I stood on a platform in Copenhagen as the train sucked the steam of humidity after it, leaving a vacuum of cool air. I arrived in the city with no experience and no one to provide me passage into their world, yet I hoped that things would become clear once I got there, somehow. That I would know what to do. Was it God who was supposed to provide these signs? If so, was I supposed to know how to read them?
I stood and nothing came to me – no signs or at least not the ability to discern them – so I approached the ticket counter. “To where?” the man asked me.
“A place to stay?”
“I meant, a ticket to where?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Could you direct me toward a place to stay?”
The man looked from my hat down toward my chest and then to the air beside me, without ever looking at my face. “On your
