There’s something about the Germans and time. Not just the usual jokes about punctual trains (which, let’s be honest, in recent years are often late enough to feel oddly comforting to the rest of us), but a deeper fascination. Wander around Nuremberg and you’ll find the old ateliers where horology was once half craft, half wizardry — the kind of places where an apprentice probably spent three years learning how to polish a screw. I’ve written about that before, so if you’re inclined towards dusty manuscripts and ticking mechanisms, there’s a link somewhere in the archives.

This trip, though, wasn’t about the past. It was about the present — or rather, about resisting the future. Specifically, the very shiny and very dangerous future that lurks along Maximilianstraße in Munich. A place where every shopfront seems to size you up and murmur, “Step inside, sir, we have just the thing to ruin your financial stability.”