Sunrise Mesa High School in Copenhagen

No one slept much the night before the early morning flight to Copenhagen. Maeve messaged Sol into the early hours of the morning and only stopped when her phone ran out of texts. They were supposed to arrive at the McCarran airport an hour before dawn for the ambitious itinerary ahead of them: Las Vegas to Seattle to Reykjavik to Copenhagen. In the backseat that morning, it felt to Maeve that her parents were driving her through a murky ocean; the inky dark sky rendered the ride murky and viscous. Still, she felt relieved--she had just put in her Early Decision application to Columbia, which had been the mental block between her and this trip. The lights of the airport unfolded before them, a shot of energy in the darkness. “Keep your wits about you,” her dad said to her in Chinese as they dropped her off at the curb. “And stay with your friends at all times.”

Maeve nodded. In front of her, a flow of her classmates were flooding into the terminal, a mass, uniform unit. Everyone wore the required gray hoodies that read,“Sunrise Mesa High School Marching Band in Denmark, November 2008.” Their band director had also reminded everyone to dress appropriately for the weather, as Copenhagen in November was colder than Las Vegas ever was in the winter. It appeared most heeded the warning with grim preparedness; nearly everyone wore coats and jackets over their hoodies Sol was already in the check-in line, sporting a puffy cream coat and carrying her clarinet case. She waved to Maeve.

“I couldn’t sleep all night,” Sol said. “I thought I’d be tired right now, but I feel so alive. Five days in Europe, no school, away from this forsaken desert!” She looked around and spread her arms wide as they moved forward in line. Maeve spotted Rodrigo standing next to his parents and a boxed drum set. They were wrapping a scarf around his coat collar, fussing loudly in rapid Tagalog.

“The desert isn’t all that bad,” Maeve said to Sol.

“Just wait till you see Europe,” Sol replied languidly. “You’re gonna wish we lived there.”

As they walked to their gate, Maeve had a vague sense that to everyone else in the airport, they were simply a smattering of tacky, boisterous kids, but she didn’t care. Most students stashed their brand new, blemishless blue passports in their hoodie pockets, but Maeve wished everyone were holding them in their hands so that everyone else heading to the C Gates would raise their eyebrows and nod impressively--how incredible, this group of high school students at 4am, invited to march in a parade half-way around the world. Maeve felt a swell of pride; suddenly, there were tears forming in the corners of her eyes. She blinked rapidly and cleared the grit in her throat as their group settled at their gate. She wondered if everyone in the group felt her same sense of increasing wonder and blind anticipation. There was so much that was going to happen, so much that could happen that she didn’t--couldn’t--even know. It was herself, Sol, Rodrigo, their band, in Copenhagen, half-way across the world, about to walk through ancient castles and bike through the cobble-stoned streets. The thought of it all was unbearably delicious. When she approached the flight attendant scanning tickets at the kiosk, she had a wild, fleeting fear that her boarding pass wouldn’t work, that they’d lost her reservation, and that she would have to walk away in utter disgrace, calling her parents to pick her back up. She imagined it all in half a second as the flight attendant took her boarding pass, scanned it, and gave it back to her before taking Sol’s behind her. 

So that was it: she was officially on this trip, her first trip outside of Las Vegas, of everything she’d ever known. Her heart swooped as she walked onto the jet bridge and didn’t stop beating loudly in her ears until they’d taken off and the captain switched off the seat belt signs. Two layovers later, they landed in Copenhagen; everyone craned their necks towards the windows as they descended, chattering excitedly. The sky was a bleak, wintry gray, and the sudden cold elicited gasps from the group as they walked out on the runway. Though she had looked up a few photos of Copenhagen, she was still surprised when their charter bus drove through the city. It was smaller and more modest than she had expected. The colors were similar to Las Vegas, but a smoother, colder version of the vibrant browns and reds of the American southwest. The biggest difference was the actual city feel of it all; despite the weather, there really were quite a lot of people outside. Most of them wore long, sleek wool coats that hung on their thin frames, tufts of mostly blonde hair peeking out of hats and scarves. But there were Asian people too, Maeve noticed, staring at a family with black hair waiting for the bus. She wondered why they chose to move to Scandinavia.

“It’s no New York or Paris,” observed Sol matter-of-factly as they passed by the Church of our Saviour in Christianshavn, a brown-brick building with a gold-flourished twisted spiral, “but it does have its own character.”

Their hotel was in Amager, where they were met by a parade volunteer in the lobby, a university student wearing thick mascara and a t-shirt that read, “Velkommen Til København!” Her name was Sofia, and she was their host and tour guide for their visit. She told the fast-fading group that Copenhagen was a safe, tourist-friendly city that was easy to navigate with plenty of public transportation options. Though Danes were outwardly reserved, most spoke English and were genial. Sofia counted on her fingers the next steps in their itinerary. They had two hours to get settled in their rooms before the city tour, then dinner, after which they would call it an early evening. Call time for the parade tomorrow was 5am. 

Maeve knew she wasn’t the only one struggling during the city tour, which, despite Sofia’s best efforts, did not go well. Jet lag had finally settled in and the effects were brutal. Maeve felt dreamlike, detached from her feet as they walked by the canals, Sofia gesturing at the icy water (“Dozens of bikes are thrown into the canals every year, and there is a special boat that rescues them before they are resold”). Even the chaperones stifled yawns and stared blearily at Amalienborg Palace, the Opera House, even colorful Nyhavn. By the time they reached the Little Mermaid statue, a third of the group was sitting on the grass, huddled together to keep warm.

“...So, Hans Christian Andersen was buried here in Copenhagen, in Assistens Kirkegaard, along with Niels Bohr, the Danish physicist.” Sofia smiled brightly, unperturbed by her listless audience. “Well, that’s just a little taste of Copenhagen for you! Don’t worry, the bus will pick us up around the corner.”

The bus took them to a local university’s cafeteria, where they queued up for dinner. Maeve’s heart dropped when she found herself standing in front of Rodrigo. She mustered the courage to tell him that she didn’t have high hopes for Danish food, but she was still outraged when she peered into the box and saw the “hot dog” labels.

“That’s it?” she whispered, looking at the small wraps of foil. 

“Denmark’s best, I guess,” Rodrigo replied gloomily, taking two in his hands. She knew they were both thinking about the food at their family gatherings at home. “Bon appetit.”

Everyone dragged their lifeless bodies in full uniform onto the buses the next morning. It was pitch black dark at 5am, and the bus was silent as it drove them to the parade landing site. No one spoke much during their warm-up, either, and it wasn’t until the sun finally rose and they were lined up at the staging area that everyone finally started waking up in earnest. It was a narrow street lined with uneven cobblestones, and it was hard to do their traditional roll-steps. After several minutes, Rodrigo kicked off their cadence with a few smart raps on his snare, and everyone brought their instruments up to play “Stars and Stripes.” There was a decent crowd now, and people waved miniature Danish flags from the sidewalks. A child wearing a onesie snowsuit tugged at her dad’s hand and pointed at the band excitedly. At one point they paused at a street corner, marching in place, and Maeve caught a whiff of something foul and sharp. She then remembered Sofia telling them that there weren’t any public urination laws in Denmark and shuddered slightly. The next street was better; there was a bakery and a pleasant warm, baking smell replaced the stench. They marched on, through the streets of Strøget to Rådhuspladsen, the City Hall Square. They played “Stars and Stripes” fewer than ten times before reaching the end of the parade route; it was over before they knew it. All the build up, the press from local Vegas media, late night practices on the football field, the flurry of shopping for the trip--all boiled down and distilled into less than twenty minutes. But the crowd was even bigger at Rådhuspladsen--Maeve could properly hear cheering and yelling now, and dozens of red and white Danish flags fluttered from every angle. She didn’t know if Sunrise Mesa Marching Band looked overtly American or not, but it didn’t seem to matter. The crowd cheered for every group with equal enthusiasm, so the square echoed with continuous waves of sound and applause. What did Sofia mean by Danes being reserved? Maeve was deeply moved, like something had dipped into her inner pool of emotion and rippled waves emanating from the center. 

In the afternoon, Sofia took them city tour part two featuring a walking tour of Christianshavn and a canal cruise, followed by dinner at a nearby Danish restaurant featuring a selection of open-faced smørrebrøds. They weren’t mind blowing, Maeve concluded, but they were a marked improvement from the pitiful hot dogs the night before. After dinner, there were murmurs that some of the seniors who had already turned 18 wanted to go to a bar. Sol waved them good-bye as Maeve, Rodrigo, and a handful of other seniors entered the bar, their group buzzing excitedly. Two French horn players bravely took initiative and edged their way to the front to place orders for everyone. A bright-eyed Dane at the bar heard their voices and perked up. 

“Americans! You think Obama has a chance to win next week?”

“We hope so,” Maeve heard to her left. “We’re really excited.”

One of the French horn players handed Maeve a glass of Carlsberg draft. Her heart lifted lightly, knowing it wasn’t the first time she’d tried beer; she didn’t want to look inexperienced in front of Rodrigo.

“Yes, we can! Yes, we can!” The front of the bar was chanting. “Skål!”

Everyone drank deeply. Their group squeezed into a free corner and Maeve found herself talking to Catherine, who was already on her second glass when they got to the table. But Maeve’s attention was focused on Rodrigo. In her periphery, she saw him in deep conversation with Miguel two tables over. He let out a loud laugh and gripped Miguel’s shoulder briefly before putting down his drink. Caroline was complaining about how the Round Tower was not much taller than the volcano in front of the Mirage. Maeve nodded vaguely and lifted the beer again to her mouth. A hoppy taste surfaced in her throat, and something was thrumming in the balls of her feet. Ruben came by and slid into Rodrigo and Miguel’s conversation, partially blocking him from view. But Maeve could still sense exactly where he was, knew his facial expression even though it was partly obscured, knew where his two feet stood on the ground, his hair carelessly parted on the side. She saw his every slight lean, every hand on the table. 

“Hey,” Catherine said. “You okay?” 

Maeve placed her empty glass on the table. “Yeah. I just need some water.” 

A bartender gave her a glass of water at the bar, and Maeve took several grateful sips. Breathe, she told herself. She couldn’t act sloppy in front of all the seniors, and especially all the Danes. She looked back at the corner of the room, and for a fleeting moment, she thought her band mates had left without her. But through the shoulders and arms she could see the gray hoodies, rendering her friends into little American minions infiltrating a city where no one local was wearing a hoodie, much less a puffer coat. For the first time since they’d arrived, Maeve felt self-conscious. They were out of place, ridiculous, conspicuous. And of course they looked stupid, they were just teenagers from America. Las Vegas, which had shrunk into a pinprick in her mind, roared back to the forefront, alarm bells blaring. How were they all supposed to simply go back home, knowing this city, its people, the country, was here, existing in the same moment?

The next day was their final full day in Copenhagen. The band was allowed a block of free time in the afternoon, and they all congregated at Norreport Station. A sleaze of cigarette smoke hovered above several Metro workers taking a break a few steps away, and they looked on carelessly as the chaperones called out the rules. Groups were to depart from Norreport in groups of four or more. Do not wander off by yourself under any circumstances. Meet back here at Norreport at 5pm sharp. 

Sol rallied Maeve, Catherine, and a handful of other clarinet players and they made their way across the street to the glass market, Torvehallerne. The prospect of eating more pastries after having ransacked several Netto baked goods aisle made Maeve feel nauseated, but she walked with everyone and marveled the glass coolers containing fish and pork and neatly-stacked smørrebrød. Across the way, a group of twenty-somethings wearing puffy coats pointed animatedly at bins full of licorice. Also tourists, probably. Did any locals ever eat at this market? One of the clarinet players decided on a pastry stall on the western corner of the hall and they queued up to order. After initial exclamations of excitement, they all ate quietly, tired after their multi-day stint in a new country.

Or perhaps they were finally adapting to the Danish ways, Maeve thought, chewing her cinnamon roll. Her sense of dismay from the day before had negotiated itself into prospective nostalgia. It was overall a nice ending to the trip, this relaxed Torvehallerne stop, an easy denouement. How lucky she was, how they all were, to have had this opportunity to use their passports, see a different culture and people. She had assumed Americans and Danes would look rather similar, but now she knew the distinction was very obvious. And the Danish language--distinctly unintelligible for a language that utilized the Roman alphabet. She’d seen castles older than the formation of America, drank her first beer in public. She’d been colder than she’d ever been, she’d eaten more bread than she had ever consumed in her life. Still, it wasn’t hard to admit that she wasn’t ready to leave Scandinavia, or Europe. Where else would she go? She looked out the window at the meek gray sky. Sweden was a short train ride away, Germany a few hours south. And Norway’s fjords were probably only an hour or two away by plane. Maeve’s gaze hovered to a signpost a few feet away signaling nearby points of interest. Christiania, Nørrebro, Assistens Kirkegård. 

Assistens Kirkegård. Sofia had mentioned it--Hans Christian Andersen was buried there, as was Niels Bohr. Surely something worth seeing, if only for a few minutes. Maybe her physics teacher Mr. Prince would even give her some extra credit if she showed him a picture. Suddenly energized, she stood up. 

“I’m bored just sitting here,” she said to Sol. “Don’t wait up. I’ll meet you all back at Norreport at five with everyone else.”

Maeve set off at a brisk pace, her mind the clearest it had been all trip, the wooden heels of her boots clacking smartly against the cobblestone. Suddenly, she had a sense of purpose, all her own, motivated by the small thrill accompanied by spontaneity, a micro rebellion, and a nebulous hope for extra credit. She’d have a good hour or two of light left before sunset, which was plenty of time to get to the cemetery and find Niels Bohr before meeting up with everyone else at five. It was a straight shot down Nørrebrogade, facing the sun. Maeve paused on the canal bridge and took a deep breath--this is what she’d remember of Copenhagen. Not the dank, crowded bar, not even the lively parade, but the crisp air, sounds of bikes rattling past, blocks of buildings painted in neutral colors. There was an urgent sense of curiosity, yet Maeve was utterly convinced that there wasn’t anywhere she could go within a ten mile radius and felt like she could blend in. Enthralled, yet forced to hover at the edges, but she would take it. Maeve walked further west, across the bridge. It was much more exciting to be wandering around Copenhagen alone compared to the suburbs of Henderson or even worse, among the masses on Las Vegas Boulevard. Here she was, a tiny pebble rubbing against the giant foot of Denmark, barely discernible but carelessly welcomed, where no one knew or cared about her GPA, how long it took for her to claw her way to first chair, or what colleges she’d applied to. To them she was simply a tourist, American, or Asian, or all three, and that was all. How different would American seem after she returned?