From the unhurried drawl of the dialect, to the laid-back
ambience of the mountain folk that reside in the surrounding locality, time dawdles by. As an adventurous and curious teenager, I craved for something more than lackadaisical trips on dusty country roads and trekking on trails so familiar that I could navigate them on the darkest nights. I wanted change, and like all things in Durango, Colorado, change came slowly. I felt stuck, cemented in my life. I knew something was lacking when everything started to blur together in an ultimate dj vu interval, with barely a detail to distinguish the differences between the days. Even though I enjoyed living in Colorado, I was tired of listening to the steady beat of mountains and the rhythm of valleys, I needed a melody of something uncertain, something fresh. So I gathered all my courage in a suitcase and relocated somewhere I never expected to be, the land of vikings, hygge, and dangerously delicious pastries; Denmark. For eleven months I lived among strangers, who spoke an unfamiliar language and ate unusual foods like smrrebrd, bleskiver, and flskesteg. I took risks, swam in icy fjords, and even traumatized an entire restaurant by singing Take Me Home, Country Roads on open mic night. I spoke Danish and integrated into a different culture, replacing pieces of my old self with fragments of a foreign society. Time passed quickly in Denmark. With so many distractions to occupy me, thoughts of the secluded town in Southwestern Colorado melted away, and disappeared. During the Danish spring, on a rare occasion where the clouds broke and the sun shined, my almost-elderly host father, Kasper, enthusiastically hollered to me from the compact Volkswagen, Kom s! Vi ska p turen! (Come! Were going on a trip!) I quickly laced up my shoes and hopped in the car, the door not fully closed before Kasper accelerated out of the driveway and down the road. Catching my breath, I asked, Hvor ska vi hen? (Where are we going?) Kasper smiled, face crinkling with laughter lines before saying, Til toppen af Himmelbjerget. (To the top of The Sky Mountain.) I was excited to summit The Sky Mountain, a mighty title for one of the highest pinnacles in Denmark. Kasper and I drove through winding forest roads and charming villages with white trimmed houses topped with thatched roofs, before coming to a halt at the top of a modest incline. After rambling up a worn path through the trees, we came upon a clearing and approached a sign that read, Himmelbjerget, elevation; 147 meters. The Sky Mountain was a mere hilltop compared to the 4,000+ meter high peaks in Colorado I had conquered in my youth. Looking at the scenery of rich emerald lakes, lush trees, and the occasional mustard-yellow blotch of farms that spread beyond, I sensed a tickle of familiarity. I felt a sudden twang of loss and longing, feelings that I had neglected now appeared abruptly. The emotions reminded me of home and a girl that I had left behind. For the first time in a long time, I desired the easy tranquility that Colorado offered. This miniature mountain harbored a categorically stunning prospect; there is a part of me back in Colorado. Wherever I go, wherever life takes me, I will always be from Colorado, taking the recollections of home with me. In Denmark, I had been living life expeditiously, and forgotten to take a breath as moments hastily scurried past me. I need the unhurried pace of home to remind me to slow down every once in while. I have lived life in a sprint, but now I think it's time I take a stroll.