Cinnamon, the one from Ceylon, is my favourite seasoning in winter, it needs cold temperatures to develop its charm, and apples from our garden, sour and ever so organic apples. So, quite appropriately, on this second advent, all four candles already lit, we’re a very impatient family, the entire house, left and right wing included, smelled of my mother’s cinnamon-apple-pies, flanked by some roses from the hall, like an edible version of Estée Lauder’s Youth-Dew, and while we were having them, with tea of course, it started snowing, and then it started snowing heavily, and then I started worrying if I would make it to the station to get my train to Berlin. I did make it in time, thanks to the only taxi company that hadn’t given up, a 15 km/h one-man show, I was deeply impressed by his dauntless snow-fighting efforts, if Napoleon had been surrounded by such hardy striving, the Russians would speak French today, my train, however, did not. I arrived four hours late. Apparently, Napoleon’s soldiers were all reborn as Deutsche Bahn engineers.