s the weight of not being able to say hello again that feels unbearable.

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