Raincoats can be stylish. A long black trench? Sleek and dramatic. My own packable raincoat, covered in bees? Charming, if I do say so myself. Rain pants are another story. What stuffed animal wears them? What spy mysteriously turns a corner in a pair? What cute patterns do they come in? Like many Americans, lured as we can be by charming bees and mysterious silhouettes, I had long ignored rain pants.
I thought of them as niche hiking gear, relegated to the purview of the outdoorsy and certainly not to the purview of the stylish. Picture this: I was freshly in Copenhagen, and I was fresh on a bike, commuting like the Danes but constantly arriving to important places freezing cold, with my pants somewhere on a scale from damp to soaked.
The true Copenhageners, by contrast, lived up to their reputation as global fashionistas. Rain or shine, they arrived at their destinations looking chic—less tortured by their commutes, it seemed, than invigorated by them. What was I doing wrong? I wondered, my wet jeans dragging across the floor. Soon, I discovered their secret. I bought the first pair of rain pants I could find, at a Danish big-box store.
But, much like face masks and pimple patches, they were a means to an end. I loved sitting in Danish class in my puffed-sleeve shirt and totally dry wide-legged trousers, my new rain gear dripping on the classroom coat hooks behind me. One of the best parts of living abroad is the way you begin to rethink the axioms of your motherland as you expand your worldview. Sure, yes, social democracy. But also: Were umbrellas a sham? The Danes, I had noticed, were not fans. I pulled my rain pants over my sweatpants, zipped up my raincoat, and took a walk to the grocery store to pick up some snacks.
I looked at the gray sky as I packed up my backpack for a day out, and I shoved in my rain pants, just in case I needed them later. I felt free. Specifically my hands—both of them—were free of an umbrella, free to shop, snap pictures, swing around.
