I‘M ABOUT to make a stereotypical remark, so bear with me: I was running late to a press breakfast yesterday morning–by five minutes. Normally, this isn’t a big deal since there’s a ten minute lag time for late-comers and media-types who love gabbing in the foyers before getting dragged into a conference room. But this was a breakfast at the German ambassador’s residence. Which meant that the meeting would begin at precisely 8:30.

It was 8:30 on the dot when I arrived at the embassy gates, which nearly crushed my car. The gates were half open when I got out to tell the guard I was there for the press breakfast. “Zat iss on ze ozer side!” he exclaimed. (And I promise you that is my last attempt at German accents in print.) I leapt back into my car and zipped through the Foxhall neighborhood in northwest D.C., and miraculously found the entrance to Ambassador Ischinger’s residence, high up on a hill overlooking Washington. The hulkish German security agents welcomed me in and I was immediately greeted by an attractive Teutonic hostess who informed me they had just started. It was 8:34.