Legendary Layover - Copenhagen, Denmark

Copenhagen holds a special place in my heart. My boxing coach, before he passed, always told me, “You’ve got to visit Copenhagen.” He was a world traveler, someone I deeply respected. So if he said to go, I knew it had to be worth it. His reason? “There are no ugly women in Copenhagen.” Say less, coach.

I wasn’t originally headed there—it was just a stopover on my way to Greece. I’d booked the flight using points, so my itinerary was the kind of chaotic puzzle that would make most people stay home:

• Leave Evansville at 6:00 AM

• Arrive in Chicago at 8:00 AM with a 14-hour layover

• Depart Chicago at 10:00 PM

• Land in Copenhagen around 2:00 PM Friday with an 18-hour layover

  
  

Long layovers are tempting times to find a hotel and sleep, but I have a personal rule: no matter how tired I am, I force myself out into the world. I can always sleep on the plane.

Chicago

I landed in Chicago with just a backpack and a small duffle. No real plan—just figured I’d head downtown and maybe check out the Willis Tower (forever the Sears Tower to me). I’ve always admired skyscrapers, specifically watching them being built, modern marvels built by the hardest working people.

But when I got there, my appreciation was dulled. Maybe because I’ve been to Chicago too many times. Or maybe it was the cold wind. More likely, it was the annoying duffle I was dragging everywhere. I sat outside the tower, trying to figure out my next move, before wandering into a nearby 7-Eleven for some water and hopefully some inspiration.

I struck up a conversation with the cashier about how to make the most of my time. She offered a few ideas, but I mentioned how lugging my bags around was killing the vibe.

She enthusiastically said, “I could watch them for you...”

A silence filled the air while I processed what she was saying

“My bags?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah. You’ll have to pay a bit, but I can lock them in the back, nobody will touch them.”

I told her I’d be gone for like nine hours. She smiled and said, “No problem. Seven bucks.” 

The whole thing was sketchy but for some reason just charging $7 seemed the most alarming.  But I was already annoyed, and I figured if I moved my valuables into my backpack, I could live without the clothes in my duffle if they disappeared. So, we made a deal. I shuffled things around and handed her the bag, fully expecting never to see it again.

Free at last, I wandered to the riverwalk and hopped on a water taxi to Navy Pier. Despite all my Chicago visits, I’d never been. It was fun—a good spot to grab lunch and a drink, but nothing worth lingering for. So I headed back toward downtown, unsure of what to do next.

Then I saw them.

Groups of beautiful women, decked out in glitter and body paint. Clearly on their way somewhere. I stopped one and asked where they were going.

She rolled her eyes: “Dude, Lollapalooza is going on.”

A lightbulb clicked. That’s my destination.

I made a beeline for the festival. I’d never been to a music fest before, wasn’t even a big music guy, but today seemed like the perfect day to become one.

Problem: no ticket. Bigger problem: backpacks weren’t allowed. I tried to scalp a pass, no luck. Tried to sneak in with groups—no dice. After a few run-ins with the police, I gave up.

I wandered into a nearby bar and struck up a conversation. I told the bartender I’d tried to get in. She noticed my backpack and lack of wristband. “I’ve got mine from yesterday,” she said. “It’s a different color, but maybe it’ll get you closer.”

I gave it a shot. Still couldn’t get me in. 

Eventually, a local told me to check out the beach—good food, drinks, and a vibe. It wasn’t a music festival but it was fun. After dinner, I headed back to 7-Eleven to reclaim my duffle. The woman from earlier wasn’t there, and it hit me—I didn’t even know her name.

I explained the situation to another employee. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Marissa told me you’d be coming. Come grab your bag.”

There it was. Nothing missing. No surprises inside.

Honestly, I was shocked and thrilled that it worked.

Now of to Copenhagen

I landed in Copenhagen around noon Friday. My next flight wasn’t until 6:00 AM the next day—18 hours.

This time, I played it safe and rented a locker at the airport for my bags. Then I headed into the city.

I didn’t have a plan, so I wandered around until I stumbled on this wild Nike hoodie plastered in logos. I bought it. Not sure if it was the hoodie or something else, but three different people that day asked me if I was famous, I never told them no.

Later, I sat down at a café and struck up a conversation with the waitress, Dania. She wasn’t Danish, just a traveler working along the way. My kind of person for local tips.

She rattled off some touristy stuff, then noticed the Lollapalooza wristband I was still wearing that I was gifted the day before.

“Oh, you’re into music?”

I wasn’t, really but those big blue eyes locked onto mine and I was ready to say yes to anything.

She quickly walked away and before returning a few minutes later with enthusiasm

She leaned in close, whispering like she had a secret. “Copenhagen has these underground raves. They’re illegal—partly COVID, partly drugs. You have to be on the list to get the location, which drops just a few hours before.”

Then: “I put you on the list. You’ll receive a location later, But don’t tell anyone.”

Didn’t see that coming—but uhhh that sounded incredible. 

I killed time exploring and found myself in a bar playing dice in the back room with a group of locals and the bartenders. Shots were flowing, dice were flying, and the energy was electric.

Around 10:00 PM, I got a text: a dropped pin with no roads nearby. Just “Share with no one.”

I told my new crew I had to go.

“Where?”

“Just… a thing.”

One of them raised an eyebrow. “Shit. He got an invite.” They all nodded in approval but seemingly disappointed. “Have fun—and be careful.”

The rave was about 3.5 miles away. I took a bus as far as I could, then trekked the last mile climbing fences and traversing through muddy fields. Eventually, I met a small group also clearly heading the same way, though none of us admitted it out loud.

We linked together to find our way and eventually  found ourselves under massive wind turbines. In the distance: flashing lights and faint music.

As we got close, a man appeared from well I don’t really know where. “Name?” he asked.

“Nick. Dania put me on.”

“Dania’s friend? Wow, you must be a good friend if she gave you her spot. Come in.”

Inside: an outdoor stage under the turbines, the ocean just behind. Makeshift bars. People everywhere. And drugs—offered freely, no talk of money. It was wild.

I danced. I drank. I lived.

T – 6 hours.No chance I’m making this flight, I thought but took pleasure in knowing I was exactly where I needed to be

Then, T – 3 hours, a new friend pointed to a fence. “Get past that, there’s a road. You can walk or hitchhike and make it to your flight”

Unsure if i’d make the flight or if they’d even let me on I decided I’d give it a try. 

I hopped the fence, stumbled toward a building, and saw a group of people waiting outside of a large venue. I approached the group to see if I could catch a ride where I met a woman who looked a lot like someone I could spend my life with—at least from what I remember.

They were closing down the venue they worked and saw I was in no shape to get anywhere.

She took charge. Got me on her employee bus. Shooters shoot so I casually mentioned you know my flights not that big of a deal, where could just go to your place. 

She laughed. “I’m making sure you get on that flight.”

True saint.

She rode with me to the train, then to the airport well out of her way. T – 1.5 hours.

At the airport entrance, I made one more playful attempt—“We’ve got 30 minutes if you…” She laughed and said, “Next time.”

There wouldn’t be a next time. But I’ll always remember her kindness.

I boarded the flight and passed out. Woke up when the wheels touched down in Greece.

Takeaways

I've met great people all over the world, but Denmark? Something special. The kindness, the warmth, the fun—it’s unforgettable.

This is why you always make the most of your layovers. Some of my best memories have happened in those in-between hours. Don’t treat layovers like downtime—make them part of the adventure. You never know what could happen.

Below is the only photo I have from that rave, It's eerily similar to my vision that night