My city is now the world's most liveable – apart from the 171 days of rain a year

The Age

27-06-2025

The weather is mostly miserable. It rains every second day, with a whopping 171 days of precipitation a year. As I write this, it's pouring horizontally midsummer.
During the brutal winters, the wind gets into your bones, and the darkness saps your soul. As British comedian Conrad Molden noted, there are no sunrises in December – it's an 8.30am 'greyrise' and then dark again by 4pm.
And can a city that charges up to $11 for a cafe-bought latte be considered the world's most liveable? The cost of living is on steroids here. There is little bang for buck at the supermarket, but it's always soup weather, so I make the most of those overpriced, anaemic-looking vegetables.
Another factor the global rankings don't measure is human interactions. The Danish capital can be a lonely place for newcomers. Copenhageners are typically introverted – they rarely talk to strangers or say good morning to passersby on the street. Many have had the same circle of friends for decades and don't have room on their dance cards for new mates. I've met expats who have lived here for years without making a single Danish friend. But on the flipside, get some beers into Copenhageners and you're in for a memorable night and an epic hangover. They're 'one last drink' dangerous like Dubliners ... before you know it, it's 4am and you're doing karaoke in a smoky pub.
Another blind spot in global rankings is the extent to which a city embraces multiculturalism and gives all residents a 'fair go'. The level of casual racism here would likely make 1960s Australia blush. Many internationals grapple with job discrimination. In Copenhagen's corridors of power, the centre-left government walks a hard line on immigration policies, despite Denmark's ageing population, low birth rate and major skills shortages. The European Union's top court will soon rule on the legality of Danish legislation that aims to uproot 'non-white' residents from so-called ghettos in Copenhagen by literally bulldozing apartments and evicting people from public housing.
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At times, small-country parochialism cuts uncomfortably close to xenophobia. On my second day after moving to Copenhagen, a supermarket shelf stacker told me: 'This is Denmark, we speak Danish,' when I asked politely in English for help trying to find tahini. I stammered an assurance that I intended to take language classes before we briefly bonded over how much he adored the Australian-born Danish royal Mary. Months later, I made a point of finding old mate and asking in Danish where the toothbrushes were.
Still, no matter how much effort one puts into mastering the funky grammar and glottal stops (potato in the throat sounds), Copenhageners will literally tell you: 'You'll never be Danish.'
But that's fine with me. I'm a woman of the world who secretly whacks Vegemite on rye bread. Don't tell the Vikings.