Having grown up during the dying thrashes of the Cold War and spent my teens addicted to Len Deighton, I always picture the whole of Eastern Europe as grey, made of concrete and in a state of perpetual winter, like Narnia before Aslan turns up.
I'm sure in fact all is sweetness, light and really good coffee. But I'm not wearing my army surplus East German trenchcoat, just in case. (I'm also not wearing it because according to BBC Weather it will be 24° in Prague tomorrow! Yowzer.)
The most important packing question, though, was which James Bond novel to take for the plane journey. (Ian Fleming reckoned that the second best way to enjoy Bond was while travelling.) I settled, eventually, on From Russia With Love. I'm sure the old boy would approve.