Me and Ali Smith and David Coulthard in Copenhagen
I know they said it'd be Wonderful, but then it really was.
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Let me tell you about something magical that happened to me last week in Copenhagen.
We took the train out to the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art. It was a double decker train, and it was a quiet, sunny, Sunday morning. The train had plenty of available seats – even the type with tables. My daughter coloured all the way. It took maybe half an hour. We didn’t even get to the snacks. When we got off at the station there seemed to be a general consensus by the handful of departing passengers on the direction to the Museum. We didn’t actually ask if anyone else was going there, but we joined the small troop that seemed like it knew where it was going. We passed many beautiful homes, with bikes parked out front (of course) and letterboxes printed with the names of all the people who lived in the house. Frederik, Maja and Ida Poulsen live here – each time I wondered how young the last member of the family listed might be. Is this the home of a baby, whose post is considered as important as her fathers? One home had a little cabinet of curiosities open for passers-by to take things they liked from. There was an honesty box. I was tempted by a small china cat, but I didn’t have any coins. I couldn’t stop to take a photograph because no one behind me was dawdling. The walking party strode Danishly towards Louisiana, which was just a few turns off the residential road. The Museum was due to open at 11 am, and there was already a long queue formed at the entrance. Everyone looked stylish and comfortable. No one complained. How well attended an out-of-town art museum is on a regular Sunday morning, I thought. Anyway, the doors opened and we filed into the entrance, where I immediately saw the Scottish writer, Ali Smith.