Dad: You still have the pepper spray I gave you, right?
I giggle at the idea of using that against Erik. I have to go now, Dad. Love you. Then I tuck my phone away and leave the room, smiling.
Erik takes his bike, and I find a rental bike parked close to our apartment and unlock it with an app. Then we set off, me right behind him as he leads the way.
We follow the bike lane. To our left there are buildings like ours connected to one another—old, charming, yellow, white, brick-red, guarded not by high fences but by autumn-colored hedges. To our right, water, benches, and sparse trees, their orange leaves waving with the cool breeze, casting shadows over the people walking their dogs, running, or bringing their babies for a stroll.
We pass by swans with open wings, a little island full of birds, floating restaurants, and couples holding hands. The city vibrates with life and health; bright, fresh, and colorful like an impressionist painting.
At some point, the lane leads us down a tunnel passing under the beautiful Queen Louise’s Bridge. When we emerge on the other side, there is no more bike lane—we share a small road with cars, and soon we are taking a turn to enter the biggest park in our neighborhood, Fælledparken.
There is a wide muddy path for bikes and pedestrians to share. It circles around a vast green field where people play soccer, let their dogs run, or sit and enjoy the sun.
I keep following Erik, not talking, not worrying about my concerns, just absorbing the environment and enjoying the exercise and how alive you can feel when outdoors, exploring your city in no hurry and with no predetermined destination.
I pass a couple helping their little daughter steer her tiny bike and pair with Erik to ask, “Where are we going first?”
“I have a good plan,” he says, smiling back at me. Birds sing high up in the trees—a calming, jolly melody. “I know a great bakery in the vicinity,” Erik tells me. “We can grab a few pastries and come back here to eat.”
“Good idea,” I say, excited about the prospect of sweets.
He speeds up again, and I do my best to keep pace. I haven’t biked in years. I used to go on Sunday rides with my dad as a child. But as a grown-up, if I biked twice a year, it was a lot. At least I’m in good shape, because I’ve always done some sport as an extracurricular activity, and my passion for volleyball stretched throughout adulthood. Since I came here, I’ve been doing yoga at home. I used to go running in the summer, but I stopped exercising outdoors when it started to get cold.
I don’t know why I haven’t bought a bike yet since it is the best means of transportation in this city. I guess I’ve been scared off by the prices and the traffic. But I realize now that it’s easy enough to navigate around, with the bike lanes and dedicated traffic lights, and I’m sure it will be worth the price I pay if I get one. It’s not like public transport is cheap here, and now I don’t live as close to work. Besides, cycling isn’t only good for the body but for the environment too.
I’m so satisfied, so fulfilled, that when we stop to cross a street, Erik notices it just by glancing at me. “You look like you’re enjoying the tour.”
“It’s wonderful! Thank you for bringing me here.”
We ride slowly next to each other, passing by a kiosk and entering another part of the park, near a stadium. Then we enter a commercial street, and soon we are stopping in front of the bakery Erik likes.
And he is not the only one. There is a long queue of people outside waiting to enter.
“Is this all to buy bread and cake?” I raise my eyebrows.
“I told you it was a big deal,” he says, grinning, and guides me to where we can park our bikes.
We face the line and use the waiting time to draw our plans for the evening. He shows me on his navigation app how to get to Lars’s house, where the trivia night will be. Since it would take us about half an hour to walk from our place, compared to ten minutes biking, we agree to ride there at around 6:30 p.m. so we don’t risk being late.
“When you have appointments in Denmark, always be on time,” he tells me.
“Any other tips?” I look at him, avid for more advice.
“Take off your shoes when entering someone’s home.”
“Oh. It’s good you say that. I had no idea.”
“When in doubt, just follow my lead, but don’t worry too much.” He smiles softly. “I think you’re doing fine at home.”
“I am?” I give him a sideways look, uncertain. “Is Sol Carvalho living up to Erik Storm’s standards?”
He gives a short, hoarse laugh. “Well, you clean up after yourself and give me space. I have nothing to complain about.”
This lightens my mood. I look in his direction. The sun reflects in his eyes, making them more translucent than ever. He squints and turns his head away to not be blinded, and I catch myself observing his every move, a bit mesmerized. Just a bit.
Who am I kidding? I’m staring. He is gorgeous. Even with all that beard. And I don’t see gorgeous people every day.
Well, I do. I see Erik.
“I’ve been walking around in shoes at home,” I comment to get my thoughts away from the danger they are falling into.
“Not when they are muddy, and you vacuum the entrance and the dining room every day,” Erik remarks. “So, ten points for you.”
“Are we keeping count?” I smile, happy that he didn’t forget the game I initiated the day we met.
“According to my calculations, I’ve got thirty points—ten for knowing about Brasília and twenty for having an orderly bedroom. You are now at twenty.”
“You need to be more generous with me,” I say jokingly.
“Rest assured that I’ll be fair when I recognize a worthy act.”
“Now that I think about it, I should remove ten points from you because your mom helped you decorate your room.”
“Fair enough. We’re even then.”
We laugh, and the moment seems surreal. We are actually here, standing in a bakery line on a Sunday afternoon, talking like...friends. Is that what we are becoming? Am I finally making a friend in this city?
We leave the bakery with two pastries each—a kardemommesnurrer, a “cardamom roll,” and a spandauer, the original cake that inspired every pastry named “Danish.” The first is a soft, buttery, curly bun with cardamom seeds, and the second is a wienerbrød with flaky dough, sugar glaze, and custard crème filling. My mouth is watering just looking at them, but Erik says we should find a nice place to sit. When I tell him I brought coffee and a blanket, he agrees it would be a shame not to cross picnic off the list.
