Berlin is a city of stone on sand. Cobbles cross the pavements at irregular angles. Grey, russet, pewter, brown. And for much of the year, the skies are the same. Silver and unsaturated. But I came to associate Berlin instead with a particular shade of pink: fuchsia sunsets, the ripple of cherry through white ice cream. Spring in the city was coloured with flirtation, like bubble gum or confetti. Clouds of blossoms covered the trees.
My first home in the city reminded me of the film “The Lives of Others.” The landlord, an American artist, had furnished it with vintage East German furniture and left the rooms unrenovated. Floorboards wobbled and plaster peeled,and a balcony overlooked the path where the Wall once stood. The day I moved in, the landlord showed me to the cellar — where people once dug escape tunnels, he added, as if it were a …