All of a sudden, at exactly 12:12, the sun came out and took me by surprise on my walk through the romantic ruins of Babelsberg Park. I had rather been in some kind of gothic mood, as if I were stumbling not through the underwood of one of Berlin’s recreational areas, but through a novel by Mary Shelley or one of the Brontë girls, my mind somewhat befogged, exposed to wind and rain, all alone, with no soul in sight, abandoned, deserted and lonely, but what can one expect on a weekday, forcing my way home to a warm fire and hot cocoa, getting rid of my heavy boots, formerly known as New Balance sneakers, weighted down with mud, as I had made it through these wuthering heights’ frightful woods, my way had led me far from the madding crowd and paved grounds, and then, just I had reached a street, right in the middle of nowhere, bright sunlight, a blue sky, blue! I hadn’t seen a blue sky for ages! But hell, what a disappointment, with all that blue sky, Misses Brontë and Shelley were no longer with me in my twisted brain, their influence on my imagination was gone, dissolved, my mind was thrown back into reality, ever so harshly, all those kilometers through the woods had just brought me back to the place where I started: to the entrance gate of Babelsberg Park. But that’s the trouble with any tour, isn’t it?