Denmark Diaries – Winter 2025
The guidebook promised that Denmark would be “a watercolor of wheat fields, summerhouses, and sailboats. Ferries join the dots between islands.” I believe it—but in winter 2025, we stepped into a very different painting. Instead of soft pastels, we found a winter wonderland brushed in twinkling lights, frosted rooftops, and cheeks flushed from the cold.
Our journey began in Copenhagen, where Christmas had wrapped the city in its own kind of magic. Tivoli Gardens, which inspired Walt Disney, felt like walking through a storybook—sparkling lights, decorated trees, and rides that looked almost too pretty to touch. It was part amusement park, part time machine, and entirely enchanting.
From there, we climbed the Round Tower, the 17th-century observatory where astronomers once studied the sky. Today, tourists spiral up the ramp instead of data, but the feeling is similar: at the top, the city stretches out in every direction, copper spires and colorful buildings dusted in winter light.
We wandered through Royal Castles, each room layered with history and quiet drama. The royal intrigue felt almost at odds with the calm efficiency of modern Denmark, but somehow it all fits—the past and present sitting comfortably side by side, like old friends sharing a pastry.
And speaking of pastries: the guidebooks don’t lie. Train stations, corner bakeries, and cafés all seemed to conspire against any hope of restraint. Flaky layers, custard, chocolate, marzipan—Denmark may be modest in many ways, but not when it comes to its baked goods.
Down at the harbor, we visited the famous Little Mermaid, patiently waiting on her rock as boats glided by. She’s smaller than you might expect, but there’s something quietly moving about her—like Denmark itself, understated but unforgettable.
We took a day trip to Helsingør, home of Hamlet’s castle, where Shakespeare set his famous indecision against stone walls and icy seas. Another day led us to Roskilde Cathedral, resting place of Danish kings and queens, where history is literally built into the walls.
Finally, we traveled to Billund, birthplace of LEGO. At the museum, the story of the Kirk Christiansen family (and their near-collapse before LEGO’s success) was a reminder that even the most iconic brands begin with uncertainty, risk, and a stubborn belief in creativity. Watching children—and plenty of adults—build entire worlds out of small plastic bricks felt like a perfect metaphor for Denmark itself.
Between sights, we kept noticing the everyday details: bikes everywhere, even in cold weather; babies sleeping in prams outside cafés in zero degrees, bundled but serene; strangers who didn’t gush but were consistently kind. It made me wonder—why are people in Denmark so happy?
Is it the way cities are designed around bikes and pedestrians? The ease of hopping from train to ferry to bus? The islands stitched together not just by bridges, but by a sense of shared space and responsibility? Is it the trust that your baby will be safe outside a restaurant while you sip coffee inside?
I don’t have a scientific answer, but I left with this impression: Denmark’s happiness isn’t loud. It’s built quietly, through design, community, and a deep belief that everyday life—commutes, playgrounds, pastries, bike rides—should feel human.
