By Mara Gorman
Sharing the City of Light with New Yorker writer Adam Gopnik.The night I met Adam Gopnik, his train from New York to Wilmington, Delaware was delayed. A soft breeze moved across the parking lot as I leaned into the car’s headrest; I sweated even though the door was open. As of that spring evening in 2011, Gopnik had written for The New Yorker for 25 years. He was an intellectual, a man of letters, so brilliantly capable of casual erudition combined with self-deprecating humor and just a dash of name-dropping that I could only hope for myself that I would bask in his genius for just one evening without saying anything silly. I discreetly checked my armpits.