Amidst the autumn leaves, fallen on the ground with their brown, orange, yellow, golden colours, stand the palace gardens with their baroque design of meanders and circles, forever green.
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Behind the cosy façade of my FRG-passport lies concealed a bubbling volcano of emotion. I am tired of being complimented for Willy Brandt’s Ostpolitik. I am tired of being asked how I feel about winning the World Cup four times. And I am tired of hearing the words Stasi and Plattenbau.
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