The road to Wandlitz leads through a pine forest, its surface shimmering rusty in the October light. I set off on foot from Bernau train station, even though I'd been told that wasn't the plan. A car was supposed to pick me up. But I wanted to feel the ground beneath my feet before passing through the gate—the sandy, barren soil of the Mark Brandenburg, which, it seems to me, carries everything but truly nourishes nothing.

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