Autumn means getting up early, as least that is the plan, which however rarely works out. But in any case, my dad always urges us to get into the woods before the Berliners come and take all the mushrooms. Yesterday, as I cycled towards my parents bungalow, a good thirty km from our home, which is exactly 300 m outside the city boundary of Berlin, I was looking at the cars parked at the edge of the forest. They all spotted similar number plates to our own. It seemed like not a single Berliner had even woken up yet. And yet I could hear my dad saying how we had to be there before the Berliners and I started to wonder how often people define their own identity simply by disliking their direct neighbours.