In Berlin, the past division of the city seeps into every concrete curve. As I walk with my dad beside the remains of the wall, I think of the past. I think of my own, of the city’s. I think of barriers and division between past and present, life and death. And I wonder if, like the Berlin Wall, hastily erected to solidify separation, the barriers we enforce between life and death might not also be too firmly cemented.

A Cambridge student with a niche hobby – who would have thought? Since I was eight, I have been an avid geocacher. Put simply, Geocaching involves using your phone (in my day, a GPS) to locate over three million hidden boxes across the globe. Some are as small as fingernails; others are large canisters. All contain a logbook where you write your name before re-hiding the cache for other players.

I step into the metro carriage. It is quiet, as expected on a cold November afternoon. I ride the line 11 almost all the way to the ring road surrounding the city, which squeezes its 2.1 million inhabitants into a space suited for half that number. The metro line is faster than those I’m used to; the carriage sways uncertainly, as if it could topple at any moment. There’s a woman sitting opposite eating chicken wings from a grease-stained bag and the man perched next to me is watching an American sitcom with French subtitles, smiling slightly at his large phone screen.