Gdansk, as I hope to someday expound at length, is a beautiful town. It is attractive in a way that it’s name, like the sound of a car crashing into a bicycle and then the bicyclist sliding across the hood, could never warn you. Getting home from Gdansk seemed simple enough — a quick flight on genteel SAS through Copenhagen.
I’ve always wanted to see Copenhagen. When I heard that our plane had a flat tire and we would be delayed by several hours, I saw the hand of good fortune. It was extending to us — through our missed connection in Berlin — a free night to wander Copenhagen before another flight the next morning. This was foolish optimism.
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I’m not turning out to be the world-champion blogger, it appears. I have some excuses though, including the book itself, getting married to my lovely wife Lauren, and moving to the Berlin bureau of the New York Times. This evening we’re in not-quite lovely Warsaw, where a powerful electrical storm turned the sky into the original low-tech AV entertainment. Just before the storm struck, we enjoyed Asian fusion cuisine on ul. Foksal and somewhat more traditional cheesecake and apple strudel at the refined and charming Cafe A. Blikle on ul. Nowy Swiat, which specializes in pastry and an obsession with Charles De Gaulle, after whom a booze-soaked cake is named. Stand proud, Chuck D, wherever you are.