It’s 8 am. I’m running down Europe’s only undeveloped capital city riverbank and past one of the most impressive football stadiums in the world; leaping up steps into the middle of a beautiful Old Town rebuilt by hand from its once shattered remains, down handsome cobbled streets and through misty grey archways; crossing into what was once the centre of the Jewish world and then in turn became the funeral pyre of a thousand years of European Jewry. I’m running in the shadows of socialist architecture and still-standing temples to long-toppled Communist overlords; I’m running over the unmarked graves of tens of thousands who fought for their freedom and ours, to the plaques that mark where they were torn from their homes and shot dead in the streets; bursting finally out into one of the most beautiful European parks ever built, patrolled by majestically indifferent peacocks. I wave my hands at other runners, salute the Grave of the Unknown Soldier, cheerily say good morning to elderly passers-by and drink in the sights and sounds of this extraordinary place. There are many cities that are charming. There are many with tragic pasts. But there are none so tragically charming as this city, Warsaw, the city that survived its own death, the city that I am proud to call my home. Viva Warszawa!