It’s 4:30am, Copenhagen time. I’m pacing around our charming, death-trap of an apartment I thought I was so clever to find. Live like the locals, I mutter angrily to myself under my own breath. I’ve already dismantled an antique copper table, and hidden a vase I’m sure was worth more than my car. I encircle the impressive library, my half-opened eyes scanning the spines for English titles. On my overly fatigued right hip bounces a rather surly one year old, with Herculean strength, the lungs of a German yodeler and a vicious case of jet-lag. Sleep evades everyone in the household except for my partner who is snoring soundly in…