Now, there's been a lot of talk about the Olympics and the Jubilee changing the image of Britain, boosting the mood, showing the world that the English are a welcoming nation. To me, however, the appeal has always been that they were not accommodating, or at least not readily and openly so. One had to make an effort to belong, even if that meant getting rid of one's accent — again, something unthinkable in America, where that badge of one's heritage is welcomed as a marker of individuality.

My English friend thought my dark romanticism with no bearing on real life was a rather ridiculous masochistic streak that only a German would feel free to share. Be that as it may, I said, it was this atmosphere that made it possible for me to develop a sense of belonging in this place, even if I knew that I would only ever belong by association and, it has to be said, this was only possible within the privileged frame of academia. I wouldn't want to compare my situation to that of immigrants from poorer backgrounds.

Coming back to London this autumn, I still felt the same sense of being at home, even though I no longer live here. And what is being at home, if not the feeling of being understood? The place where I first made my own home is, even now, much more exciting than the city in which I grew up.

A single "Sorry, love" can be enough to suddenly illuminate the difference between the Englishman's caring and common sense vis à vis the more pedestrian, coarse way of interacting in Berlin. Yes, being home means much more than being where one was born.