Chapter Ten

Ten

W e go back home to prepare for our tour. I put on my pink sneakers and my floral workout leggings. Then I pack a backpack with water, a thermos of coffee, and the cotton pareo with a Copacabana sidewalk print that I bought in Rio. It's the perfect blanket for a quick picnic, as it's light and doesn't take up much space in a bag.

I check my phone before leaving and see a message from my dad: Everything good? You've been silent.

I type a quick answer: Sorry, I've been busy with work. Maybe we can have a call tomorrow? But yeah, everything is great.

It's true. Everything is great.

Dad types: The big guy next door is not bothering you, is he?

I laugh, imagining Dad in his jealous, protective stance. He doesn't say it, but I'm sure that me living with a man is eating him alive.

Don't worry, Dad , I reply. The last thing on his mind is messing with me.

Sadly.

No. If I love myself and my new life in Denmark, I should never try to turn our fake relationship into a real one. Ruining the mutually beneficial agreements we have would ruin everything.

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, F?lledparken.

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 wienerbr?d 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.

We climb on our bikes, and Erik guides us back to the park. We decide to sit under a tree facing the soccer field so we can watch people play. I stretch my pareo on the grass for us, take the coffee thermos out of my backpack along with two paper cups, and we enjoy our cakes.

Eating the cardamom roll is like biting into dreams made of cotton candy clouds and unicorn milk. It's wonderfully soft and buttery, and I make loud "mmmm" sounds at every bite. Erik laughs at my enjoyment and joins me in the guttural noises even though he's eaten these pastries several times before. The spandauer is also dreamy-licious.

"I can't believe I didn't know how good this could be," I rave over the sound of children yelling on the playground. "I've tried similar pastries since I arrived, but nothing like this!"

"You need to go to the right places. Supermarket cake is nothing compared to these hidden gems."

"Not so hidden, I'd say. Next time I'll join a long line whenever I see one."

He laughs, and we drink our coffee in a peaceful post-cake sugar rush. Brown leaves rustle around us, black-and-white birds springing about, hoping we drop crumbs nearby.

Sorry, little birds. I've eaten every single piece of my lovely snack.

"I think we should get going if you want to visit a few other places." Erik checks his watch. I look at mine too. Half past twelve. "Maybe we can grab some lunch?"

"You're thinking about more food?" I use an intonation of incredulity to tease him. Then I say, relaxed, "That's good because I could eat more."

He laughs and stands up. "Let's go then."

We ride across Queen Louise's Bridge, and in a few minutes, we are in front of Torvehallerne, a fresh food marketplace with two covered halls—one with shops selling delicacies, foreign specialties, and other types of fine food, and one hall mostly for fresh fish, cheeses, and meat. In between them, outside, we find rows of stalls with local vegetables, fruits, and flowers, and a couple of food trucks.

We walk around, reveling in the different smells and gladly accepting free samples. I buy a few fruits, biscuits, and juices. It's very crowded inside, and Erik guides me with a hand on my back toward a place selling what is called sm?rrebr?d . I take the list he wrote from my bag and confirm that we are about to complete item five: Open rye bread sandwiches with a generous layer of traditional toppings.

I squeeze through people to look at the glass displaying the different open sandwiches. They are like art pieces. Erik looks up at the menu with me, and we end up deciding on two each. I get the one with egg and shrimp and the one with chicken salad and bacon. He chooses one with smoked salmon and one with liver paté.

After facing another long queue, we leave with our recyclable plates and find a table outside. There is so much topping on the bread, and it's all arranged in such an artistic way, it's impossible not to destroy the whole tower of food when eating it—with fork and knife, as Danish people do.

"Do you like it?" Erik asks with a glint in his eyes, hoping for my approval. I nod with a full mouth.

"Very interesting," I say after I swallow. "But it's hard for me to accept not eating hot food for lunch. We get that at work, and I'm happy for it."

"I should prepare you in case you ever need to make your own sm?rrebr?d ," he says, and I watch as he delicately cuts his food. Eating bread with cutlery is a skill I must learn how to master. "Often, lunch in Denmark is about putting a bunch of possible toppings on the table and giving people a few pieces of rugbr?d , rye bread," Erik tells me, and I nod, showing that I'm listening. "And we have rules. Things that are good to mix and others you should never combine."

I laugh, but he is serious.

"Example?" I say, curious to learn more.

"Well, you saw the flavors on the menu. Those are the iconic combos. Study them and you won't fail. Roast beef always goes well with rémoulade and fried onion, for instance. You can also put rémoulade on a fish fillet, but putting mayo on it instead would be frowned upon. Unless you add shrimp. Then it's acceptable because it becomes a stjerneskud . A ‘shooting star' sandwich, or however you translate that."

"Oh. Okay?" I laugh at the nonsensical rules.

For the rest of our lunch, he tells me all the good combinations and frowns—or pretends to throw up—whenever I mention a blasphemous combo that sounds perfectly tasty to me.

"I'm happy I taught you this lesson so you don't disgust Lars next time you have lunch together." Erik points his fork at me. I throw a napkin at his face, but he keeps laughing.

When we finish eating, we decide to pass by the King's Garden, as it's basically across the street. It's the park surrounding Rosenborg, a mighty royal castle that is a museum nowadays. The gardens are very Royal-looking, with statues of heroes fighting beasts, and I can easily imagine kings and queens going for lazy walks here in their pompous garments.

Pushing our bikes, as we are not allowed to ride in here, we walk down one of the two straight paths hedged with identical well-trimmed trees tinted with the warm colors of the season. It could have been a romantic walk if we were a couple. My mind drifts to the evening to come, and I start to get nervous.

"What do you think I should wear tonight?" I ask Erik. He looks at me with a slight frown, as if wondering why on Earth I would ask him for fashion advice. "I mean, if I want to blend in," I clarify.

He lets out a snort that sounds a bit like laughter and a bit like disapproval.

"Well, I guess you have noticed by now that dark colors are safe." He glances at me, a bit anxious, and I wonder if he is afraid to offend me in some way.

"You can be honest," I reassure him. "I'm too colorful, I know."

"Your prints are indeed very lively." There's a smile in his voice, but not of mockery, and I laugh, seeing how he's struggling with the words. I look down at the flower pattern of my leggings. "But you're fine, Sol. I like how you have this... energy about you."

"I call too much attention." I arch an eyebrow, looking at him, but he doesn't answer, as if he doesn't dare to be honest about this. "It's all right. I guess I already have my answer. Black from head to toe is the way to go."

He laughs, shaking his head. "You don't have to be radical. Danish fashion is about keeping it simple. Muted colors, minimalistic patterns, comfort, and quality. People here tend to avoid being flashy and standing out." His voice lowers, again like he is not comfortable with the subject. "I don't like generalizations," he adds. "People are different. But if you must follow a general cultural trend," he says the words in a dismissive way, "when in doubt, keep it low. Better underdressed than overdressed, and so on."

"Got it," I say, with no hard feelings or anything, just taking mental notes. What he said matches my observations, and I don't think of the differences as a criticism of me. I'm on a mission to blend in with the crowd, and I'm ready to reinvent myself for that. Still, Erik studies me with a hint of concern.

"It all comes from Janteloven ," he tells me, almost like an apology.

"Jante-what?"

"The Law of Jante. It's a cultural code of sorts. A set of rules Scandinavians follow even if they are unaware."

I look at him, very interested. He notices my eagerness and continues. "It's about thinking you are not better than others. We love being equal in Denmark." I nod, encouraging him to go on. "We don't brag, because we don't want other people to feel bad about not having what we have. And it's not only about that. Thinking about others is not an extraordinary thing—it is a given."

"That's nice," I comment, glad to hear him put into words what I've been observing for a while.

"It's why most of us will clean after ourselves or respect a queue," he says. "We like flat hierarchy. Our minimum salary is quite high compared to other countries, and most academic jobs pay within a similar range."

"This is an aspect where our cultures greatly differ," I tell him. "Don't even get me started on the socioeconomic differences in Brazil."

"Yeah, I know. I've been to your continent. I saw it myself." He looks at me while we walk, the row of trees almost ending. "So, this Law of Jante thing. I would try to impress Lars in a very subtle way if I were you." He gives me a meaningful stare. "Don't do anything that will get you too much attention or put you on uneven ground with others. If someone says you did a good job, you say it was thanks to the team, not only your efforts. You get the point."

I nod, thankful for his advice, and we take a branching path toward the exit of the park. I look down at my pink sneakers, trying to picture my wardrobe in my head to see if I have anything discreet for tonight.

On our way to our last destination (item nine of the list), we pass by Nyhavn, Copenhagen's most famous postcard, with the colorful historical buildings in front of the canal filled with boats. It was the first place I visited when I arrived, and it's still one of my favorite spots in the city despite the hordes of tourists crowding the streets.

"What about my hair?" I bring the honey-colored ends to my eyes, wondering if it's time to leave the ombré style behind. My roots are very dark, and my hair is quite chemically damaged without monthly maintenance at my mom's salon. Hairdressers are very expensive here, so I've been avoiding them. My mom would make a lot of money in this country. "Should I dye it back to dark brown?"

"You look great as you are, Sol," he says, and then he blushes and becomes a little stiffer. Wait, what ? He thinks I'm pretty? Is that really what he's saying? My heart races and I try to conceal my smile.

Well, he liked you on Cinder, right? The reminder of how we got acquainted makes my face heat up too. I normally try not to think that he had hoped to date me when we first met.

"But if you need an opinion, I think it would be nice if you embrace your natural color, yeah," Erik adds, still careful, but I notice he means it. "And your waves. I know Danish blondes who would love to have dark hair with curls."

"Are you kidding me? They have the silky blond hair women come to my mom's salon begging to get."

Erik shrugs, smiling. "I guess you always want what you can't have."