Our theme for the month of October is “haunt.”

This last year has held a new discovery in the form of solo traveling. In my efforts to limit my flying where possible, I’ve turned to long-distance train rides. A desire for comfort and a temptation to see more typically results in breaking up these long journeys with an overnight stay in one of my connecting cities, leaving me with an evening to explore a new place on my own.

My most significant trek thus far has been from Brussels to Norway for Christmas 2023. I spread the journey out over four days, giving myself time for the changing languages and landscapes to really sink in, to adapt to the sunset creeping ever earlier into the afternoon. Unaccustomed to traveling on my own and heading into a holiday week hosted by my friends and their families, I looked forward to the challenge of navigating the unknown and taking a bit of time to recharge after a busy autumn. During these four days, there would be no dreaded group decision-making over where to eat, no need for compromise on how to spend the afternoon, no dragging an unwilling companion behind me to walk “just a few more streets”… It would be liberating.

My independent travels got off to a strong start. On day one, I borrowed a bike and rode aimlessly around Hamburg, enchanted by the Christmas market and gentle snow. In the festive season, everything seemed so cozy, people crowding under heat lamps with their loved ones and mulled wine. On day two, I chatted with the person sitting next to me on the train—the first conversation I’d had since my departure—sharing snacks as our arrival to Copenhagen was further delayed. 

By the time I’d dropped off my bags at my hostel, however, the thrill of conversing with a stranger had faded. I felt vaguely spectral as I walked towards the city center, accountable to only myself. I slid easily into a busy café, filling the gap at the window’s bar seating between two couples. What shall I do with myself? I’d been so keen to cast off on my own only the day before; now, my lack of anchors was disconcerting. 

From my coworkers with anarchist leanings and my own surveilling of aerial imagery, I had heard of one place that intrigued me: Freetown Christiania, an independent commune in the center of Copenhagen. Started out of the squatter movement in the 1970s, this is a stateless place governed by consent between its thousand or so residents, who built up the community’s buildings and infrastructure themselves from an old military base. The commune’s right to exist had been hotly contested in the twentieth century, sometimes resulting in physical conflicts between the commune’s residents and the Danish state. My online perusal, meanwhile, gave me the impression of present-day Christiania as more of an edgy commodity, appealing to tourists looking for a bit of grit in an otherwise orderly city—that, or weed. Nothing I couldn’t handle, I thought. Still, my coworkers had warned me: “Be careful.” 

At three in the afternoon, the day’s shadows were already growing long. If I wanted to visit Christiania, this was my moment. I finished my coffee and cake, slid off the café barstool, and hopped on a bike.

Past the gate of Christiania, paved roads turned to gravel and streetlights disappeared. What little signage did exist warned visitors not to take photos or videos, especially along Pusher Street, the center of the commune’s drug trade. Ever the researcher, I did my best to look around casually, grateful now for the ghostly status that being alone granted me. I floated along the commercial street, past its stands, a shop, a restaurant, seeking the paradoxical “authentic,” the lived reality of Christiania’s residents insofar as I could see it as an outsider. 

Down a muddy street and a wooded walking path, I emerged into a residential neighborhood. Though dusk had arrived, it was only four o’clock, and it seemed most people were not home yet; the homes were occupied, I could tell from tended winter gardens and well-kept bicycles, but the streets were empty, the windows dark. Wandering amongst self-built houses, I felt as if I’d come unmoored from reality, these quiet paths and dark woods so different from the bustling and meticulously-planned city streets upon which I lived my life. The little part of me so afraid to miss any small interesting detail continued to compel me forward, down one more street and then another. 

Finally, I emerged into a courtyard with a tree at its center, the homes around likely converted from military barracks. As I watched, a flock of crows suddenly took off, filling the darkening sky and startling me out of my reverie. I was no phantom, only a girl wandering around by herself with the word ‘murder’ suddenly on her mind. I had no reason to feel unsafe, and frankly did not, but a sense of unease had begun to creep in. Mindless walking abandoned for the moment, I made my way back through the curving streets and finally past the commune’s gates, re-emerging into well-lit, biked-filled Copenhagen.

Despite spending no more than an hour in Christiania, the otherworldliness I had experienced lingered throughout the next two days. The next evening, the streets of Gothenburg’s old town felt abandoned, though the shops’ closures were only due to the coming holidays. I small-talked with my fellow travelers at my hostel, but became melancholic as I once again walked alone. What on earth was I doing here, by myself at Christmas?

On day four, my ghosts were banished in a small Swedish ferry town. My friend and her mother greeted me with enthusiastic hugs and a cinnamon roll at the town’s only open restaurant. Freed from my phantom wanderings of Scandinavian cities, I happily dropped my anchors among them as the ferry lifted its own, taking us on the last leg of our journey.

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