I have seen democracy and it works: a prime minister walks down the main shopping street of his country's capital, some of the citizens greet him with a smile, others are shy and bemused, still others, fuelled perhaps by the excellent local lager, heckle and shout ribald obscenities.
This was the scene in downtown Copenhagen yesterday as Mr Paul Nyrup Rasmussen ambled good-naturedly through downtown Copenhagen, handing out red roses and trying to persuade the voters to give him the thumbs-up in today's referendum on the euro.
The media behaved badly, but that is what we are for. Burly camera-operators jostled for a better shot while reporters asked their taller colleagues to lean forward to hear what the Prime Minister was saying.
Mr Rasmussen sought to make "a deal" with the television crews. "Could you keep your distance, please?" It was the punters' day, he pleaded.
A little space was cleared eventually for the Danish leader to engage with his electorate. It was all very polite in the Scandinavian fashion, and security was so laid-back that if you had a peashooter you could have popped him one on the forehead. One of the PM's camp-followers even helpfully translated the words of a heckler for a foreign journalist.
The roses had come from a yellow van that pulled up in one of the city's pleasant cobblestoned squares. Mr Rasmussen was casually dressed in a green windcheater - he has a selection of them in different colours - and, with his benign and slightly owlish demeanour, he looked like a retired schoolmaster out for an afternoon stroll.
But this was calculated relaxation, a wannabe walkabout, because behind his polite exterior Mr Rasmussen has to be worried sick about today's referendum. Last week the polls were predicting a runaway win for the No side and, despite a late rally from the Yes people, there is no guarantee that the Prime Minister's gamble in calling the euro-vote is going to succeed.
"I will see you in hell, idiot!" shouted a man who could be safely presumed to be taking the No side.
Like every second person in Copenhagen he was wheeling a bicycle. He kept up his barrage but, since this is social democratic Denmark, the Prime Minister ended up chatting amiably with him, and they parted on friendly terms.
Word was coming in of some incautious words attributed to the president of the European Central Bank, Mr Wim Duisenberg, about possible interference in Denmark's prized and precious pension system if there was a Yes victory. Nothing was more likely to swell the No ranks, but Mr Rasmussen refused to comment, and later reports suggested the Duisenberg comment might have been taken out of context.
Given the age-profile of the citizens, Denmark sometimes looks like Florida without the sun. Apologies to W.B. Yeats, but this is a country for old men - and women. There were many of them sitting at outdoor tables, sipping coffee and the ubiquitous lager as Mr Rasmussen breezed past on his euro-stroll.
The grey vote could sink the euro in Denmark. Many older voters, as well as younger ones, are concerned that their carefully-nurtured welfare state could be deconstructed by uncaring Mediterranean Eurocrats.
Like the Polo mint, the Danish krone has a hole in the middle. A left-wing anti-euro campaigner was handing out enlarged plastic kroner to passers-by to remind them to vote No. When Mr Rasmussen came along, he swapped one for a red rose.
We passed McDonalds, latest symbol of globalisation, and the mood was good. A street musician was playing jazz standards on a saxophone, a mime artist in a Viking helmet was pulling rude faces. The Finance Minister, Mogens Lykketoft, who is a dead ringer for Leon Trotsky, chanced along and he, too, was giving out roses. But the crowd was getting too much for a woman who was trying to restrain a large dog.
"The first to step on his paws gets a bite," she warned.