This week, I had one of those trips where the journey overshadowed the destination. Right after work on Friday, I headed straight to the train station, excited to meet my roommate in Copenhagen. She’d already arrived earlier that afternoon. I, on the other hand, took the scenic route—two canceled trains and four transfers later, I finally arrived around 3:30 a.m.
My train ride felt like a story in itself. At one point, I crammed into a train car so packed that I stood for barely a minute before darting into another cabin, where I somehow secured a seat on a luggage rack next to other stragglers. It was survival of the calmest.
The most memorable part, though, was meeting a man on my night train—a solo traveler originally from Morocco who grew up in Spain. His name? Mohammed… I recognized as part of the ummah. He had no phone, no Wi-Fi, no confirmed ticket, no destination. He wasn’t homeless, just plan-less. The only thing he did have was “Project 23 80 A”—his ongoing project to import and manufacture his own car designs across Europe. He explained everything like he was giving a professional lecture… but to no one. At first, I thought he had AirPods in assumed he was on the phone, but he didn’t have one. I thought maybe someone was sitting across from him—but there wasn’t. Then I wondered if there was an invisible person sitting across from him. It was quite eerie. Still, the way he gestured, nodded, and maintained a conversation in that direction made me believe there was actually someone there. I wanted to talk to him but did not want to interrupt “their” conversation, fully convinced I was missing something. At one point, he even took out a few magazines from his bag, opened to a spread, and began referencing diagrams and images as if giving a lecture. He was even answering questions I had in mind by replying back to the “person” I couldn’t see. I swear, if I closed my eyes, it could’ve been a conference talk.
When he finally noticed me staring, he smiled and asked my name like none of it was strange — as if we were old acquaintances. Every question I asked led back to Project 23 80 A. “Where are you staying tonight?” I asked, since it was nearly 2 a.m. “I don’t know,” he replied calmly. “But I know one thing: Project 23 80 A.”
Where was he going? “Not sure. Maybe Denmark. Maybe Poland. Who knows? Depends.” Had he eaten? “Yes,” he said, pulling out a half-eaten sandwich from his jacket pocket, offering reassurance: “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I don’t have plans, but I know one thing: Project 23 80 A”. Every question eventually funneled into one singular phrase—his mysterious mission: Project 23 80 A. That was his only anchor. No home, no job, no roadmap—just this one long-running vision. Every sentence circled back to it, like a verbal GPS that refused to reroute. And somehow, I believed my brother would be fine. No plan, no money, no set place to stay or to eat, and never a final destination… but full of purpose.
When I finally made it to Copenhagen, I was exhausted, but my roommate had chosen the nicest hostel I’ve ever seen. It was my first hostel experience—complete with a sleek kitchen, arcade, bar, pool, and pod-like beds that felt like something from the future. The city itself? Also very futuristic. Their metro stations have double doors that shield the tracks—no falling, no pushing, no chaos. Everything felt efficient.
We spent the weekend wandering the city, climbing spiral towers, and soaking in views of colorful river houses and sailboats despite the rainy weather. We stumbled upon a Shah’s Halal (which we thought only existed in Pittsburgh) and immediately felt at home. So much so that we ate there every day we were there.
Now, when it comes to communication, Copenhagen definitely leaned toward low-context. Interactions were direct, brief, and often delivered with a kind of neutral bluntness and bitterness. The locals we encountered weren’t rude, but they weren’t exactly warm either. Most kept to themselves, spoke in short sentences, and seemed a little impatient by tourists asking too many questions. At cafes and shops, communication was transactional—efficient, no small talk. Even the babies seemed fed up. Every single one we saw was mid-tantrum.
This directness contrasted a bit with my experience in Germany, where communication is also fairly low-context, but tends to come with a bit more structure and formality. Here in Denmark, it felt more casual—but also colder. In the office back in Berlin, I’ve become more aware of how I express myself, especially in a hybrid setting where tone doesn’t always carry well over email. I’ve had to learn how to read between the lines without assuming too much. Sometimes, miscommunication happens most often not because of language, but because of the assumptions we make around it. Clear, culturally aware communication has become essential.
And then, of course, there’s the Moroccan traveler. His version of communication was high-context in a different way—layered with unspoken meanings, emotional detours, and existential loops. He never gave straight answers, but he made me listen. He reminded me that sometimes communication isn’t about clarity—it’s about connection, even if it’s strange or unexplainable.
This week reminded me how differently people express themselves—not just between countries, but between cities, workplaces, and even trains at 2 a.m. Sometimes communication is explicit. Other times, it’s wrapped in mystery, like Project 23 80 A. Either way, I’m learning to adapt—to speak more clearly, listen more closely, and always leave space for a story I don’t yet understand.
