Maybe Copenhagen wasn’t that city of dreams but you can easily recognize the houses where its dreamers sleep. On fairly undistinguished four stories blocks surrounded by worn brick facades, watching from above skinny vines climbed on wrought iron gates, their bland blind walls transform at the right moment into dream portals. If you’re lucky enough or have planned your trip carefully enough you’ll even catch the sight of a visiting dream passing the gate: a bit scary and a bit fascinating, gay and peaceful, warm and chaotic, all at the same time - because that’s how all dreams should be. Miraculous cloudy beings, they come to visit the sleepy minds of the dreamers, of young and hopeful artists or of retired bitter accountants, of astonished little children or of dusty shop keepers, they come to make their inner worlds brighter, to bring more colorful and sunnier rays of that life we’re all dreaming about. And from there, from the dreamers minds, the magical shine will reflect in every surface they look at, it’s the miracle of the vivid dreams bringing the warmth of a better sun.
And Copenhagen categorically needs more sun, your round on its streets will finish otherwise much too soon in the menacing shapes of the early winter shadows, in a mix of caramel darkness with sunny chocolate crunch, in a glass of Alefarm’s Exquisites porter. Definitely one of the greatest evenings you could dream about. I
