Help! I'm being stalked by an art exhibition

I made my first trip to New York in 1998. My itinerary was simple: see as much of everything in five days. An itinerary I would do just once.

I manage to cram it all in; the Staten Island ferry for the cheapskate’s view of the Statue of Liberty; up the Twin Towers and the Empire State Building; over the Brooklyn Bridge and into the borough’s vintage shops; I eat so many pizza slices my jeans cut off my circulation. 

I save the best, however, for the last day. The Guggenheim Museum. Excitement level: 10.

The building is iconic. I’m so awed by its whiteness and curves that I don’t even notice the banners for the main exhibition. 

I pay my entrance fee and walk into the main hall, full of anticipation. I’m greeted by shiny metallic panels over every surface, Harley-Davidsons and the largest banner I’ve ever seen, welcoming me to The Art Of The Motorcycle.

Wait. What?

To say I’m not keen on motorcycles is an understatement, partly explained by a near-death scooter experience in Crete that I won’t go into. And the exhibition is so big, most of the Guggenheim’s usual collection has given way for it. 

I wander around for half an hour, uninterested in anything I’ve seen, eventually heading over to the gift shop. Even that can’t lift my mood. Motorcycle-shaped book mark, anyone? I give in and strop off to watch people attempt to be graceful at the ice rink in The Rockefeller Centre.

The following year I’m off again on holiday, this time to Bilbao, northern Spain. The highlight of this particular trip is the city’s brand new Guggenheim, opened just days before my arrival. Designed by Frank Gehry, it’s a sight to behold.

When I get there, I let out a not-so-quiet, ‘oh you’ve got to be kidding me’. I wonder if you can guess which exhibition they chose to open with.