April Winchell

Well, I’m back. Back from the trip of a lifetime. The most wonderful trip I’ve ever had, with the greatest guy in the world.

So much happened on this trip that I really have no idea where to start. I can’t even start with the defining moment, because there were just so damned many of them.

There was the Czech version of American Idol. The toilet in Zurich that did everything but blow you. John vainly attempting to order room service in Prague, and almost winding up with $200 worth of yogurt.

There was the waiter who suggested we try the herring sandwiches slathered with pork fat. The night a crazy guy wandered into our hotel and set the basement on fire. Not to mention window shopping for whores in Amsterdam, stopping only for chocolate covered waffles and John Wayne Bobbit porn.

I’m sure I’ll get around to telling you all of this and more, like the beer hall decorated with weaponry (”Please do not smoke, live artillery”), the enormous cow lamp I managed to get into my suitcase after throwing away my boots, the florist shop so outrageous you had to pay admission to go in, the Sylvester Stallone marionette we had no choice but to buy, and the flight home where we sat next to Marcus Allen, Rodney Peete and Kanye West’s mother.

But I think I’ll start with Copenhagen, because that was really the highlight of it all for me.

We landed in Denmark on November 21. We had just spent John’s birthday in Prague, and now we were looking forward to Thanksgiving in Copenhagen.

I realize it’s much too early in the story to go off on a tangent, but I have to tell you that the Danish airport has wooden floors. Seriously. Rich, dark wood floors you would kill for (I would tell you about the sleek leather chairs in the lounge, but I’m way behind).

Anyway, Copenhagen doesn’t get a whole lot of daylight this time of year, so by the time we landed it was already dark. We didn’t see much on the 20 minute drive from the airport, but all that was about to change.

We pulled into the town square and were blinded by thousands of Christmas lights on a beautiful old building that turned out to be our hotel. There was actually a spinning carousel on the roof. It was surrounded by giant toys, incuding enormous blocks that spelled out “Merry Christmas” in different languages. We were flabbergasted. I thought it was the most beautiful thing imaginable, but apparently I was in the minority.

“Well,” sniffed our driver, “there is your hotel. I think you will agree when you see it in the daytime that they would have been better served spending the money on a coat of paint.” It was the last snotty thing I heard anyone say in Denmark, and I cherished it.

We walked in and immediately smelled wood burning in the fireplace. There was a beautiful living room set up just off the reception area, and John and I stood in front of the fire together, marvelling at how beautifully and artfully it was all arranged. I have always loved clean, modern Danish design, but hot damn, can those guys do Christmas.

I didn’t know much about Danish culture before this trip, so I was really surprised to learned that they are huge fans of cozy. There’s a word for it that I can’t pronounce (it sounds kind of like a car horn), but it translates roughly to spreading this kind of feeling, and they’re serious about it. They even leave candles burning in office windows, just to make it all feel more welcoming and and warm.

I was definitely starting to feel it, along with something else; something both foreign and familiar. It seemed like a sense of well-being and safety, mixed with magic. But I wouldn’t be able to really identify it until the next day.

We took the tiny elevator to our floor and rounded the corner, where I came face to face with this sign:

I should not have to tell you that I sat down on a chair and cried my eyes out.

Poor John. He was so patient and kind, waiting for me to stop bawling so we could get to our room. Little did he know that this was the beginning of about 24 hours of weeping.

I have to explain that there was a lot of emotion at work in this part of the trip. There was the fact that I had wanted to go to Copenhagen my whole life, and I was finally there. Not just there, but there at Christmas, when everything is all dressed up.

Then there were all those Hans Christian Anderson stories and the Danny Kaye movie, which I adored as a kid, and the memories of my father telling me about his own magical trip to Copenhagen. Of course, my father had a lot of magical trips, but this one didn’t involve a blotter.

And there was the fact that I was still alive after more than a year of scary health issues, and more in love than I have ever been. The gratitude and happiness for it all was more than I could contain, so naturally it leaked out of my eyes and nose.

The next morning, I woke up and immediately put on my Cookie Monster hat. So we had that handled.

Next, John and I had breakfast in our room, after which we made our way down the Stroget, which is one of the longest pedestrian streets in the world. We did have to stop almost immediately for fresh Danish pastry though, because it had been about 10 minutes since we’d eaten last.

Speaking of which, did you know that real Danish pastry will literally melt in your mouth if you let it? It makes sense when you think about it, since it’s pretty much just an enormous glob of butter and sugar, with just the merest suggestion of flour. But it surprised me nonetheless.

Of course, John was the one who put that together. There is no way I would allow Danish pastry to linger in my mouth. That kind of thing doesn’t happen in my world.

Our goal that morning was Tivoli Gardens, an amusement park with rides, shopping and lots of restaurants. In the spring, it’s blooming with thousands and thousands of flowers. But in the winter, it’s radiant with millions of christmas lights, wrapped around every tree and structure. There are floating light displays on the water, delicious things to eat and hundreds of decorated Christmas trees. And there’s The Christmas Market; lots and lots of little stalls selling everything from candied waffles to crystal ornaments. I was out of my mind with excitement.

Of course, that didn’t mean we couldn’t shop on the way. I mean come on. I’m a tree, I can bend. So we stopped at Royal Copenhagen and bought 2 cups and cookie dishes to use at Christmas, and an advent candle that burns for a few hours every night leading up to Christmas. It’s next me me now while I type this, burning away its first night.

When we got to the end of the Stroget, we were suddenly hungry again. To be fair, we had been walking for several long minutes, and could not be expected to keep up such a grueling pace. So we stopped at a place called Copenhagen Corner, where we sucked down a big Tuborg beer and stuffed our faces with bread and butter and ham.

While we were testing the limits of our arteries, we noticed a Tussaud’s Wax Museum just next door. Now, I love, love, love the wax museum. I really do. It’s the stupidest fucking thing imaginable, and I adore that it still exists. But what made this one even more thrilling was that it was not a Madame Tussaud’s, it was a Louis Tussaud’s, who we could only assume was her much less talented and interesting brother.

That was pretty much all it took to get us inside, where I hung out with my dog Mandela, and John kicked it with one of his home boys.

As wax museums go, this one was a prize. Not only did the dummies bear almost no resemblance to the person represented, there was a wide array of Danish celebrities neither of us had ever heard of.

Still, I’m willing to say right here and now that the Ove Sprogoe figure was absolutely uncanny. I kept expecting him to come to life and do his “Who’s gut mijn herring?” routine.

Now all this would be delightful enough, but there was something else going on that day. Something that just rocketed the whole thing into the stratosphere.

I’m going to try to phrase this delicately, but keep in mind that political correctness has never really been my strong suit.

There appeared to be a field trip going on that day.

For retards.

All right, there, I said it.

Adult Danish retards. Tons of them. Or Dane-Tards, if you prefer. It’s not exactly the same thing as Dane Cook fans, but close enough.

It was just so perfect. I don’t expect anyone to understand. The important thing is that John and I both knew how special it all was.

Yes, love is a wax museum full of Danish retards. Sure, you’ve heard it a thousand times, but that’s only because it’s true.

Finally, it was time to go to Tivoli Gardens. We walked around the block to the entrance, slapped down our Kroners and stepped inside to another world.

I really have no way of describing how completely magical this place is. Every inch is filled with everything you ever hoped this time of year could be. This is where Christmas lives.

After a while, it occurred to me that the children there had the same look on their faces as I did. Everyone was steeped in complete and utter joy.

By now you know I’m a very cynical person. I’ve had a very tough road and I’ve seen a lot I shouldn’t have, and I saw it way too early. I have a tough little candy coating sometimes, and I don’t always have an easy time letting happy in.

But standing in that place on that dark winter day, looking at the sparkling trees and the lights on the water, I understood what it was I had been feeling since the day before.

It was Christmas spirit. The real life, honest-to-God, in-the-moment happiness you only have when you’re very small and can still suspend your disbelief. I cried all day, so grateful to have it again, even if it was just for an afternoon.

Toward the end of the day, we came across a barn where the Danish Santa had been taking pictures with children. There were no kids around at the time, so I went inside to see if he was game to pose with us.

Remarkably, even though we were all adults, he played Santa to the two of us, touching my hat and laughing in a big booming voice. He said in Denmark, his name is Jule Met, or Christmas Man. I liked that he wasn’t a religious figure, as he is in Holland and some other countries, but a winter character, happy and accesible to everyone.

As were leaving, he asked me if I was having fun.

“Oh yes,” I said, trying not to cry again. “I waited so long to get here, and I finally made it.”

He smiled at me warmly.

“You will come back”, he said.

John and I are both pretty sure he’s the real Santa.