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My city is an overtly sensory one. It can be defined in the steady drones of ferries cutting the dark waters of the Baltic Sea, and the plinking of bicycle bells warning it’s time to step aside. In summer there’s swimming in skin-tinglingly cool lakes and bays (bathing suit optional), and tearing off sourdough and dipping it into saffron-fragrant seafood stews, slurping juices from blush-pink langoustines and singing folk songs off-key at backyard kräftskivor parties, crayfish on the…
