Do you know how, in Oprah’s magazine, there’s always a picture of a beautiful place, and the caption invites you to imagine that you’re there, sitting quietly in that place? And you’d like to relax and give it a try, but in you’re head you’re thinking, “Here I am in friggin’ Michigan, and it’s 20 below, and—like a moron—I’m meditating to a beach that I’ll never see in person, when I’m sure Oprah is actually at that beach THIS VERY MINUTE!”

Well. This time, I am at that beach.

Until two weeks ago, the biggest perk of being married to a microbiologist was this: If cream cheese has been sitting on a countertop for over an hour, I can ask my husband whether or not it’s safe to eat, and he always knows the answer. I’m not sure what kind of doctor-y calculations he’s doing, but I’ve never been sick from eating bad cream cheese.

That’s actually very handy. But, it’s not nearly as awesome as our recent trip to Copenhagen, Denmark, where my husband spoke at a conference, and where I luxuriated in a five-star hotel. Being married to a kick-ass, conference-speaking microbiologist paid off big that week. Huge. Because I made it to Oprah’s beach. And because, on that trip, I found the thing that I thought existed only in dreams—the Mecca of Motherhood, the Holy Grail of Parenting: myself, unfettered.

I was unfettered by children, since our two lovely ones were back in the states with their extremely capable grandmother.

I was unfettered by water pressure troubles, since our enormous hotel bathroom had a shower and a tub, and both were amazing.

I was unfettered by questions of what to make for dinner, since nearly all of our food was prepared for us, and nearly all of it was delicious.

And, I was unfettered by even the tiniest hint of marital strife, because what is there to argue about when there’s no cleaning, no cooking, no kids, and great water pressure?

I don’t mean to imply that my kids are big fetterers, but you parents will understand what I’m talking about. When you have children, crying can erupt at any minute. Maybe it’s my-toys-are-too-special-to-share crying. Or, it could be I-can’t-find-the-charger-for-my-Nintendo crying. Whatever. Even when things are peaceful for days or weeks, you’re forever trained to be wary of the crying. And that can make a person crazy in the head.

But, imagine a place where there’s no crying and no possibility of it. Imagine that even if you wanted to call home and hear the crying, you couldn’t, because intercontinental phone calls cost way too much. And, imagine that, in this place of no crying, someone in white gloves is constantly offering you glasses of champagne.

That’s where I was last week.

Copenhagen was bright and welcoming. The six-hour time difference barely registered for my husband and me, because all we did for the first two days was nap. And it wasn’t the kind of napping that starts when Blue’s Clues starts and ends when the kids ask to watch another Blue’s Clues. It was a full-out, go-as-long-as-you-want sleepfest. We’d wake up periodically to see some statues, and we’d fortify ourselves at the hotel’s buffet. But, the highlight was napping together, under down comforters, the windows of our room open to the chimes of a hundred nearby clock towers.

Once my husband’s conference started, I had several long days to enjoy on my own. Boat tours. Castles. The Little Mermaid. More napping. One day, I rented a hotel bike and rode all around the city. I biked until body parts called out in protest, and then I sat near the harbor and drank a pint of beer. Another day, I took the metro out of town and spent an afternoon at the beach, squinting across the Baltic Sea at Sweden. I used my book as a sun shade and fell asleep in the sand.

And, I wasn’t kidding about the champagne. It was served at each banquet, like an appetizer, before the waves of food rolled in. Lobster, flaky fish, mussels. Soft rolls, delicate cheeses. Scallops swimming in chestnut bisque. Pigeon (didn’t eat it). Chamomile ice cream. Sweetbreads (didn’t eat it). Chocolate-dipped hazelnuts and marzipan. Veal (ate it—loved it). All of this beneath chandeliers and candlelight.

It was a bit overwhelming, really. By the end of the week, I was full. I had eaten all the rich food I could handle. I had gazed at my handsome husband across enough linen-covered tabletops. I’d recovered the sleep I'd lost when the kids were babies. And, I had spent so much time alone that I was lonely for the kids. It was time to go home.

As we flew back over the ocean, crammed into airplane seats and eschewing airplane food, I felt thankful that I’d had the chance to try life inside an Oprah picture. Now, I wouldn’t have to be pissed at Oprah anymore. And, I wouldn't have to wonder what I'd be like if I were totally unfettered. It turned out the answer was, The same, except ten pounds heavier. And desperate to get just a little bit fettered again.