Robyn proves pop stars have feelings too

ROBYN KNOWS WHERE SHE’S GOING—more than I do, at least. It’s a cloudy day in London and we’re standing outside a convenience store, both of us staring at our respective phones, trying to navigate to the National Gallery. I keep rotating, trying to get oriented to the mazelike intersection of streets. “I think we go this way!” she says brightly, pointing down one road. She sets off in that direction, her backpack—half-unzipped, its contents visibly jostling—bobbing behind her.

The singer, 39, is disarming and unpretentious. Her platinum blond hair is cut boyishly short. She’s wearing next to no makeup and a camouflage-print Jean Paul Gaultier jacket. As I follow her through Leicester Square, crowded with tourists, nobody stops her or even does a double take.

But if Robyn does not move through the world like a pop star, it’s also true that she is not