Hello, internet. I am writing to you from the charming village of Sunningdale, England, on my fourth day (we think) of having Covid. There are five days to Christmas and six days (maybe) left of my isolation.
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. Drinka 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.
My flight to Copenhagen is boarding in twenty minutes and I still have to change terminals, legally enter the U.K., clear customs, pass security, and find the gate. How do you say “I’m fucked” in Danish?
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.