When I arrived aimlessly in Copenhagen in February 1994, I came to visit Danish friends I had met while backpacking in China a few years prior. I had been living and travelling all over the world for five years and, in retrospect, I needed to grow some roots. I was kindly invited to camp out on the living room floor in Lars and Lasse’s apartment in Vesterbro. At that point I had no inkling that I was embarking on a quarter century of Copenhagen living. Looking back, there were certain clues. As I schlepped up the stairs upon arrival, I passed door after door with Danish names on them — Rasmussen, Larsen, Andersen — and felt strangely at home.
To begin with there were only immediate needs to deal with. Lars spelled it out clearly. “You are now an FC Copenhagen fan. It’s not up for discussion. Oh, and you’ll need a bike.” The guys found a bike key and tossed it over to me. “It’s green, I think. It’s in the backyard somewhere. You’ll find it”.