Copenhagen, Spring of 1989

Once upon a very real time—spring of 1989, to be exact—I found myself living in Copenhagen. I was a runner then (still am, though the body lodges a formal protest from time to time), and I’d run in all sorts of places—Taiwan, Brazil, Paris, Rome. But Copenhagen… Copenhagen was different.

It wasn’t just the cobblestone charm or the scent of pastries on the breeze. It was the magic, hiding in plain sight, like something out of a Hans Christian Andersen story—which made sense, I suppose, because I was practically living in one.

I was studying at Københavns Universitet and training with the Amager Athletic Club. I could compete in the Danish National Meet, even though I couldn’t officially count—rules being what they are about foreigners and finish lines. Between classes, I’d lace up and head out for my miles, not because I had to, but because the city called to me in a way that few places ever had.  I ran through the grounds of Rosenborg Castle, through iconic Nyhavn, along Oresund that connects the Baltic and North seas and in eccentric Christianshavn;  but one route proved more magical than the rest.

One of my weekly routes took me through Langelinie Park. Just a mile from campus, it curved along the harbor with a sort of quiet nobility. It was on that path, week after week, that I became acquainted with a little nest—low to the ground, not far off the trail, between me and the water. . Inside were two eggs, nestled like secrets waiting to be told.

I watched them like a proud uncle—though from a respectful distance. One week, they hatched. Two awkward, grey, fuzzy things stumbled into the world, all legs and confusion. Ugly ducklings, in every sense. But even then, they held the promise of something more.

I ran past them every week. Through rain, wind, Danish fog, and stubborn sun. I’d stop just briefly to check in—“Still here? Good.” Then off I’d go, pounding the path past the Little Mermaid, who never once blinked, no matter how sweaty I was.

In truth, I imagined myself as Hans Christian Andersen, witnessing his own tale unfold before him in real time. It was eerie and comforting all at once—seeing fiction and life waltz together like that. Each week, the ducklings grew. Still grey-brown, still awkward, but growing. Becoming.

I never got to see them turn white.  I had returned home before the summer blossomed. 

By the time I left Denmark, they were still that in-between shade—part swan, part question mark. But somehow, that was enough.  Because I understood then what I hadn’t before: not all transformations need a conclusion. Some stories end mid-stride, and that’s okay. Just because I didn’t see them become swans didn’t mean they didn’t. Maybe they’re still out there, gliding through Danish waters, elegant as ever.

I returned many years later, in the summer, and ran that route and saw some swans on the lake and wondered…

I’ve run through palaces and ports, on cliffs and continents. But when someone asks me, “Where was your favorite run?” I don’t say the Alps or the Andes.

I say Copenhagen.
Spring of ’89.
Langelinie Park.

That’s where I ran with the ducklings—awkward, wild, becoming….Just like me.