Here were charming Parisian hotels that charged two or three dollars per night, and Left Bank bistros recommended for their “buxom waitresses.” Here were tips on getting to each city’s American Express office, the 1960s traveler’s proto-internet hub for receiving mail, transferring money, and planning excursions. Here was Berlin, cleaved by a hulking wall and patrolled by heavily armed men. To the west: a vibrant city whose fatalism was manifest in its “erotic and exotic nightspots,” including one where you could ride a horse on the dance floor. On the other side, accessible only via Checkpoint Charlie: “the drab existence of East Berlin” and its “sawdust-filled” sausages. Even Frommer’s writing voice—populist, lyrical, low on cash but not on opinion or sense of wonder—conjured a bygone era. Postwar, pre-globalization, pre-jaded-backpacker. Norman Rockwell gone abroad.