Dear reader, welcome to the second instalment in my Berlin series; an exploration of a very specific identity crisis – the kind that comes with being from Berlin while living in Cambridge and trying to blend in.

The first time round, I tackled Cambridge’s clubbing scene and lived to tell the tale. But it turns out that the culture clash runs much deeper than just bad techno and dancefloors circled by fresher-thirsty sharks. It’s in the rituals and the quiet codes; the way people speak, study, eat, and apologise.

Berlin had trained me well: oversized blazer, black turtleneck, chipped nail polish I called intentional, a dog-eared copy of something vaguely Marxist peeking out of my tote bag, ideally screen-printed with a slogan about abolishing landlords. I didn’t dress to impress. I dressed to be mistaken for someone directing a short film about climate grief.

“My tote bag, which once whispered Kreuzberg creative, now screamed Freshers’ fair freebie”

Then I got to Cambridge.

By Week 2, I’d been overtaken by a fleet of bikes with baskets. My tote bag, which once whispered Kreuzberg creative, now screamed Freshers’ fair freebie. And nobody noticed. Or if they did, they assumed I was either French or lost.

My journey wasn’t just aesthetic. It was emotional. In Berlin, feelings are rationed. You’re allowed irony, boredom, mild contempt, or passionate rants about housing policy but never cheerfulness. Smiling too much is generally frowned upon unless you’re American, in which case it’s considered a medical condition and politely ignored.

Then came the academic masochism. Cambridge is the only place I’ve seen people flex about how little sleep they’re getting and pretend they’re fine. In Berlin, bragging about burnout would get you disinvited from the squat and possibly hexed by an anarchist herbalist. Here, it’s practically a mating call. In Berlin, the vibe is “Capitalism is killing us, let’s riot”. In Cambridge, it’s “Capitalism is killing us, but I might as well get a First”.

And the pressure isn’t just academic. It’s institutional. In Cambridge, people ask what college you’re at before they ask your name. And then they do the face. That subtle flicker of judgment when you say “Girton”. I’ve seen less divisive borders while living in the shadow of the Berlin Wall. It’s also ritualistic. At Formal Hall, you dress up like a minor wizard to eat chicken in a candlelit hall while someone shouts Latin. The first time I went, I instinctively reached for my phone to document the weirdness - only to be met with dagger eyes from someone in a bowtie who whispered, “We don’t do phones”.

“Berliners are blunt. If we like you, we tell you”

Message received.

I came prepared for the underwhelming mediocrity of British cuisine. I did not, however, expect the unapologetic pride with which it’s defended. I watched someone eat a tuna and sweetcorn sandwich from Tesco with genuine joy. They even called it “a classic”. In Berlin, that would be banned under EU food standards. And yet… the monotony is weirdly comforting. The same meal deal. The same biscuits in every meeting. The sacred teabag rituals. It’s culinary Stockholm Syndrome and I think it’s working.

And what about social norms? Friendships in Cambridge, for instance, operate like an elaborate code. Berliners are blunt. If we like you, we tell you. If we don’t, you’ll know by the way we leave the bar without saying goodbye. In Cambridge, nothing is said directly. “We should get coffee sometime” means “I’m never speaking to you again”. You have to learn to translate:

• “That’s interesting” = “I hate it”.
• “We must catch up!” = “I hope you fail your degree”.
• “Let’s definitely hang out” = “I hope you leave the country soon”.

And just like that, you’re in your third year. And the first and last time you spoke to that person was during Freshers’ Week.

I complain a lot, but I’ll say this: Cambridge has a strange kind of magic. The kind that sneaks up on you. One minute you’re rolling your eyes at someone saying “let’s circle back,” and the next you’re standing in a college courtyard at golden hour, feeling like the main character in a BBC drama about repressed intellectuals. It’s beautiful here, in a way Berlin never tries to be. Everything is a little too old, a little too polite, and a little too obsessed with tradition.

“Everyone pretends they’re fine and then writes a poem about the abyss”

People care. About books, about each other, about whether your tea is still warm. They show up. They work hard. They say “well done” in a way that actually means it. And once you learn to crack the code, there’s something oddly moving about it all.

Still, let’s not get carried away. This is still Britain, a place where people say “I might pop by” and then absolutely do not pop by. Where everyone pretends they’re fine and then writes a poem about the abyss. Where you can have an existential crisis – but at least it’ll be in a listed building.

Will I ever truly fit in? No. But I’ve decided that’s not the point. Because even if you’re the wrong frequency, there’s still something satisfying about crackling through the static.

And besides, if I’ve learned anything here, it’s this: if everyone else here is pretending to be fine, I might as well pretend to belong.