Mr & Mrs Smith

Free love, bare breasts and psychedelia. That’s what Mr Smith and I are hoping Christiania, Copenhagen’s self-governed commune, has in store for us. Well, maybe not the bare breasts bit – it’s February, the streets are slick with ice, and even hippies need clothes sometimes. We need crampons: we approach the snow-topped graffiti’d walls slipping and sliding like drunks at an ice-rink.

Above our heads, a tattered shirt tied to a totem pole blows eerily in the wind. ‘That’s the remains of the last tourist,’ I whisper to Mr Smith. Undeterred, we trudge around Christiania’s clusters of brightly painted shacks, shivering. ‘I know we’re meant to be discussing socialism with pot-smoking, free-thinking intellectuals,’ I mutter, ‘but I hanker for the cocktails and cosiness of Avenue Hotel’s bar.’ ‘Mmmph’ agrees Mr Smith from beneath his scarf, admiring a car painted to look like a cucumber.

Ali G’s Scandinavian cousin pushes past us, whips a pen out of his tracksuit and draws a giant joint on a wall. Men lurk in corners like extras from Mad Max 2, warming their hands over smoke-spewing fires and scowling ferociously. The thump-thump of a booming bass line pumps out of a ravaged old factory with glass splinters for windows. ‘And think of our four-poster,’ I whisper in Mr Smith’s ear, ‘And all the ways we can warm up in it.’ Mr Smith’s reply is swift: ‘Metro or cab?’

Home sweet hotel. Just a 10-minute metro ride later, and we’re back at boutique base camp: a 19th-century red-brick townhouse designed by Emil Blichfeldt, the man behind Tivoli Gardens’ main entrance. The bar’s buzz distracts us from our intentions and we end up downstairs; deep-sunk in soft grey sofas by the crackling fire, with martinis rustled up by the handsome-as-he’s-helpful barman, Kristian. Glossy black-and-white photos and a mini-library surround us, and we sit contentedly, page-turning and popping salted cashews in our mouths. Though the hotel doesn’t have a restaurant, there’s a diet-defying array of snacks on the pewter-topped bar, including apple cake and chocolate torte, which I earmark for later.

Every now and then I look up to admire the lights: clusters of globes and sleek little glass lanterns, suspended on red cords trailing from the ceiling. The dictionary entry for hygge (a Danish concept of intimacy and comfort) should simply read: ‘Avenue Hotel; bar’. Nobody can deny the Scandinavians’ way with sexy scene-setting.

The flattering hues work their magic on us, and we decide to retreat to our white-walled, Missoni-dressed room for a bath, via the tiny lift, which makes us giggle each time we squeeze ourselves into it. ‘No smørrebrød for you, sir,’ I tell my beloved’s clavicle. ‘One bite of that torte I saw you flirting with, and you’re taking the stairs,’ he retorts into my shoulder.

Back in our turret room (414), Mr Smith tackles the taps. There’s a romantic cushioned alcove by the window, so I grab our black and white zigzaggy bedspread, nestle down and admire Frederiksberg in all its gritty urban splendour, enjoying the splish-splosh of water filling our bath. The city in winter has more greys than Farrow & Ball’s colour chart – I spy Elephant’s Breath walls and Pavillion Grey shop fronts, decorated with street murals and graffiti. Mr Smith, whose own tag was once ‘Macadoshi’ – a moniker borrowed from every schoolboy’s bible, Subway Art – loves every scrawl.

Tea lights flickering, we decamp to the bathroom. Our tub is on the petite side, since the green Danes like to save water – but, snug as a tail-in-tub Daryl Hannah in Splash, we manage just fine. It’s a short (slightly drippy) hop from bath to bed, and soon we’re blissfully snoozing in that way only an hour’s self-simmering can induce.

Cut to the next morning. We’re in the hotel’s bright and airy breakfast room, admiring the wood-decked courtyard and enjoying a feast that spans all the food groups: cold meats, cheese, breads, pickled fish, pastries, cereals – even salads. Avenue Hotel’s city-central location means that as we plan our day over piping-hot coffees, Copenhagen’s charms are at our fingertips.

Last time we came, we were too busy nipping over the Øresund Bridge, sipping cocktails at Ruby and raving at Rust to fit in a visit to the Danish Design Centre. Today, it’ll be our first stop. A cheeky espresso in the minimalist café later and we’re larking around in the exhibitions. The ‘soul cleaner’ is our favourite: a carwash-style contraption, involving orange shredded-paper ‘washers’ which whoosh around, tickling face and body. Next up are the window swings – Mr Smith pushes me until his muscles ache (showing off for the passersby) and we admire eco baby clothes and cocktail glasses made from teacups.

Culture box ticked, we get down to business – shopping. I pick up a lace slip from a vintage shop in Nørrebro and we befuddle the owner of an antiques store by buying some 1930s Danish children’s books. ‘But you can’t read the words?’ she frowns, no doubt filing us under: English loons. ‘We just like the pictures,’ Mr Smith says, flashing her his twinkly-eyed, easy smile.

As we navigate Nørrebro, we form a checklist of things to come back for: free bicycles, beautiful Scandinavians, Tivoli, the city in the summer sun, antiques markets, kitsch tea parlours, historic harbours and pickled fish feasts. Avenue Hotel’s cocktail menu alone calls for a return trip, as does its greenery-sprinkled courtyard – surely the perfect place to top up a tan in summer. ‘How about Copenhagen in July?’ I ask my Mr. ‘That sounds right up my avenue,’ he replies.