posted by Paige on Uncategorized

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I cross the street from Nørreport Station and step into Fiolstræde, enjoying the light of the early spring morning on my well-worn path to school. A man stands eating a sausage in front of the hot dog wagon. Cyclists roll over still-wet flagstones, and pigeons loiter hopefully in front of the vegetable stand. What was once foreign is familiar now, and dear to me.

Normally I pass the bookstore on the corner with some curiosity, but I almost never go in. There’s a book I’ve had in mind, though; a particular passage in a book, actually. I’ve been fruitlessly searching Copenhagen’s bookstores for it since shortly after I arrived nine months ago, and suddenly feel the urge to try again.

The clerk looks dubious when I tell her the title of the book, but asks for a few minutes to research whether or not they carry it.

I make my way through the Danish titles and settle in the children’s section, where a beautifully illustrated copy of H.C Andersen’s stories lays waiting to be read. Much to my delight, words that would’ve made no sense just months ago unfold into meaning. I’m still engrossed when the clerk approaches, looking apologetic. The book could be imported for me, it seems, but at a steep price. I thank her and step back into the street.

At idle moments throughout the day I try to excavate parts of the passage from my mind, but I know it’s still not right. Frustrated, I go to the school’s library and run an internet search, but turn up nothing.

Late that afternoon on the train home, I try to focus on my reading but end up staring out the window instead. It’s gently raining again, and the clouds hang low in the sky. Drops of water slip down the window, only slightly obscuring the passing scenery. I watch the red-tiled houses, the streets, the cars, the shops. A pair of teenage girls walk arm-in-arm. A mother pushes a large black pram across an intersection. All the while my brain works, trying to tease out a clearer memory of the passage I’ve become stuck on.

Descending the stairs in the station, I pause before turning toward home and instead go in the other direction. I’m not entirely sure why, but I head past the grocery store and the entrance to the shopping center.

My eyes sweep across the square and my attention catches on the glass enclosure of the library’s entryway. I’ve only been in once or twice, but I’m unquestionably drawn to it now. There’s no chance of my book being there, I know, but it’ll be fun to look.

The English section is small, tidy, spare. I peruse the shelves, curious. There’s nothing to surprise me there: Austen, Dickens, Hemingway.

But, suddenly, there–on the second lowest shelf, in a small library in a suburb of Copenhagen–stands the very familiar spine of my much longed-for book.

Right where I’d never hoped to look.

Tags: body, emotions, mind, spirit, the 500-word project