Copenhagen is a land of fairytales.
It is a land of kings and queens, renaissance castles and white horses, jutting cobblestones, medieval towers, and looming narrow alleyways unchanged from days of old. There is a smell to it, too, though I’ve yet to place it. A sweet smell, swirling with tastes of the ocean, baked bread, musty library books, burnt sugar. There is something in the air that sets your imagination ablaze. Its royalty must have felt it, too. It’s the sort of feeling that if anything can be dreamed, it can be realized. (And, in the monarchy’s case, with the right amount of bank).