The Smell of Water
and the Misadventures of a Moving Gal

Listening: And It Stoned Me by Van Morrison (“Ooohhh the water”)
Reading: Waste — Uncovering the Global Food Scandal by Tristram Stuart
Thinking: “Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.” — Margaret Atwood
If you stick your nose into a glass of water, just above the line of liquid, how does it smell? Water smells like nothing, you might report. Like air.
You would be mistaken. Water has a very distinct scent; it smells of home. This is an indisputable fact and I won’t hear of anyone saying otherwise. This pleasant realization tickled my olfactory organ (nose) as I ran across the bridge between the lakes, which separate Frederiksberg, Nørrebro and Østerbro from Vesterbro and the City Centre. See that? They’ve got me spelling center all wrong now.

More than anything, I love when the smell of water gets caught in the breeze. Fresh or salty, I don’t care; both remind me of the brackish blue lapping up Plum Island. I was thinking of this, running, when suddenly I spotted a human plummeting from the sky toward these very lakes. A quick survey of the sprawling crowds of spectators along the banks allowed me to deduce that this was happening on purpose. Sure enough, the human was attached to a parasail (though “plummeting” is still the word I’d use…) and he landed deftly atop the water, as I bet Jesus would. Just a normal day in Copenhagen.
I have so much to tell you, I don’t even know where to start! I’ve spent the last 5 days living on the unoccupied second floor of Torben’s house in Brønshøj, just outside of all the hulabaloo. Tomorrow I’m moving into the apartment I’ll have until January (the same Air BnB I first stayed in) and also meeting my roomie, Julia. She’s just arrived from Germany to study at Copenhagen Business School (CBS) and we’ve already established a mutual love for cooking, so I’m betting we’ll get along. I don’t want to sound maniacally excited to have her here, but I am and I hope we do everything together.


But right now, my greatest wish is that my move back into my apartment is a smooth glide, like the “Cha Cha Slide” or maybe Victor Cruz’s touchdown-celebration-Salsa-Dance. I say this because my move out on Tuesday was wild from start to finish. A bumpier ride than a “taxi” in Ecuador. Like riding shotgun with my best friend Syddle when she first got her permit.
What happened is this: I got myself all packed. I left extra time to strip my bed and prepare the towels for washing. At 12:00 sharp, the time of my Air BnB checkout, I waltzed out the door, light and bright despite the added weight of my traveler’s backpack and maroon leather purse, both stuffed to the brim.
I might as well have been whistling a tune as I approached my bike, the charming black Mustang, because that would have illustrated how oblivious I was to the impending catastrophe. Indeed, just as soon as I pulled the key to my bike lock from my very stylish cross-body satchel did I find it flinging from the grip of my useless phalanges.
It was exactly like when you drop your iPhone and without having to look you just know it was a fatal fall. The clang of metal on metal and I knew I was in for it. The key to my only form of transportation went down a storm drain. But I was never defeated. Foolishly trying to lift up the rusty grates with my weak traitor fingers, I was hit by a great stroke of luck: beneath the drain was soil, not sewage (my seasoned nose detected no scent of H2O), and I could see the key.
Quickly, I scurried back up to the apartment I was supposed to have vacated, grabbed the pair of tweezers I’d left behind, sprinted back to the curb, tied the tweezers to a rubber band and the rubber band to my ring, slipped the ring on my finger (Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I don’t think so, storm drain) and dangled the tweezers through the grates. Like so:

The tweezers were too short and I couldn’t get the right angle. At this point I was lying on the pavement, looking helplessly up at the street, wondering if anyone was carrying a magnet attached to the end of a gumby-like straw on their person. In a moment of childish frustration, I stood up and pulled at the grate again. Only now, it shifted! This time I initiated a deep squat, lifted the grate and shoved my foot underneath to prop it up. Then I twisted my body sideways and carefully, ever so carefully, reached for the key.
Success.
After that, I nearly broke my back carrying an extra 40 lbs on my bike (up the ONLY hill in Copenhagen, mind you) to my temporary home. I vowed to never again do a lot of the things I did in that short time span, and yet I believe I probably will. Tomorrow morning, even.
XOXO Carly

PS: I can’t believe I only told 1 story. I got so carried away. More crazy tales, weird observations and photos to come. Also on Twitter.