Denmark: One Last Long Goodbye
Late summer 2019. I was back in Copenhagen, Denmark — one final time.
Even writing that sentence hurts a little. Emotional soundtrack playing in the background, naturally. But jokes aside, this was it. After the most adventurous summer of my life, crossing Europe one last time, I returned to the city that had been my home for four years. Only for a couple of weeks. Just long enough to say goodbye.
Goodbye to friends.
Goodbye to routines.
Goodbye to a country that had shaped me far more than I ever expected.
Denmark is often described as cold — its people reserved, distant, hard to befriend. I found that to be mostly myth. What I encountered instead were warm, straightforward, quietly kind people who opened doors for a foreigner trying to find his footing. As I packed my final bags and counted down the days to my flight to Canada, I realized something painful and beautiful at the same time:
My farewells had begun long before August.
The Last Ride North
In truth, the goodbye started in early June. That’s when I took my final cycling trip north to Hillerød — a route I had ridden many times before, but one that felt different this time. The sun was high, gifting Denmark one of those rare, perfect summer days when everything feels briefly aligned.
The ride began in Amager, cutting through Copenhagen’s city centre and past the familiar lakes of Brønshøj. Then came the long stretch along the forests hugging the lakes near Farum — another place I once called home — before the rolling hills of North Zealand took over. Small towns passed quietly. Forests closed in again. And finally, Hillerød.
Jesper and I walked around the castle grounds as we had done before, talking about life, work, and whatever lay ahead. We wished each other the best — sincerely, without ceremony. I sometimes wonder if he stayed there, if he settled down, started a family like so many of my friends did, while I kept drifting across borders and oceans.
That ride felt like closing a circle.
Copenhell: Noise, Sweat, and Catharsis
Early summer held another goodbye I hadn’t yet written about.
After Wacken Open Air in 2018, 2019 brought something closer to home: Copenhell, Denmark’s largest metal festival — and its 10-year anniversary. A very different experience this time. No tent. No mud. I cycled in and out daily from my apartment in Amager, the festival grounds conveniently close.
Two concerts stood above all others.
Slipknot
Slipknot was chaos in its purest form.
I forced my way to roughly the tenth row before the show began. The black curtain loomed above us, the band’s name stamped across it. Distorted noise filled the air — the intro track 515 from Iowa. The crowd screamed, compressed, surged. Then the drums hit.
The curtain didn’t fall — it twisted upward violently, like it was being sucked into a vacuum, revealing the band already blasting at full force. The crowd exploded. I felt an insane pressure as bodies crushed forward. For a moment I thought I might lose my phone — or my breath. Then it clicked.
I was at a Slipknot concert. So I shoved back, found space, and gave in completely — screaming, jumping, laughing like my teenage self had been waiting years for this moment. Somehow, through the chaos, I ended up even closer to the stage.
Later, during Duality, I crowd-surfed for the first time in my life. Absolutely wild. Unforgettable.
Dimmu Borgir
Dimmu Borgir was something else entirely.
I claimed a front-row spot early and waited patiently, barely drinking so I wouldn’t lose my place. Worth every second. The atmosphere was darker, ritualistic, less primal but more intense in its own way.
During one of my favorite songs, I let out a loud long war cry — something that still makes me laugh when I think about it. I was finally seeing one of my all-time favorite bands, these legendary Norwegian musicians I’d admired for years.
As the crowd dispersed afterward, I lingered near the stage. One of the crew walked by and handed me a guitar pick. A real Dimmu Borgir pick. I still cherish it to this day.
Winds of Change
On the final night, The Scorpions took the stage.
That’s when I met up with my old friend Lasse — drunk, hoarse, and gloriously exhausted. We sat on a small hill overlooking the massive crowd as the opening whistles of Winds of Change began.
We whistled along.
Then sang — badly, loudly, sincerely.
Candles lit up across the crowd as darkness fell. My voice was nearly gone. So was his. That moment — the song, the crowd, my friend beside me — felt like the perfect, unspoken farewell.
One Last Dinner
By August, it was time for quieter goodbyes.
My roommates and I planned one final group dinner with our computer scientist friends, and I suggested Folkehuset Absalon. I’d been introduced to the former church years earlier — repurposed into a community space filled with shared meals, conversations, and long wooden tables.
Every evening at six, strangers and acquaintances alike gathered for communal dinner — delicious, home-style food served family-style. Affordable, warm, human. It felt right.
Sitting there one last time, sharing food and stories, I realized how deeply Denmark had taught me the value of community — not loud or forced, but quietly present if you chose to participate.
What Denmark Taught Me
When I arrived in Denmark years earlier, my only real goal was to leave Romania.
To escape.
To prove myself.
To breathe.
I believe I did that. During my Master’s at Copenhagen University, I started behind my peers and ended up exceeding expectations. I learned discipline, independence, resilience. I even began dreaming of academia. But I also learned something harder: effort alone isn’t always enough.
Financial instability followed me for years. Career opportunities came slowly. As much as I loved Denmark, there was no future for me there along my chosen path. So my thinking changed.
Idealism gave way to pragmatism. Stability, income, and long-term opportunity began to matter more than prestige. That shift shaped my decision to choose Canada over Switzerland, industry over academia, practicality over purity. It shaped my growing interest in investing, markets, and long-term independence.
The Next Chapter
If my Danish saga was about escape — about searching for an idealized happiness — then my Canadian saga would be about ambition.
With my final bags packed and every goodbye said, I boarded the transatlantic flight that carried me away from Europe and toward an entire new chapter filled with its own radical ups and downs.
As my Danish Saga came to a close, my Canadian chapter was about to begin.
