TL;DR: Three researchers mapped all of science into a single network. They laid it on a sphere. Turns out, it has no center. I went looking for the missing discipline that connects all others and found seven candidates, each partially right, none complete. And the questions are more interesting than any single answer.

In 2005, Kevin Boyack, Dick Klavans and Katy Börner did something nobody had attempted at scale: they mapped all of science.

An empirical map. 800,000 papers sorted into 776 scientific paradigms based on how often they cited each other. Physics drifted toward mathematics. Biology toward chemistry. Psychology toward neuroscience. The layout wasn’t designed, but computed into place.

The result looked like a galaxy. Dense islands connected by faint filaments, separated by dark voids of mutual indifference.

Organic chemistry and political science are practically on different planets – and judging by the citation data, they prefer it that way.

When the team later analyzed 20 different maps of science to find the consensus structure, the answer was a circle.

Mathematics at the top, then clockwise through physics, chemistry, earth sciences, biology, medicine, psychology, humanities, social sciences, computer science, and computer science links back to mathematics, closing the loop. They laid the full map on a sphere. No north pole. No south pole. No capital.

I stared at this map for quite some time. The clusters are obvious. But what pulled my eye was the center. Or rather, the absence of one. On a sphere, there is no center. Every point is as central as every other.

The map of all human knowledge doesn’t have a capital.

Which lands a little close to home.

After all, I’m writing a newsletter whose entire premise is that the connections between things are more interesting than the things themselves.

Finance one week, philosophy the next, travel, AI, history, always betting that the thread running through them matters.

If knowledge has no center, then either I’m onto something or I’ve been writing elaborate footnotes to nothing. (Which is fine by me, actually).

So: is there a missing discipline, a meta-science, that would sit at the center if we could identify it? A secret grammar that all the other sciences are conjugating without knowing it?

Let’s look for candidates.

1. Mathematics

The obvious first nominee.

Mathematics is the language every hard science eventually speaks when it gets serious. Physics runs on differential equations. Chemistry runs on quantum mechanics, which runs on linear algebra. Even biology (that holdout of messy, wet contingency) now runs on statistical models and genomic computation.

In 1960, Eugene Wigner wrote a paper called “The Unreasonable Effectiveness of Mathematics in the Natural Sciences.”

His argument: mathematical structures invented for purely abstract reasons keep turning out to describe physical reality with eerie precision.

Complex numbers, a curiosity, turned out essential for quantum mechanics. Non-Euclidean geometry, a thought experiment, became the backbone of general relativity. Wigner called it “a wonderful gift which we neither understand nor deserve.”

So: mathematics as the missing link? Ask a mathematician and they’ll say yes before you finish the question.

To me, it’s the grammar, not the meaning. You can model a neuron firing without touching what it feels like to be conscious.

Math is silent on love, politics, what to have for lunch. The most powerful tool science has ever produced, and it covers maybe a third of the territory.

A hammer connects with a lot of nails. That doesn’t make it the center of carpentry.

2. Philosophy

Before the sciences existed, philosophy was the science.

Aristotle didn’t have departments. He just thought about everything, and the distinctions came later.

Philosophy asks the questions every other discipline assumes it can skip.

• What counts as evidence?

• What are the limits of knowledge?

When physicists argue about quantum interpretation, they’re doing philosophy whether they like it or not. When neuroscientists say consciousness is “just” brain activity, the “just” is doing philosophical work they haven’t paid for.

But philosophy got colonized by its own offspring. Physics left home. Chemistry left. Psychology left. Linguistics left. Each took its questions and slammed the door. What remained was philosophy-of-X, tethered to the disciplines it was supposed to ground.

The queen of the sciences became a court advisor to each departing kingdom, and the advisors don’t talk to each other much these days.

Philosophy still asks the best questions.

But asking good questions and unifying the answers are different jobs, and nobody hires the same person for both.

3. Information Theory

In 1948, Claude Shannon (our fav AI overlord’s namesake) published “A Mathematical Theory of Communication“ and accidentally laid the groundwork for the modern world.

He showed that information could be quantified and transmitted with mathematical precision, regardless of whether it was music, text, images, or stock prices.

The content didn’t matter. The math was the same.

John Archibald Wheeler (the physicist who popularized the term “black hole”) took Shannon’s insight and drove it off a cliff. His slogan: it from bit.

Which goes something like this…

Reality isn’t made of matter. It’s made of information. Every particle, every field, even spacetime: all derived from binary choices at the bottom. Matter is what information looks like when you zoom out.

I remember the first time I heard this claim… a religious experience of sorts.

The whole universe explained in three words. DNA is information. Markets are information. Music, language, consciousness, all information. If reality is computation all the way down, then information theory is the missing link. The substrate beneath every substrate.

That feeling lasted about a week.

Because: information about what? Shannon’s theory is deliberately blind to content. A bit is a bit whether it encodes a love letter or a death sentence. That’s the theory’s power, and its ceiling.

A framework that treats everything identically can’t explain why anything is different.

Information theory is the skeleton. But nobody falls in love with a skeleton.

4. Complexity Science

Forty years on, the Santa Fe Institute still can’t tell you why ant colonies and neural networks share the same dynamics. Not for lack of looking.

They started in 1984 – a group of scientists, many from Los Alamos – on a premise that sounded either brilliant or naive: the most interesting questions in science live between the disciplines, not inside them.

Markets crash like ecosystems collapse. Brains organize like ant colonies. Cities grow like organisms. The founders bet these weren’t just metaphors – that genuine mathematical patterns recur across wildly different systems.

Emergence. Feedback loops. Power laws that appear in earthquakes and stock crashes and epidemics, over and over, as if nature has a favorite trick.

Murray Gell-Mann recruited scientists from a dozen fields. Many responded the same way: “I’ve been waiting for this all my life.” (Which is what people say right before they join a cult or a startup.)

The connections are real. Naming the pattern isn’t the same as explaining it, and whether ant colonies and neural networks share a cause or only a shape is, all these years later, still an open question.

5. Consciousness

Still with me? Conscious enough to not have fallen also quite yet, I presume.

Here’s where the list breaks.

Every previous candidate is a tool, a framework, a method. Something you point at the world.

Whereas consciousness is the thing doing the pointing. You can’t remove it from the experiment.

Every map was drawn by someone. The observer is always in the room, sitting in a chair nobody put on the diagram.

David Chalmers called the core puzzle “the hard problem“: not how the brain processes information (that’s the easy problem), but why processing gives rise to subjective experience at all.

• Why does it feel like something to see red?

• Why isn’t everything just computation in the dark?

Math can’t account for the mathematician. Information theory says nothing about who’s receiving the signal. Complexity science can’t explain how a hundred billion neurons become someone who wonders about emergence.

Every other candidate on this list has consciousness as its blind spot.

Which makes consciousness either the deepest answer or the deepest dodge.

The telescope pointed at its own lens, unable to confirm what it sees.

6. Artificial Intelligence

Feed a large language model every paper on Boyack’s map and it finds connections no individual human could hold in their head.

The immunology paper and the materials science paper and the economics paper, read at once. The Santa Fe Institute’s dream, running at inhuman speed. This is our moment’s nominee – and it doesn’t even claim to be the missing link. Only the translator.

Which would be enough, if translation were understanding.

However, AI reflects the structure of the knowledge it ingested, including the biases, the blind spots, the gaps.

If the map of science has no center, training an AI on the map doesn’t conjure one.

A GPS knows every route in the city. Ask it what the city means and it’ll reroute you to the nearest specialty coffee shop (obviously).

7. God

I hesitated before writing this section, which is probably a sign it belongs here.

Every culture in recorded history has named something that unifies all experience. A logos. A Tao. A Brahman. An unmoved mover.

The specifics vary too wildly to all be right… but the impulse is identical: there must be something holding everything together. The sciences are fragments of one truth. The right angle would reveal the whole.

Don’t think of it as a theological argument. It’s more so an anthropological observation.

The desire for a unifying principle is structurally identical to the oldest religious impulse humans have.

We keep looking for the center because we feel, at some level, that one should exist.

The Enlightenment called it Reason. The 20th century called it Information. We’re calling it Intelligence. The impulse predates all of them.

Which doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Maybe something real keeps getting renamed in whatever vocabulary the era trusts most.

The Map Has No Capital

Kevin Boyack, the one who built the map, was very amused by the comments upon release.

People saw the network and immediately started arguing about what belongs in the center. Physicists said physics. Mathematicians said math. Everyone projected their own discipline into the gap.

But the map is built from citation data. Not from theory or philosophy, not from anyone’s sense of what the center should be.

And the answer is: nothing.

The consensus structure is a circle. The full map sits on a sphere. There is no center – it’s topology, stupid.

Every candidate I collected: math, philosophy, information, complexity, consciousness, AI, God… each illuminates something the others miss. And each one has a blind spot the next candidate exists to fill.

Seven serious answers, each partially right, none complete.

Call it the Projection Problem: the map has no center, but the viewer can’t help inventing one.

Each era picks the missing link that matches its highest value.

• The Enlightenment, drunk on Newton, said mathematics.

• The mid-20th century, drunk on Shannon and Turing, said information.

• The late 20th, watching markets and ecosystems behave as complex systems, said complexity.

• Our century, watching AI eat everything in sight, says intelligence. And underneath all of them, the oldest candidate just waits.

Now… if you held a gun to my head, I’d say consciousness.

I can’t defend it 100% of course, but it’s the only candidate that can’t be removed from the experiment.

You can do science without math (people did, for millennia). You can't do science without an observer. The telescope can’t observe itself, but it’s the only one looking.

That feels like it matters, even if I can’t prove it does.

Then again, that’s exactly the Projection Problem at work. I pick consciousness because I’m more humanist than scientist – someone whose entire craft is about subjective experience.

A physicist would pick math. An engineer would pick complexity. A theologian would pick God.

The missing link isn’t one discipline, but a conviction that everything connects, filtered through whatever lens you trust most.

The map doesn’t have a center because knowledge doesn’t have a center.

It has a reader. And the reader keeps trying to stand in the middle.

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TL;DR: Your atoms get swapped out, your brain keeps rewiring – and somehow you persist. So what, exactly, are you?

“You know your body swaps out almost all its atoms every seven years, right?”

I was maybe twenty. Someone said it to me at a party, the way people say things at parties – total confidence, zero sources. I nodded, because that’s what you do. And then, about three seconds late, it actually landed.

Wait. What?

Every seven years? All of them?

So the me standing there wasn’t made of the same stuff as the me from ten years back?

I’d always assumed I was my body.

Obviously. This is me – the hands, the face, the whole package. And now someone was telling me the package gets quietly returned and reordered piece by piece, and I’m meant to keep calling it “me”.

So then what am I?

The annoying part, which I only found out much later: the seven-years thing is a myth. There’s no tidy timeline, and “all of them” is just wrong.

Your gut lining turns over in days. Your skin in weeks. Most of you is already halfway out the door.

But the neurons in your cortex – the actual hardware doing the thinking – are mostly as old as you are. You got your supply at the factory and there are no refills.

So the party fact was wrong.

But it was wrong in the most interesting possible way, because the thing it was clumsily pointing at is true.

Even the cells that last your whole life don’t keep the same atoms. The molecules cycle through.

A rock is just its atoms; come back in a decade and it’s the same rock. You’re more like a whirlpool – the water keeps moving while the shape holds – a shape that matter is only ever passing through.

Which is its own quiet horror, if you sit with it. The atoms were never yours to begin with. They don’t get created or destroyed; they just cycle. Some of the carbon in your hand was something else first: a tree, a fish, possibly Napoleon.

When you go, it doesn’t go with you. It moves on to the next tenant.

Fine. So I’m not my atoms. Then I’m the arrangement of them. The shape. The information.

Must be DNA, then. DNA is the blueprint – arrange the atoms into one specific configuration and that configuration is you. Clean answer. I was happy with it for about a week.

Then: no. Not that either.

Because the configuration won’t hold still. Think hard enough about something for long enough and your brain physically rebuilds itself around it.

London cabbies have to memorize the entire city – every street, every shortcut – to pass a test they literally call The Knowledge. Scan their brains and the bit that handles spatial memory is visibly bigger, and it keeps growing the longer they drive. Pianists show the same thing in the regions wired for fingers. The structure follows the use.

So I followed it all the way down.

You’re not your atoms – they get swapped. You’re not the fixed structure – it gets rebuilt by whatever you do. The only thing that survives the turnover is the process. The pattern that keeps reassembling itself while the matter and the wiring both change out underneath it.

You are your thoughts.

(I mean that literally, not as a fridge-magnet metaphor.)

The information processing is the one continuous thing in the building. Everything running it is on a rolling lease.

This took me a while to sit with, I’ll admit. I’M INFORMATION PROCESSING felt like finding out the house is haunted and the ghost is you.

And then, oddly, it got comforting.

Because if I’m a pattern and not a particular lump of carbon, the pattern doesn’t have to die with the lump. You could have built me out of entirely different atoms and it still would have been me. And if some of how I think makes it into my kids – if they end up running, say, 32% of my patterns – then 32% of me is still around.

I am my thoughts. And thoughts are the one thing that transfers.

Ray Kurzweil takes this to the obvious terminus: if you’re the pattern, copy the pattern onto a machine and you get to live forever. The real you. You were never the atoms.

Then again, I don’t know whether that copy is me, or just someone exactly like me while I – this instance – still go dark. Nobody does. I’ve stopped waiting for that one to resolve.

What did resolve, eventually, was something sneaky.

I’d spent years deciding I was information processing that happened to be wearing a body. And then we went and built information processing without the body, and the entire world started arguing about whether the thing was really thinking. Really understanding. Really anybody home.

And somewhere in there it clicked that it was my own question all along – the one I’d been asking since I was twenty, just pointed the wrong way.

Is anyone home?

Sure.

Someone’s always home. Just never the same someone twice.

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TL;DR: When the hammer swings itself, the economy breaks in both directions. Everyone says Universal Basic Income is the answer. There’s a better answer – and an even better reason it keeps failing.

A Reddit post went viral a few months ago. Someone wrote:

"I genuinely have been trying to understand what is the point of AI taking everything over. Every job is replaced. No one can work. No one has money to buy any of the horseshit they prime on Amazon. Won't everything just implode from there?"

Five thousand comments. The top answers were UBI (Universal Basic Income), communism, and “lol we’re fucked.” None of the top answers dug into what actually breaks.

I sold most of my stuff 3 years ago. Packed a backpack and put the rent money into AI stocks. So when someone argues AI might break classical economics – I’m the case study.

Capitalism runs on one relationship: the worker needs the hammer, the hammer needs the worker.

Codependency since the Industrial Revolution.

Now imagine the hammer swings itself.

Capital no longer needs labor. Labor’s share of income trends toward zero, capital’s toward a hundred. Nobody earns. Nobody buys. Companies lose revenue. And the counterintuitive part: the billionaires drown too. Your expenditure is my revenue is somebody’s salary is your customer base. Break the chain and everyone goes down. Including the people who own the boat.

So people still need income. The question is where it comes from.

The best version of this argument goes something like this:

The answer is not Universal Basic Income. UBI just moves your dependency. Right now you’re wholly dependent on your employer. With UBI, you’re entirely dependent on the government. Same leash, different collar.

The real move: make everyone a collective owner of the productive assets. Sovereign wealth funds, public trusts, DAOs, ESOPs – schemes where buying from a company progressively earns you equity in it. Instead of wages, dividends. Instead of workers and consumers, owners.

People still have income. They still buy things. The economy doesn’t collapse.

But before you accept the frame, ask what “ownership” has actually meant across human history.

The Hold

Anthropologists who study this draw a line between two ways humans control each other.

1. A right to people that gives you access to things. Slavery. You own the person, you take what they produce.

2. A right to things that gives you a hold on people. Capitalism. You own the farm, the store, the factory. I need food. I need money to get food. I need a job to get money. So I sign an employment contract. And an employment contract is an evolution of the master-servant contract from the industrial era.

The framing changed, but the structure… not so much.

We don’t legally own workers anymore. We control them because we own what they need. The second control scheme, running in 2026, dressed in HR software and quarterly performance reviews.

Collective ownership scrambles this. If everyone holds a piece of the productive assets, you can’t be held hostage by private property rights.

That’s the actual revolution in the framework: it dismantles the hold itself, not just redistributes wealth. That interests me more than the economics.

The Circulation

But every revolution so far has just rotated the names on the door.

The industrial revolution didn’t abolish elites. It traded the ones in castles for ones in factories.

The landed nobility fell from power when the economic order that sustained them became obsolete. Nobody defeated them. They just stopped being necessary. Industry created a new way of running an economy, which created a new class of owners to replace the old one. Meanwhile, the peasantry became the working class – different label, similar position in the hierarchy.

This has happened before. Hunter-gatherers to agriculture: flat bands became rigid pyramids. Feudalism to mercantilism to industrial capitalism – each revolution breaking the old arrangement and forcing a new one.

Marx saw this.

“No social order ever disappears before all the productive forces for which there is room in it have been developed, and new higher relations of production never appear before the material conditions of their existence have matured in the womb of the old society.”

Marx didn’t live to see electricity scale, but the pattern fits. AI is what industrial technology becomes when the womb finishes gestating.

Whether collective ownership is the next stage or just the next ruling class in a friendlier hat.

The Monday Morning Problem

Even if the ownership model works, it still opens with a question that haunts its own answer: do you wake up on Monday and spend it the way you’d choose if money were no object? Liberation from labor is supposed to fix this.

I’ve been writing about thumos – the Greek word for the spirited part of the soul. The part that needs to strive. The fire that refuses to be managed, even generously. Plato put it in the chest, between reason and appetite. It’s the thing that makes you stand up when sitting down is easier.

Dividends don’t reach the chest.

I’ve been running the experiment myself – sold the stuff, swapped the salary for a portfolio and an essay habit nobody asked for. Technically free.

And yet the first thing I do every Monday is manufacture urgency – deadlines nobody assigned, essays nobody commissioned. The fire needs fuel.

Collective ownership solves the demand problem. But demand was never the hard problem. The hard problem is the dividend hitting your account while nobody needs you for anything.

History’s leisure classes are a mixed record – a handful of Medicis bankrolling Botticelli, far more Versailles courtiers dying of boredom and intrigue.

The forcing function of labor is coercive, yes. But it also gives you somewhere to be on Monday and someone to complain about on Friday. Remove it without replacing what it was doing and the check lands in a vacuum.

I wrote in The Job of the Future that when machines do everything perfectly, the only job left is being imperfectly human. That was 2024. The question still stands. But I think it’s sharper now. Ownership doesn’t just need to solve the economic problem – it needs to answer a question that economics was never designed to ask: what are people for?

Most people never have to ask it. The answer comes pre-installed – you’re born somewhere, into something, and the something needs doing.

The answer used to be obvious. You were for working

When that’s gone, every philosophy that ever hand-waved about “meaning” and “purpose” suddenly has a deadline.

The hammer swings itself. That might be coming.

Collective ownership is better than UBI, and both are better than the dark path: a neo-nobility with neural implants and compound interest, a neo-peasantry with dividend checks and Netflix. The medieval hierarchy, except this time the nobility really are superhuman and they’ve got the receipts.

We already ran the governance experiment once. It was called pensions. US public pension funds were fully funded in 2000. By 2022, they were $1.26 trillion underwater.

The design said “collective ownership.” The execution said “committee of politicians with four-year attention spans.”

Norway’s sovereign wealth fund hit $1.8 trillion by running the same model with competent administration across decades – but Norway works because Norway works. Small, cohesive, oil-funded. Try exporting that.

You know where I’m positioned. The productive forces are maturing in the womb of the old society, exactly as Marx described. I think the arrangement will shift.

Who owns the hammer is not the hard problem. Who governs the owners is.

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Related reading:

The Race Condition – the economic split this piece is betting on

The AI Landlords – who captures the value when production is free

The Job of the Future – what work means when machines do it better

TL;DR: The purchasing power of amazement is collapsing. In eighteen months we went from “impossible” to “huh.” The question I can’t resolve: is that a bug or a feature?

I showed my mom a video last week.

Golden retriever skateboarding through a Tokyo subway, weaving between commuters, fur moving right, physics coherent. Twenty seconds of photorealistic impossible.

— “Ach, wie süß,” she said. How cute. “Where’d you find it?”

— “I typed twelve words into a website. It appeared thirty seconds later. The dog doesn’t exist.”

— “Huh.” She scrolled to the next thing.

We’ve moved from “this is impossible” to “huh” in eighteen months.

I almost did the same thing. Generated that video to test Genie 3. Watched it once, thought “yeah, that’s about right,” moved on.

Didn’t register that I’d conjured photorealistic video from text, something that would’ve been a showstopper three years ago and science fiction eighteen months before that.

I almost shrugged at a miracle.

Miracle Inflation

Miracle inflation: the rate at which the extraordinary becomes ordinary.

I own the stocks. I use the tools. I’ve had the debates with skeptics. None of that means I’m calibrated.

• Coding agents that debug themselves.

• Voice cloning from three seconds of audio.

• Real-time translation that preserves your cadence and stumbles over your idioms.

Every one of these would’ve been the keynote closer at a 2023 tech conference. Now they’re Tuesday.

This AI thing is faster than hedonic adaptation.

Yesterday’s miracle becomes today’s expectation becomes tomorrow’s disappointment. Just a quiet reset of what counts as normal.

Skeptics suffer from it – measuring AI against hype, moving goalposts, perpetually right until they’re not.

But bulls suffer worse, because we should know better. We measure against our own expectations. “Genie 3 is good, but not feature films.” “Claude is smart, but hallucinates.” Technically true. Completely missing the point.

The right baseline was never what we expected – it’s what existed before.

In 2022, if you wanted video of a dog skateboarding through Tokyo, you needed a trained dog, a flight to Tokyo, a film crew, and a VFX team billing six figures over three months. Now you type twelve words.

That’s an extinction event for the old way of making things.

What It Costs

The trendline nobody updates: impossible → hard → expensive → cheap → free → invisible.

Summer 2026, we’re somewhere between cheap and free.

But most people, including most bulls, are anchored to expensive. The gap – between where AI actually sits and where we assume it sits – is where the strategic danger lives.

Normalize miracles and you start planning for linear improvement in a world making nonlinear jumps.

Everyone evaluates AI by what it can’t do. “Still can’t do long-form video.” True – and anchored to last quarter’s version of the trendline.

I’m long the AI Landlords thesis, concentrated in infrastructure, picks and shovels on continued scaling. If progress stalls, I lose real money. If it accelerates, I look like a genius. Maybe I’m pattern-matching miracles because I need them to be miracles.

But I wouldn’t know that, would I?

The Counter-Case

Maybe desensitization is adaptive.

The people who stay perpetually amazed, who stop and gawk at every miracle, they’re not the ones shipping. They’re writing essays about whether the miracle was miraculous enough while a startup in Chy-nah just used a world model to produce a product demo that would’ve cost them $200,000 last year.

My mom said “huh” and scrolled. Maybe the miracle becomes useful precisely when it becomes boring. Maybe awe is the enemy of execution.

There’s a version of this argument where every word I’ve written above is wrong. Not wrong about the technology, but wrong about the correct posture toward it.

The farmer doesn’t write essays about the tractor. He plows the field. The harvest happens every season. Reverence for the tool is a distraction from the work the tool enables.

If that’s true, calibration – what I’ve been arguing for – is just a more intellectual form of gawking.

But I don’t fully buy it. The farmer analogy breaks because tractors stopped improving in the 1970s. AI improves every two weeks. You can afford to stop marveling at a tool that’s finished. But you can’t afford to stop marveling at one that’s still becoming something else.

Somewhere, someone who said “huh” six months ago and got back to work is compounding while I write about whether the miracle was miraculous enough.

Huh.

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Related reading: Observer's Doom – the cost of watching too closely.

TL;DR: There’s a word for using true facts to create false impressions. It’s not lying – it’s worse. And you’ve probably already fallen for it this week.

Someone at a dinner party told me CO2 is making the earth greener. I did what any annoying person would do. I checked.

They were right.

A 2016 study in Nature Climate Change found that rising CO2 explains roughly 70% of observed greening across the planet. NASA confirmed it. Satellite images confirmed it. Peer-reviewed, replicated, real.

I almost stopped there. That’s the dangerous part.

Because “CO2 is greening the earth” says nothing about ocean acidification, extreme weather, sea levels, or that the greening itself is already slowing. One data point, surgically removed from everything around it, walks into the room wearing the full authority of science. You check the data. It checks out. So you extend credit to the conclusion, and the conclusion was never in the data to begin with.

Turns out there’s a word for this: Paltering.

The active use of truthful statements to create a false impression. Harvard Business School calls it: “How To Deceive Others With Truthful Statements”.

Not lying, where you say something false. Not omission, where you stay quiet. Paltering is active. You reach for a true fact, cite it correctly, and arrange it so the listener walks away with a conclusion the fact alone doesn’t support.

A lie can be caught. You can point at it, label it, fact-check it. Paltering hides behind the facts. You can’t call it false.

You can only ask: what didn’t you tell me? And that question is much harder to ask when the first thing you were told was verifiable.

Call it the first-fact free pass.

Once you verify the opening claim, you extend trust to the conclusion.

Verification is expensive – so we verify the number, not the inference. We check whether the data is real, not whether it’s sufficient. A lie requires you to fabricate something that survives scrutiny. Paltering just requires one fact that does. The rest rides free.

The Trillion-Dollar Silence

Every number DOGE (Department of Government Efficiency) published is, in a narrow sense, accurate. Contracts were cancelled. Ledger entries were removed. Add up the sums and you get something around a trillion dollars.

Now watch what didn’t get said.

Many of those contracts still need to happen. Some were cancelled on paper and quietly recontracted through different channels. Some grants, counted at full ten-year value, were cancelled before a single dollar was disbursed. Saving money by cancelling a gym membership you never used.

The promised dividends never materialized.

The savings were announced. The benefits weren’t. (Classic Musk)

The methodology is the trick, and methodology doesn’t fit in a press release. By the time you understand why “cancelled contracts” doesn’t equal “money saved,” the headline has done three news cycles and moved on.

“Renewables are cheaper than fossil fuels” runs the same play: the Levelized cost of electricity (LCOE) numbers are real, and they quietly assume someone else pays for storage, intermittency, and grid buildout.

Germany learned this the expensive way – Energiewende hit every cost target and still raised household electricity prices to among the highest in Europe. Same mechanism, different jersey.

Your Feed, Their Frame

A geologist posts the same CO2 greening study on X with the caption: “We will look back at the demonization of CO2 with shame.”

120,000 views. 4,000 retweets. The thread explaining why it’s incomplete gets two hundred.

The algorithm didn’t palter. It just learned what keeps you scrolling.

(It says so in the privacy policy – which is itself optimized for nobody reading it.)

The palterer and the platform feed each other. Neither planned it. Both benefit.

The thing is, nuance has a distribution problem – and by the time you notice, you’re two conclusions downstream from where the trick happened.

My imperfect heuristic: when a fact arrives pre-shaped into a conclusion, I ask what else would have to be true for it to actually hold.

I keep coming back to that dinner party… not because I was lied to, but because I was being curated into a worldview, one verified fact at a time.

The person who told me about CO2 greening wasn’t malicious. They’d read a real study and shared a real finding. The paltering wasn’t theirs. It was upstream, baked into whatever article stripped the context before it reached them.

They were doing the palterer’s work for free.

Most of us are.

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Related reading:

The Outsourced Mind – what happens when you stop checking the facts yourself

"Don't Mid-Curve It." – the intelligence trap that makes smart people wrong

The 91% Lie – another number that's true and misleading at the same time

TL;DR: I spent two years “opting out.” Turns out you can’t actually leave. You can only choose which dependencies you accept.

The woman at the Jobcenter asked me to describe my current occupation.

I said I was a writer/investor at the intersection of AI technology, civilizational transition, the end of work as we know it, long-term capital allocation, and the question of whether capitalism will survive once scarcity stops being the organizing principle.

She typed “arbeitslos” and moved to the next field.

In 1845, Henry David Thoreau built a cabin by Walden Pond and wrote the book on opting out. The blueprint for everyone who’s ever wanted to escape the grind and “live deliberately.”

Except his mom did his laundry. The cabin was two kilometers from town.

The patron saint of deliberate living never actually left – he just renegotiated his distance from the systems he claimed to reject.

The Remove Button

I sold everything, traveled for two years, got engaged, and came back to filing paperwork and attending mandatory appointments. The specifics of my escape were modern – backpack, laptop, brokerage account – but the fantasy was the same one Thoreau had.

Remove yourself from the broken system. Live deliberately.

It’s seductive.

Not because the impulse is wrong (the systems often are broken). The lie is the word “remove.” You can’t remove yourself. You can only reconfigure your dependencies.

The Industrial Revolution replaced physical labor. Thoreau watched craftsmen become factory workers – human bodies interchangeable with machines. His response: retreat to essentials, prove that a person is more than their productive output.

Thoreau said: “I’m more than a pair of hands.”

Now the Intelligence Revolution is replacing cognitive labor. Knowledge workers are becoming interchangeable with models. And the response sounds familiar: retreat to... what, exactly? Authenticity? Taste? Whatever it is that a model can’t fake?

We’re saying: “I’m more than a pair of neurons.”

The cabin in the woods is always a response to the same question: if the thing I do can be done without me, what am I for?

The Dependency Trade

You don’t escape dependencies. You renegotiate the terms.

I traded employer dependency for platform dependency. Steady salary for investment volatility. I swapped corporate bureaucracy for state bureaucracy. Career legibility for explaining what I “do” at every dinner party.

And somewhere in the middle of all that opting out, I proposed.

The most deliberate thing I did during my experiment in deliberate living was choosing a dependency I’d never want to renegotiate.

Time sovereignty turned out to be real – the income holds (knocks on wood). German bureaucracy is annoying but functional. Explaining myself to confused relatives allegedly builds character.

Benefits run out in July.

The question I’m asking now isn’t “How do I escape?” but rather “Which dependencies am I willing to accept, and on what terms?”

Coming Back With Something

Thoreau’s experiment lasted two years. Then, he left the cabin and moved back to town. He spent the next seven years writing and rewriting until he had something worth publishing.

The glamorous part was brief. The real work came after.

Perhaps I'm at the end of my cabin phase. I’m betting that the skills I developed there – writing, synthesis, understanding AI, and navigating markets – will outweigh the career capital I didn’t accumulate.

If I’m wrong, I’ll have spent my early thirties building an audience of a few hundred and explaining a massive CV gap as “independent research.”

Then again, if I’m right, there won’t be a job to go back to.

Thoreau didn’t matter because he lived in a cabin. He mattered because he came back with something.

I keep telling myself that. It might be true. But it might also be a comfortable delay dressed up with good justifications.

I’m not sure if I’m in the rewriting phase or the stalling phase. The two phases look identical from the inside.

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Related reading:

The Race Condition – the macro bet behind the cabin fantasy

The Job of the Future – what's left when machines do everything

Got Thumos? – the spiritedness that makes people build (or flee)

TL;DR: The financialized era was the anomaly. Quid pro quo is the baseline. The U.S. is using military power and the dollar to lock in commodity leverage before China’s factories translate into aircraft carriers. Everything is a board piece, not a moral cause.

My whole adult life I’ve been told to believe in comparative advantage, peace dividends, and the slow global convergence toward efficiency (having to define globalization every year in high school comes to mind).

The world would get richer and weirder. Wars were for people who hadn’t discovered supply chains yet. The dollar was a unit of account, not a weapon.

We were all in on it. The Boomers, the Gen Xers, and Millennials like myself. My grandparents would have laughed, though.

They lived through a world war, a civil war, currency collapses, an autarkic dictatorship, and the Marshall Plan. They knew about quid pro quo. They knew that currency was never just a unit of account. They knew there was a reason you kept things in the basement (or under the mattress, dare I say).

My generation forgot all that.

The half-century I mistook for the default – what I called Boomerlandia the post-war wealth anomaly we treated as the permanent condition – was the exception, not the rule.

But the rule is coming back.

Ursine Qua Non

Michael Every, Rabobank’s global strategist, said something I haven’t been able to unthink.

So I’m going to think through it out loud here.

Oil trades above $100. The world is starved for diesel. (Energy) supply chains haven’t been this fucked since Covid. The one-world, one-price assumption at the base of every neoclassical textbook is breaking down.

Every has been writing the obituary of the financialized era since before it was fashionable. He calls himself “ursine qua non.” Structurally bearish on consensus, not a permabear on everything.

The “dollar collapse, bury gold in the backyard” crowd is selling you a trade. But Every is selling you a regime. I’m long the bet that he’s right, so read accordingly.

The regime has a name: capitalism with a national security face.

The Eurodollar Prison

Here’s the joke Americans have been telling themselves for forty years: the dollar’s reserve status is the single greatest privilege any currency has ever had. Exorbitant privilege. The ability to import goods and export inflation. The ability to run deficits forever.

Every calls it something else: “The Eurodollar system is a prison. The bricks in that prison are made from what used to be American factories.”

America buys German cars and Chinese electronics. Germany and China take the dollars and park them in Treasuries. America gets cheap stuff; the factories that used to make it close down. Repeat for four decades.

The textbook version goes something like this: the world holds dollars by running trade surpluses (Exports − Imports > 0) against America, which means America runs the corresponding deficit.

A deficit means consuming more than you make. And consuming more than you make means not making. You deindustrialize.

Previous reserve currencies have followed the same arc. The privilege hollows out the privileged.

What do you do if you’ve realised you’ve been locked in your own currency for four decades?

You could surrender reserve status. Let the Chinese renminbi or the euro take over. Fine for a post-hegemon Britain in 1956. Not fine for a 2026 hegemon still watching China build warships faster than it can.

Or you redesign the prison. The kid in Chile who wants dollar savings his government doesn’t know about doesn’t need Eurodollar futures. He needs USDC (USD Coin) on his phone.

USD-denominated stablecoins. Phone-native. They soak up global dollar demand without requiring the corresponding American trade deficit. “Stablecoins should be looked at as a geopolitical weapon rather than an investment asset,” Every says. The GENIUS Act forces issuers to back reserves with U.S. Treasuries – every dollar of demand funds the U.S. government without hollowing out another factory.

Reserve currency 2.0, programmable money, not paper.

The prison just installed a secret exit… touché.

(I find myself explaining stablecoins to my father on the phone and wondering which of us sounds crazier – me for believing this, or the system for making it plausible.)

Capitalism With A National Security Face

The government taking stakes in Intel and U.S. Steel? Not bailouts. State capitalism in a suit.

Allies pouring FDI (Foreign Direct Investment) into American factories because they were told to. CFIUS (Committee on Foreign Investment in the US) screening Chinese capital out while outbound controls keep American capital in – bifurcation, not decoupling.

The shift, Every says, is from “a jungle where they can go wherever they want, to a safari park.”

Shell is still Shell. TSMC is still TSMC. But neither gets to pretend anymore that their strategy is theirs alone.

The Fed is in the safari park too. Interest rate-cut watching has been the consensus sport of the last eighteen months and Every thinks it’s beside the point. “Because markets” is his shorthand for the crowd betting on a Fed rescue. He expects yield-curve control, capital controls, sector-specific lending. Scott Bessent, he notes, “is openly no longer looking at Fed funds. He’s looking at the 10-year.”

The independence of the Federal Reserve was always a polite fiction – the Fed’s own website lists financing World War II as an institutional achievement. The pretence is wearing thin.

Every instrument the MBA curriculum banned (tariffs, subsidies, price controls, industrial policy, state-directed capital, military-backed commodity deals) is being deployed simultaneously, on purpose.

Civilian R&D returns roughly $1.50 per dollar invested. Defense R&D returns $8 to $9. For a government choosing where the next decade goes, the spreadsheet was never a contest.

The econ professor would have failed you. The Pentagon doesn’t play the same game.

Iran Is America’s Suez. Europe Is Egypt.

In 1956, Britain and France tried to reassert great-power status by seizing the Suez Canal back from Nasser (Suez Crisis, ring a bell?). The U.S. didn’t need to fire a shot.

It triggered a run on the pound and the franc, and both powers retreated. Afterward, Britain and France were still powers – lowercase p. The U.S. was the hegemon.

Fast forward to today: Iran.

Win it: restructure the Middle East, lock in the energy footprint, turn the Gulf’s compass back toward Washington, and it’s 1956 with the roles intact.

Lose it: China takes it, markets do to the U.S. what the U.S. did to Britain, and America becomes the UK of 1956. Still a power. Not the power.

That’s the American half of the frame. The European half is uglier.

Europe in this analogy isn’t Britain. It’s the territory fought over – the board piece. Every’s description is brutal: “trade deficits, deindustrialisation, polarisation. Not unity and remilitarisation.”

ReArm Europe is what happens when you’re told you’re on the menu and decide you’d rather not be. Defense spending surges. Nuclear revival conversations. The awkward realisation that forty years of “never again to war” produced a continent that outsourced its security to America and its energy to Russia.

I’m European. I’d prefer Europe not be on the menu. The analysis stands anyway.

The Three-Finger Trade

Imagine you have to fight someone. You know in advance you’re going to lose three fingers off your left hand. You’re also going to take his right arm and one leg. You will live. You will hurt. You will never get those fingers back. But the alternative is losing, and losing is permanent.

Would you take the trade?

Easy when the fingers are yours. Harder when some of them are someone else’s – and you’re the one who decided they were worth spending.

That’s the calculation America is running. Reindustrialisation is expensive. Tariffs make goods pricier. Price controls distort markets. Public-private partnerships are corporatism, full stop. It’s what you do when the market won’t produce industrial capacity in the timeframe you have.

Tariffs plus subsidies plus industrial policy plus finance harnessed to state power. The 19th-century American playbook, dusted off because the 20th-century one ran out of road.

Some factories will get built. Some won’t. Some of the mineral deals are ugly: physical security in exchange for resource access. Or, translated from the diplomatic: “We’ll go and kill those guys over there for you if you let us have access to your minerals.”

The stakes aren’t the next business cycle. They’re whether the U.S. is still the hegemon in 2045 or permanently number two. The goal is to win. The pain is the point.

2G Not G2

Trump and Xi meet in Beijing in May, postponed from March because of Iran.

Every’s read: “It’s not any kind of peace deal. We’re still heading for a 2G – the world with two different groups.” A ceasefire to rearm. Twelve to eighteen months of modus vivendi. Then bifurcation completes.

Three monetary blocs, each with its own logic.

Dollar allies get the upgraded version – stablecoins, sanctions coded into the money itself, settlement in seconds rather than SWIFT reprimands six weeks late.

Non-aligned countries (the ones with no leverage in dollar negotiations and nothing to lose by hedging) drift toward Bitcoin. El Salvador didn’t adopt it for ideology. It adopted it because neutral money stops looking like a libertarian fetish when you don’t trust either pole.

The Russia-China-BRICS orbit builds a gold-flavoured settlement layer: mBridge, BRICS Pay, record central bank gold buying since 2022. Gold as a unit of account for bilateral trade that routes around Western financial infrastructure. Currency blocs last seen in the 1930s, redrawn with digital rails.

(I realize I'm describing three parallel monetary systems as if this is normal. It wasn't – but neither was the single-currency assumption.)

Economic MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction).

Cold War mutually assured destruction, transposed to the supply chain. Less bunker, more port terminal. Both sides wire in the ability to destroy each other economically via tariffs, sanctions, dollar access, rare-earths choke-offs, supply-chain kill switches.

Both recognise the other can. Neither pulls the trigger.

The equilibrium isn’t trust. It’s blocked moves on a board where every counter is visible. Markets will hate the road to it. The equilibrium, if it holds, is the soft landing.

The pessimistic read is that one side miscalculates.

I’m hoping they don’t.

Every’s arguments here are drawn from his recent appearances on In the Company of Mavericks, MacroVoices, and Less Noise More Signal. Listen to them.

The geopolitical arc – where this argument started, and the historical trade patterns it echoes:

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Related reading:

The Game of Life – The equilibrium isn’t trust.

TL;DR: AI made execution cheap. You can build ten things by Friday. The hard part is knowing which seven to delete on Saturday. The bottleneck moved from code to taste – and taste doesn’t scale.

A few weeks ago I built two interactive tools for my website. Over a weekend. I can’t code – I just talk to machines for a living.

Check’m out here:

The Midwit Detector

Money is Stored Time

Two years ago, that sentence would’ve been either delusional or expensive. Today it’s Tuesday.

This is the part where most people write about “how AI is democratizing creation, how the barriers to execution are falling, how anyone can build anything now.”

And they’re right. But they’re describing the easy half.

If someone brings you ten ideas now, your first instinct is: “let’s try all ten.” Not prioritize. Not pick three. All ten, by Friday. But if you can build ten things by Friday, how do you know which three to ship?

The Filter is Gone

Execution used to be the filter. Most ideas died in the gap between “wouldn’t it be cool if” and “actually making the thing.” That gap was expensive – it cost time, money, specialized knowledge. The gap did your editing for you. If an idea wasn’t worth the pain of building it, it simply didn’t get built.

That filter is gone.

When execution is essentially free, bad ideas survive longer. They get prototyped, polished, shipped. They look professional. They work. They sit in the app store like well-dressed strangers nobody invited.

The bottleneck didn’t disappear. It moved. From code to taste.

McKinsey estimates that generative AI could automate 60-70% of employee work activities. GitHub reports that developers using Copilot complete tasks 55% faster. But no study has quantified the value of knowing which task to skip entirely. That’s taste, not throughput.

Andrej Karpathy called it years ago: “English is the hottest new programming language.”

People heard that and thought he was talking about prompting. He wasn’t. The skill that matters isn’t speaking to the machine, but articulating (to yourself, your team, a model) what’s worth doing and why.

Something to Say

You can have tools that handle editing, voice-matching, distribution. The system does what you built it to do.

But it doesn’t know which essay to write. It doesn’t know when an idea is a thread and when it’s a 3,000-word piece. It doesn’t know when I’m writing to figure out what I think versus writing because I think I should post something this week.

That distinction – between having something to say and having to say something – no system bridges.

More output means more decisions, and taste becomes load-bearing. And taste, unlike execution, doesn’t scale.

He Kills Better

Taste is what’s left after you’ve consumed enough good and bad work to have opinions you can’t fully explain.

The thing that makes a senior editor worth ten junior editors, not because he writes better but because he kills better.

The org chart is inverting. The people who used to be overhead – the editor who cuts 40% of the draft, the creative director who says “no” eleven times before saying “yes,” the PM who buries six features to ship one – they’re not overhead anymore. They’re the product.

“Learn to code” became “learn to prompt,” which will become “learn to [whatever].” Always one dialect behind the thing that actually matters.

My LinkedIn bio has said “human language model” for over a year. When I wrote it, I thought I was being clever. The joke was about prompting – about being the person who talks to the machine.

But it’s not about talking to machines.

It’s about the thing that makes human language human: wanting something specific and saying so in a way that makes people care.

Machines are fluent now. What they’re not is opinionated.

That’s the job.

More on taste and AI: Forget Esperanto | Don’t Mid-Curve It | Atoms vs Abstractions

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Frequently Asked Questions

What is the Human Language Model?

It’s a framework for thinking about what becomes scarce when AI makes execution cheap. If anyone can build, write, or generate at near-zero cost, the bottleneck shifts from “can you make it?” to “should you make it?” The human language model is the person who knows what to build, what to kill, and when to stop.

What is taste in the context of AI?

Taste is the ability to make judgment calls no model can make for you: which of ten features to ship, which draft to publish, when to stop iterating. It comes from consuming enough good and bad work to have opinions you can’t fully articulate. AI handles execution. Taste handles direction.

Will AI replace creative jobs?

The execution-heavy ones, yes. If your job is producing output (writing copy, generating images, coding features), AI compresses that cost toward zero. If your job is deciding which output matters, that role gets more valuable. The editor who cuts 40%, the creative director who says “no” eleven times. The distinction is production vs. curation.

What skills matter in the AI age?

Curation over creation. Knowing what to build, what to kill, and when to stop. Andrej Karpathy said “English is the hottest new programming language.” But the real skill isn’t prompting. It’s having something specific to say and knowing why it matters.

TL;DR: I’ve spent two years searching for greener pastures. Turns out, most of the planet fails a formula I didn’t expect. The jig is up in July. Time to pick.

I don’t want to retire somewhere pleasant. I want to build.

The jig will be up in July. Two years on the road and one question left: where do you plant a flag when carry-on luggage stops being a personality?

“The grass is always greener,” people say, usually to shut down the conversation. Bloom where you’re planted. Sure.

But when I actually look at the map, the grass isn’t greener elsewhere.

It looks barren everywhere.

The Map

Five places on Earth have Mediterranean climate: the sweet spot humans have chased since we figured out agriculture. Civilization starts where the olive tree grows. Real estate has always been about location.

Mild winters, warm summers, enough rain to grow things without drowning in humidity. California. The actual Mediterranean. Central Chile. A sliver of South Africa. Bits of Australia.

That’s it. Five patches on an entire planet.

Four maps. Four filters. The overlap is a postage stamp.

Everyone who could get there already did. Centuries ago. Some even built walls around them.

The Formula

Two years on the road gave me this: abundant natural resources divided by population, multiplied by trust.

Trust doesn’t show up on any spreadsheet. You discover it in the first week.

In a high-trust society, you can leave your laptop at a café and come back to find it there. It’s about whether a handshake can still close a deal. Whether every interaction carries a tax – get it in writing, hire a lawyer, bring a witness– or whether that tax approaches zero.

It sounds soft. But it’s the hardest variable to build and the easiest to destroy.

High-trust societies compound. Low-trust societies discount.

The post-war emigrants knew this intuitively. Europeans fleeing bombed-out cities weren’t chasing weather. They were chasing the formula. USA, Canada, Australia, Argentina. Wide open spaces. Resources in the ground. Nobody around to ask what permits you’d need. Places where your surname wasn’t your résumé.

Most of those bets paid off. Run the formula today and the list narrows fast. Canada’s institutions are decaying faster than Canadians will admit – a healthcare system where ER waits stretch past 24 hours, a housing market that’s locked out a generation. Brazil and South Africa have massive resource bases and broken denominators. (Argentina glances back if Milei holds, but I’ve never been.)

The places that pass all four filters? You can count them on one hand.

Australia

Australia keeps winning the math. Minerals. Agriculture. Energy. 26 million people in a continent-sized space, and the per-capita allocation of everything is absurd.

Institutions boring in the good way. A contract means what it says. You can start a business without a fixer, rent an apartment without a bribe, and resolve a dispute without knowing a judge.

Seven months there confirmed what the spreadsheet suggested. Now I sorta know the coffee spots, the rhythm, how the place works. We run on vibes, after all.

The bear case is distance. An entire hemisphere between you and everyone you know. Holidays become logistics exercises. Your parents age on a different continent. The tyranny of geography means “I’ll visit soon” becomes a 24-hour flight and a week of jet lag. You’re building in a place that makes building easy – but you’re building alone, in the sense that everyone you built your life with until now is 16,000 kilometers away.

Weirdly, I enjoyed being far from everything. The pull of novelty outweighed the pull of belonging. Not the answer I was hoping for. But seven months on the other side of the planet, I felt lighter, not lonelier.

The housing market is a bitch – but that’s a price problem, not a trust problem.

The actual vulnerability is less obvious: Australia imports 90% of its refined fuel and holds barely a month of reserves. When the Strait of Hormuz closed in early 2026, hundreds of service stations ran dry – a continent sitting on world-class energy resources that can’t fill its own tanks, because it outsourced refining the same way the West outsourced rare earth processing.

The problems are solvable. Whether they’ll be solved before the next crisis is a different question.

The Forum Romanum Problem

Then there’s Europe. The “safe” option.

If you’ve been to Rome, you’ve walked past the Forum Romanum – that rectangular pit in the middle of the city where tourists peer down at ancient columns and crumbling temples. Two thousand years ago, that was the center of Western civilization. Now it’s six meters below street level. You need a ticket to see it.

The glory is literally buried.

The civilization that built the modern world – the scientific method, constitutional government, the Enlightenment – is still here. It didn’t vanish. It got buried under bureaucracy, institutional arthritis, and a weird compulsion to apologize for everything that made it successful.

The question now in Europe is whether we have the permits to excavate.

I mean that literally. In Germany, the permits to dig up the past might clear faster than the permits to build something new. Tesla built its Berlin Gigafactory faster than Germany could approve it. They broke ground, poured concrete, erected walls, all while permits wound through bureaucracy. A “climate-friendly” company building electric vehicles, and still the paperwork nearly outlasted the construction.

The treasure is right there, but the process assumes you must be doing something wrong.

Funnily enough, Europe was where the formula was invented. Trust there was built over centuries: common law, property rights, the slow, boring accumulation of institutional credibility. The UK, Netherlands, Scandinavia, Germany, Switzerland – the proof of concept for what strangers cooperating at scale could produce.

Trust is topsoil. Takes centuries to accumulate. But all it takes is one bad decade to wash away.

That trust hasn’t collapsed. But it’s eroding. Not with a bang – with a thousand paper cuts. A public system that works a little less reliably each year. A bureaucracy that adds a form where last year it needed a handshake. A growing sense that the next generation inherits the paperwork but not the conviction that produced it.

The tragedy – and I say this as someone half-German, half-Spanish – is that Europe could dig itself out. The human capital is there. The institutions, however sclerotic, haven’t collapsed. But it requires believing there’s something worth uncovering.

Europe’s mood is managed decline, not renaissance. Nobody’s excavating. The Forum Romanum just keeps sinking.

The Bet

Australia doesn’t need excavation. It has above-ground abundance, natural and social.

Building requires the concrete and the handshake. The formula says Australia. So does my gut. Seven months there wasn’t a vacation – it was a stress test, and the place passed.

But the formula solves for abundance, not for meaning. Resources / population × trust measures where you can build, not where you belong.

The variable it lacks is the one I kept stumbling over. Call it the belonging variable. It’s not on the map because no one has agreed on how to price it. You find out what it’s worth by trying to leave.

Part of me thinks betting on Europe is romantic nonsense – a story you tell yourself to avoid admitting you don’t want to leave. The continent had its run. The future is being built elsewhere.

Part of me thinks running to the easy win is the hollowed-out thinking that created the problem. If every high-trust citizen with options emigrates, the trust leaves with them. The Forum Romanum keeps sinking because nobody’s excavating. You can’t excavate from Sydney.

The honest answer is that the formula has an answer and I’m stalling. Seven months in Australia said yes. Two years of deciding says not yet. The grass is greener where the math works. The question is whether that’s where you want to spend the years you don’t get back.

Either way, the work isn’t finding greener grass.

It’s choosing what you’re willing to lose.

The companion pieces – what climate does to civilizations, and the comparison that started it all:

Related: The AI Landlords: Who Profits from the AI Revolution

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Frequently Asked Questions

What is the green pastures formula?

Natural resources divided by population, multiplied by trust. It’s a filter for deciding where to build a life. A country can have enormous mineral wealth or fertile land, but if the population is too large or the institutions are too corrupt, the per-capita allocation falls apart. Trust is the multiplier – it determines whether contracts hold, businesses can start without a fixer, and disputes resolve without knowing a judge.

What are Mediterranean climate regions?

Five places on Earth have Mediterranean climate: California, the Mediterranean basin itself, central Chile, a sliver of South Africa, and parts of southern Australia. Mild winters, warm summers, enough rain to grow things without drowning in humidity. Civilization has clustered around these zones since agriculture began. Layer on potable tap water, food self-sufficiency, and optimum temperature, and the overlap is a postage stamp.

What is a high-trust vs low-trust society?

In a high-trust society, a handshake can close a deal, you can leave your laptop at a cafe and find it when you return, and interactions don’t carry a hidden tax of lawyers, witnesses, and paperwork. In a low-trust society, every transaction has friction. High-trust societies compound over time. Low-trust societies discount. Trust takes centuries to build and one bad decade to destroy.

What is the Forum Romanum problem?

It’s a metaphor for institutional decay. The Roman Forum – once the center of Western civilization – is now six meters below street level in Rome. You need a ticket to see it. Europe’s institutions are similar: the civilization that built the scientific method, constitutional government, and the Enlightenment is still there, but it’s buried under bureaucracy and managed decline. The question is whether anyone still has the conviction to excavate.

Why does Australia keep winning the formula?

Resources, space, and institutional trust. 26 million people across a continent-sized landmass, with massive mineral, agricultural, and energy wealth. Contracts mean what they say. You can start a business without a fixer. The bear case is distance – an entire hemisphere between you and everyone you know – and a fuel vulnerability: Australia imports around 90% of its refined fuel and holds roughly a month of reserves.

TL;DR: I spent six months melting in Southeast Asia and came back with a theory about why cold countries are rich. It’s not what the race science guys think. Put down the calipers.

Imagine you’re standing at the pier waiting to take the ferry somewhere equatorial. Paradise island from a postcard. Just one problem: you’re dripping. Not metaphorically. Sweat pools in places you didn’t know had pores. The humidity reads 94%, which shouldn’t be legal. You only survive by being in water (swimming pool/ocean) or water will come out of you (sweat). Either way, you’re always wet.

Standing there and breathing is sweat-inducing. Now imagine opening a laptop. Important thoughts waiting to be thought. The cursor blinks, patient and judgmental.

Nothing comes.

Your brain has the consistency of pho broth: warm, murky, unable to hold shape. A gecko on the wall, waiting to feast on the mosquitos, makes more progress than you do on this paragraph (always thank your gecko for working hard to keep you mosquito-bite free folks).

Six months in SEA – Indonesia, Philippines, Vietnam, Singapore, Malaysia – left me with a hypothesis I can’t shake.

Cold climates built the civilizations that currently run the scoreboard. Not through superior genes. But through superior pressure.

Before you reach for your skull-measuring calipers to assess the cranium of a stout Filipino man, hear me out.

(If you don’t know what Phrenology is, congratulations. You’ve avoided some dark corners of the internet.)

The Winter Filter

Winter kills the improvident.

If you don’t store grain, you starve. If you don’t cooperate, you freeze. If you eat the seed corn in October, you’re dead by February.

For millennia, seasonal climates ran a brutal filter – not for IQ, but for behaviors: planning, saving, trusting strangers enough to trade with them. The penalty for short-term thinking wasn’t poverty. It was death.

These behaviors became cultures. Cultures that rewarded delayed gratification, property rights, long-term planning. The pressure that built infrastructure also built minds capable of maintaining it.

GDP per capita versus average temperature: the correlation is strong. Temperature alone explains over half the gap between rich and poor countries. Norway, Sweden, Canada at the top. Chad, Niger, Mali at the bottom. But half isn’t everything.

Imperialism and resource extraction shaped the map as much as latitude. And yes, the Nile flooded predictably enough to build pyramids without a single frost. Cold isn’t the only forcing function. It’s a forcing function. One that leaves fingerprints on everything from furniture design to pension systems.

But the trend matters less than the outliers.

Hofstede’s cultural dimensions data found the receipts. The “long-term orientation” score – basically, how much a culture values saving over spending – tracks almost perfectly with winter length.

Longer winters, longer time horizons. No surprises there.

The surprise is the outliers. Plot South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Singapore on the scatter and they blow the curve apart – scoring far higher than their latitude has any right to produce. The explanation is almost too clean: tropical countries running on cultural software written in temperate mainland China. The Winter Filter didn’t just shape people. It shaped cultures portable enough to outlast the climate that forged them.

The Hack

Lee Kuan Yew didn’t inherit a cold climate. He inherited a swamp. Malarial, humid, resource-poor. An island the British had written off.

One of his first acts after independence in 1965 was installing air conditioning in government buildings. Not as luxury. As policy. He understood that cognitive work was impossible in tropical heat (not to mention wearing a tie) – Singapore would never compete if its civil servants spent every afternoon in a sweaty daze.

In a 2009 interview, LKY called air conditioning “perhaps one of the signal inventions of history” – one that “changed the nature of civilization by making development possible in the tropics.”

He was right. Singapore now has higher GDP per capita than Britain. The swamp became a financial center. The heat became irrelevant.

Geography isn’t destiny. It’s a constraint. And constraints can be engineered around… if you’re ruthless enough.

The Decay

Now consider the opposite direction.

German trains used to run on time. “Pünktlichkeit” as national religion. Deutsche Bahn is now a punchline: overcrowded, delayed, passengers standing in aisles. The Swiss won’t let German trains enter their stations – afraid the delays are contagious.

What happened? Infrastructure neglect. Political paralysis and short-termism. The very discipline that cold winters supposedly selected for, eroding in a single generation.

Cold isn’t a permanent advantage. It’s a head start you can squander. The institutions that winter built require maintenance. When that slips, the latitude stops mattering. Just ask Russia – brutal winters, dysfunctional institutions.

My German half feels this decay viscerally. No bueno.

This was never really about temperature. It’s about pressure. Cold provided it for millennia. Now we have to build our own.

I didn’t find clarity in paradise. I found it when the humidity broke – when constraint replaced optionality and I could finally sit for hours without my brain wrapped in wet linen.

People who grew up in Saigon or Jakarta are probably laughing. Fair enough. Maybe the Winter Filter just flatters a sweaty Westerner’s own limitations.

The Winter Filter built the thing. But it doesn’t maintain the thing.

And I’m not sure if coming back was choosing the right constraint or just choosing the familiar one.

Where to apply the Winter Filter – and the Moral Compass piece on how latitude shapes culture:

Related: If You’re So Smart, Why Aren’t You Rich?

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Frequently Asked Questions

Why are cold countries generally wealthier than tropical ones?

The “Winter Filter” theory holds that seasonal climates imposed survival pressures – store grain or starve, cooperate or freeze – selecting for behaviours like delayed gratification and long-term planning over millennia. These became cultural norms that later supported economic development. GDP per capita correlates strongly with average temperature, though imperialism and resource extraction also shaped the map considerably.

Did cold climates select for higher intelligence?

No. The Winter Filter is a behavioural and cultural argument, not a genetic one. Harsh winters selected for specific habits – saving, planning ahead, cooperating with strangers – that became embedded in cultures and institutions rather than biology. The proof is in the outliers: tropical countries settled by diaspora from cold-climate cultures (South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore) outperform their latitude on Hofstede’s long-term orientation score by a wide margin.

What did Lee Kuan Yew say about air conditioning and development?

In a 2009 interview with New Perspectives Quarterly, he called air conditioning “perhaps one of the signal inventions of history,” arguing it made development possible in the tropics. One of his first moves after Singapore’s independence in 1965 was installing AC in government buildings – not as luxury but as infrastructure for cognitive work. Singapore’s GDP per capita now exceeds Britain’s by roughly 70%.

Is cold climate a permanent economic advantage?

No – cold is a head start you can squander. The institutions winter built require active maintenance. Germany’s rail system, once shorthand for “Pünktlichkeit,” has deteriorated to the point where Swiss Federal Railways terminates late-running Deutsche Bahn services at the border. Russia has brutal winters and dysfunctional institutions. The Winter Filter built the thing, but it doesn’t maintain the thing.

What is Hofstede’s long-term orientation and how does it relate to climate?

It measures how much a culture values saving, persistence, and future planning over immediate consumption. The score tracks closely with winter length – longer winters, longer time horizons. The outliers are telling: East Asian tiger economies score far higher than their tropical latitudes would predict, likely because they inherited cultural software originally shaped in temperate mainland China.

TL;DR: You can’t plan your way to serendipity. But you can shape the surface area where it lands. Luck has a formula – and every platform you use daily is working to shrink one of its variables to zero.

We were dogsitting a Rottweiler named Juno in suburban Brisbane. I’d baked scones because the flour package had a recipe on the back and there were chocolate chips in the pantry. I made enough for 20 people.

TMT (my then girlfriend, now fiancée, for the uninitiated) walked the scone surplus next door – the neighbor, Greg, had been mowing parts of our lawn unprompted, because Australians are like that. She came back five minutes later: “Julián, we’re invited for dinner. At their house. In 30 minutes.”

Their dinner guests had cancelled last-minute. The food was already prepped. Greg’s wife was Chinese, they’d met in Hong Kong where he’d worked in finance – and the house confirmed it. Pool. Porsche. The works. Their son was visiting. He’d made 48-hour braised pork with apple-mango sauce. Three courses. The kind of meal that makes you look down at your chocolate chip scones and reconsider your entire contribution to society. Anyway… we showed up and left with a second dinner invitation.

No planning would have produced any of it.

In 2010, Jason Roberts coined a term that stuck: Luck Surface Area.

His formula: L = D × T

Luck equals Doing times Telling.

Build something and make sure people know about it. That’s it.

Some percentage of those people will take action you never predicted – hire you, fund you, introduce you to someone who changes everything. The mechanism is serendipitous. The conditions that enable it are not.

But Roberts' formula is missing a variable.

The Shape Problem

D × T gives you the size of your luck surface area. It doesn’t say anything about the shape.

Two people, both high on Doing, both high on Telling. One does the same things in the same places with the same people, month after month. The other keeps moving – geographically, intellectually, socially.

The first person’s luck surface area is a narrow rectangle. The second person’s is a wide square. Same area. Radically different perimeter.

Roberts’ formula needs a third variable: R

For randomness exposure – the degree to which you put yourself in situations your past behavior can’t predict.

L = D × T × R

The Compression Machine

Every platform you use daily is working to shrink R to zero.

Your feed shows you what you already like. Recommendations reinforce what you already know. The social graph calculates who you already agree with. Spotify gives you “Discover Weekly,” which is really “Confirm Weekly.”

The attention economy is a randomness-elimination engine. Its job is to reduce surprise, increase predictability, and keep you inside a behavioral corridor narrow enough to monetize.

The result: your luck surface area compresses into a line. Infinite depth, zero width. The world’s foremost expert in your own echo chamber.

The algorithm can give you relevance. It can’t give you surprise.

The Settling Paradox

Two years of nomad living taught me this: travel is a brute-force R multiplier. The scone story wasn’t unusual. It was Cheeeewwsday (Tuesday for the uninitiated).

Two years will soon turn into three. I’m getting married this summer – and then we’re fucking off to Australia by the end of the year. No city picked. No car. No dog (yet). The backpack stays.

The conventional sequence says: marry, settle, build. But that treats R as something you graduate from, when really it’s a variable you manage. The nomad life caps D – your context resets every few weeks. Settling caps R – your context calcifies.

The question isn’t which one wins. It’s how long you can run both variables high before physics intervenes.

For me right now, that means refusing the false binary. Getting married without picking a postcode. Writing publicly to people I’ll never meet instead of journaling privately. Picking up the phone when the conversation could just be a text. Saying yes to the dinner invitation even when I’d rather stay in. Especially when I’d rather stay in.

Randomness maintenance as a lifestyle, not a strategy.

The Shape of Luck

Roberts was right. Doing and Telling are the foundation. But shape matters as much as size.

The algorithm wants to give you a line: efficient, predictable, monetizable.

Luck doesn’t live on lines.

When Juno’s owners came home, we told them about Greg – the dinners, the wine, the braised pork, the whole thing.

Her response: “Greg? The house to our right? They’ve never had us over for dinner.”

She’d lived next door for years. We were there for a month.

Same neighborhood. Same proximity. Different surface area.

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TL;DR: I keep meeting people who’ve read everything and believe nothing. They can summarize any debate but won’t pick a side. In an age where AI can present “all perspectives” in twelve seconds, observation without commitment is a slow form of disappearing.

I keep meeting well-read idiots. People who consume forty hours of podcasts a week. Who’ve read the whole canon. Who can reference any topic, recall any framework, cite any source.

And who have no opinions about anything.

Ask them what they think about AI risk, and they’ll summarize five perspectives. Ask what they believe, and they’ll hedge until the question dissolves. Encyclopedias without an index.

I used to be one of them.

Then I chose violence.

The Observer

For years, I prided myself on “seeing all sides.” On being nuanced. On not jumping to conclusions.

What I was actually doing was hiding.

If you never state a position, you can never be wrong. If you always steelman the opposition, you never have to defend your own view.

It feels wise, but it’s cowardice dressed in intellectual clothing.

Sometimes the Observer is the smarter player. Early in a domain, when you lack context, premature commitment is expensive. Surgeons don’t form diagnoses from the first symptom.

The problem isn’t observing – it’s when observation becomes identity. When you’ve been “exploring” a question for months, consuming without your view sharpening, waiting for a certainty that will never arrive. Permanently “gathering more information,” as if one more podcast, one more book, one more thread will finally grant permission to have a take.

An intake valve with no exhaust.

Permission never comes.

And it doesn’t stop at ideas. The same posture colonizes everything – career strategy hedged across three paths so you never have to go deep, investments diversified into market-average returns because conviction requires commitment. The permanent “I’m still figuring things out,” which sounds like openness but functions as paralysis.

The sunk cost fallacy gets all the press. Nobody warns about the opposite: the cost of never going all in.

Burning the Ships

Two years ago, I didn’t just sell furniture and buy a backpack. That’s the marketing version.

What I did was close the door on a decade of career building. Localization. Content. The industry I knew, the network I’d built, the reputation (lol, notorious for jokes that lived dangerously close to an HR ticket).

I let those relationships atrophy. Stopped optimizing for connections. The safe harbor that would’ve taken me back if writing failed – I watched it shrink in the rearview mirror until it wasn’t there anymore.

I was running from what felt like a slow trap. The backpack was incidental. The real weight I dropped was the backup plan.

What if I burned the wrong thing? Fuck that, I can’t A/B test my life.

But wrong commitment is usually recoverable. People reinvent themselves constantly – it’s practically an American pastime.

Never committing is different. Not dramatic. Not a crisis. Just... nothing. A life of pleasant optionality where nothing ever really happened.

Wrong commitment leaves you with a story.

Meanwhile, I watched people who knew less than me but had committed to a view make moves I should have made. They repositioned their careers, placed real bets, had uncomfortable conversations – while I was still “monitoring the situation.”

What changed when I committed: opinions, bets, public writing, uncomfortable conversations with friends about what they’d do if their jobs disappeared. Suddenly everything had stakes – wrong opinions get corrected rapidly and publicly, which is painful and educational in ways that private uncertainty never is.

And now there’s a machine that does what the Observer does, only faster. Anyone can type a question into Claude and get five perspectives summarized in twelve seconds. If your only contribution is “well, here are the various viewpoints,” you’re competing with software that doesn’t need a podcast backlog.

What AI can’t do is stick its neck out and look stupid. That’s still a human monopoly.

The hardest sentence in intellectual life is three words long: “I think X.”

I’ve been trying to follow a rule: every time I catch myself summarizing someone else’s idea, I owe an “I think” statement. No free passes for pure synthesis.

I’m wrong constantly. But at least I won’t be the well-read idiot who never found out.

More on consciousness and experience: The Hard Problem ⬇️

Related: Don’t Mid-Curve It | Atoms vs Abstractions

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Frequently Asked Questions

What is observer’s doom?

It’s what happens when you consume information without forming opinions about it. You read everything, listen to every podcast, can summarize any debate – but you never pick a side. Over time, this isn’t neutrality. It’s disappearance. You become an encyclopedia no one consults because you’ve got nothing to say that a search engine can’t.

What is analysis paralysis?

The inability to make a decision because you’re stuck evaluating options. It shows up in careers (hedging across three paths instead of committing to one), investing (diversifying into market-average returns to avoid making a call), and opinions (summarizing five perspectives instead of holding one). The pattern is the same everywhere: enough knowledge to see complexity, not enough conviction to act on it.

What does “burning the ships” mean?

It refers to eliminating your fallback option so retreat isn’t possible. The phrase traces back to Hernán Cortés in 1519, who scuttled his fleet after landing in Veracruz so his men couldn’t sail home. (He actually sank them, not burned them – the “burning” version is the better story, which is why it stuck.) In practice, it means closing the door on a safe option – quitting the stable career, dropping the backup plan – so the only way forward is through the commitment you made.

Why is having opinions important in the AI age?

Because AI already does what the careful observer does, only faster. Anyone can type a question into an AI model and get five perspectives summarized in seconds. If your contribution is “well, here are the various viewpoints,” you’re offering something a machine does for free. What AI can’t do is commit to a position and risk being wrong. That’s still a human-only move, and it’s where the value is.

What is the sunk cost of never committing?

Everyone knows the sunk cost fallacy – throwing good money after bad because you’ve already invested. Fewer people talk about the opposite: the cost of never going all in. Wrong commitment usually leaves you with experience, contacts, and a story. Never committing leaves you with options that never turned into anything. It’s not dramatic. It’s just a life where nothing really happened

TL;DR: Everyone’s debating whether AI will take your job. Almost nobody’s asking whether AI can feed itself. For 45 years, the West has answered “What is GDP for?” with “whatever markets decide” – but the AI buildout demands energy, water, and rare earths at scales that expose a fracture between the financial ledger and the material one.

The reckoning won’t come from regulation, but from the periodic table.

My trusted bakery charges 2.20€ for a croissant now. When I was a kid, the equivalent pastry was a rounding error.

The croissant is the true golden ratio – the most honest inflation indicator on the planet. Forget CPI. Count your pastries.

What if the croissant problem isn’t just monetary? What if we’ve been measuring the wrong thing entirely?

A recent conversation on The Great Simplification cracked this open for me. In 90 minutes, two guests laid out a picture most of the finance world won’t look at.

The short version: the AI economy isn’t a cloud, but a metabolism.

Two Sets of Books

Every economy keeps two sets of books. The one your broker shows you, and the one that actually matters.

• There’s the financial ledger: Bloomberg, GDP reports, your brokerage app. Prices, returns, vibes.

• Then there’s the material ledger: Tons of copper. Liters of water. Megawatt-hours. Kilograms of dysprosium. (I had to learn to spell that this week, you’re welcome.)

Ledger #2 doesn’t care about your DCF model. It doesn’t negotiate. It just asks: do you have the stuff, or don’t you?

For 45 years, the West has balanced one book and shredded the other. “Markets will work it out.” GDP goes up, therefore we’re fine. The financial ledger became the map and the territory. We forgot there was ground underneath.

, a private investor who’s spent four decades mapping East-West supply chains, puts it sharper than I can: “if you haven’t got materiality built in, your paper-on-paper economy eventually destroys your currency and your entire system.”

The same argument I made in Everything is a Ponzi Scheme – just from the currency side rather than the commodity side.

The financial illusion: your portfolio is going up, but your money is going down.

The material illusion: you think you’re building the future, but you don’t own the ingredients.

The Heaviest Metabolism

We talk about AI like it’s weightless. Digital. A question goes in, an answer comes out. Magic.

Then you look at the electricity.

Meta’s planned facility in Louisiana will consume more than twice the electricity of New Orleans. The buildout is global, and every rack in every data center is a small mining operation’s worth of refined metals, assembled.

This isn’t software eating the world. This is software demanding the world feed it – at a pace that makes the green energy transition look like a light snack.

Tindale called it “probably the heaviest metabolism in the industrial system.” It snuck up on us because the cloud metaphor is such a good anaesthetic.

Nobody panics about a cloud.

But a cloud that can’t get its parts? That panics.

The Golden Screw

During COVID, Tindale couldn’t drive his car for nearly 12 months. One part. Unavailable. Everything else worked fine. Didn’t matter.

He calls this the “golden screw” problem: in a complex system, one missing component breaks the whole machine. The more complex the system, the more screws it hides.

AI’s supply chain is full of them. And almost every one runs through the same country.

China doesn’t just mine rare earths. It refines them. It controls the off-take contracts. Even when the mine sits in Australia or Canada, the ore ships to Chinese refineries because the West doesn’t have processing capacity and can’t build it profitably under its own rules. Canada killed a copper refinery because the ESG cost alone hit 9% of capital; Western Australia canceled another because it simply wasn’t profitable.

We’re not losing a trade war. We’re forfeiting one.

China is willing to produce at a loss. Indefinitely. The goal isn’t profit, but control. Meanwhile, Western investors want 20-30% returns, regulators add cost, and communities block refineries over arsenic.

Michael Every, global strategist at Rabobank (and overall British big brain), put it bluntly: wars are won with bullets, not profits. And you can’t build the bullets if someone else controls the metal.

This is why roughly half my portfolio is in AI infrastructure – not the models or the apps, but the substrate underneath them: power, land, permits.

The unglamorous plumbing that has to exist before a single model gets trained. I’d rather bet on atoms than abstractions. The financial ledger says the AI trade is crowded. The material ledger says it hasn’t even started.

Here’s the version where I’m wrong. Every generation that bet on scarcity (peak oil, Malthus, the rare-earth panic of the 2010s) eventually got mugged by the one thing it forgot to price in: human ingenuity routing around the bottleneck.

Rare-earth-free magnets are already crawling out of labs. Sodium is angling to make lithium optional. And the same Western rules that supposedly can’t build a refinery profitably have a habit of rewriting themselves overnight once the strategic panic gets loud enough – MP Materials and Lynas are pouring exactly that capacity right now, with the Pentagon co-signing the checks. The materials matter, of course. But saying “it’s the periodic table, stupid” is precisely the kind of clean, contrarian, single-variable story this very essay is telling you to distrust.

Maybe I’ve been won over by a narrow-boundary argument because it happens to be a good one. I’m betting real money that I haven’t. But I notice I can’t fully prove it.

The Vertical Trap

This is where the spreadsheet hits the species.

Ask an economist about rare earth supply chains, and they’ll talk about price signals. Ask a general about climate modeling and watch the subject change. Everyone’s an expert. Nobody sees the board.

We’ve spent decades building vertical specializations – each one deeper, narrower, more credentialed – and never once integrated them horizontally. The economist doesn’t talk to the geologist. The geologist doesn’t talk to the general. None of them talk to each other because their jobs depend on not understanding each other’s domains.

Every articulated this better than I’ve seen anywhere: “a narrow-boundary argument will almost always win a debate against a wide-boundary perspective.”

Complexity loses every debate it enters. “Markets will sort it out” wins the room.

“Yes, but it depends on material constraints, energy access, demographics, and who controls the refining” gets a polite nod and a “we’ll get back to you.”

The Wrong Game

For 45 years, the West has answered the GDP question with: “whatever markets decide.” Efficient allocation. Comparative advantage. Let the invisible hand sort it out.

Great strategy… unless the other team isn’t playing that game. Unless they’re using state capitalism to wall up every choke point while you’re still reading Adam Smith and hoping the price mechanism will fix a geological bottleneck.

The West built an atomized, hyper-efficient system that excels at exactly one thing: consumption. We sit on the couch, watch Netflix, and expect the world to deliver stuff because we’re Western. (Every’s words, not mine.)

So what is AI for?

If the answer is “replacing 80% of white-collar jobs in 18 months,” congratulations – you’ve launched the worst marketing campaign in history.

Telling everyone they’re about to become redundant before you’ve proven the technology works at enterprise scale. Bold.

But there’s a better answer. Feed a single system the commodity flows, the defense budgets, the water tables, and the shipping manifests – all at once.

Not to predict the future – just to see the present clearly for the first time. AI as the thing that finally connects the verticals: a lens, not a gimmick.

The irony is that building the lens requires the very materials we can’t secure.

(Who says the universe doesn’t have a sense of humor?)

Renaissance Man & Feudal Man

Michael Every made a point near the end that’s been rattling around my skull since.

What we need, he said, isn’t just the intellectually broad thinker who can see across disciplines. We need Renaissance Man and Feudal Man. People who understand systems theory and know how to grow a field of vegetables. The philosopher who can hew wood and carry water.

And then, with perfect comic timing: “I increasingly think most of our population is already feudal man. We just don’t know it yet.”

Tindale’s response was better: “We haven’t forgotten. Look at our ancestors. Look at how many people had to die for us to get here. They knew all that stuff. So it can’t be that hard to learn.”

Between those two lines is a whole philosophy of the next 20 years. We’re going to need people who can read a balance sheet and can a jar of tomatoes. The average MBA program teaches neither. The average trade school teaches one.

And we have maybe one generation to teach people how to think before AI does the thinking for them. After that, the question isn’t whether the tool works.

It’s whether anyone left knows how to check.

Grow Something

After 90 minutes of supply-chain warfare, geopolitical chess, and existential resource constraints, Tindale closed with this:

“Be kind to yourself. You can’t predict what’s gonna happen. So take yourself out of the future and bring yourself to the present. Walk among the trees. Grow some vegetables.”

He grows food. He builds things. He cans goods and tells his kids to act like zoologists studying their own species: humans have specific needs, specific inputs, and you ignore them at your own expense.

I wasn’t expecting tenderness from a man who can map the world’s rare earth choke points from memory. But there it was.

The greatest philosophy was written in hard times. The worst economics was done in good times.

The biggest threat to AI isn’t regulation. It isn’t the alignment problem.

It’s the periodic table. And you can’t lobby the periodic table.

Inspired by Craig Tindale, Michael Every & Nate Hagens on The Great Simplification. Listen to it.

On the weight of climate and what it teaches: Cold Introspection

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Frequently Asked Questions

What does “atoms vs abstractions” mean?

It’s the idea that the digital economy – AI, software, finance – runs on a physical substrate it mostly ignores. “Abstractions” are the models, the code, the financial instruments. “Atoms” are the copper, lithium, rare earths, water, and electricity that make all of it possible. When you bet on technology without securing the materials, you’re building on sand.

What is the two-ledger problem?

Every economy runs two sets of books. The financial ledger tracks prices, GDP, and returns – the numbers on your brokerage app. The material ledger tracks physical inputs: tons of copper, liters of water, megawatt-hours. For 45 years, the West optimized the financial ledger and largely ignored the material one. The AI buildout is forcing a reckoning because you can’t train a model without electricity, and you can’t generate electricity without materials someone else controls.

How much energy does AI actually use?

A lot more than the “cloud” metaphor suggests. The IEA projects data center electricity demand could approach 945 TWh by 2030 – roughly Japan’s entire consumption. Meta’s planned facility in Louisiana alone will consume more than twice the electricity of New Orleans. Each GPU server rack is a small mining operation’s worth of refined metals, assembled and powered continuously. The heaviest metabolism in the industrial system, as investor Craig Tindale put it.

Why does China control rare earth supply chains?

Refining, not mining. Even when ore comes from Australia or Canada, it ships to Chinese refineries because the West lacks processing capacity and can’t build it profitably under current regulatory frameworks. China produces at a loss indefinitely because the goal is strategic control, not profit. Western investors want 20-30% returns. China wants leverage.

What is the “golden screw” problem?

In a complex system, one missing component breaks the whole machine. Craig Tindale couldn’t drive his car for nearly 12 months during COVID because of a single unavailable part. Everything else worked. Didn’t matter. AI’s supply chain has these single points of failure everywhere, and most run through China’s refining infrastructure.

What is GDP actually for?

That’s what the article asks. For 45 years, the West’s answer has been “whatever markets decide” - price signals and comparative advantage. The problem: that assumes everyone is playing the same game. State capitalism doesn’t optimize for market efficiency. It optimizes for strategic control. GDP that measures consumption without tracking whether you own the means of production is a number that flatters you right up until it can’t.

TL;DR: Geography explains the raw materials of advantage. But why did Western Europe – not China, not the Islamic world – become the launchpad? The answer involves the Catholic Church, potatoes, and a pattern that’s repeating right now.

The Question Geography Can’t Answer

Geography explains why the ships sailed one way. Livestock explains the disease asymmetry. Compounding advantages explain the technological gap.

But that explanation has a hole in it.

By 1400, China had the largest ships in the world. Zheng He’s treasure fleet dwarfed anything Europe could build. The Islamic world had sophisticated mathematics, astronomy, and trade networks spanning continents. India had wealth that Europeans could only dream of.

Why didn’t Chinese caravels colonize Portugal? Why didn’t Ottoman fleets plant flags in the Americas? Why did a small, violent, recently-plague-ravaged peninsula on the edge of Eurasia become the launchpad for global domination?

Geography gave Europe raw materials. Something else gave it the will to use them.

The WEIRDest People in the World

WEIRD stands for Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, Democratic. Joseph Henrich asked: why did these traits cluster in Western Europe?

His answer is surprising: the Catholic Church.

Starting around 500 AD, the Western Church began enforcing strict marriage rules. No cousin marriage. No polygamy. No arranged marriages within extended kin groups. These rules were unusual – every other civilization on Earth thought marrying your cousin was just good asset management.

The Church banned all of it. For centuries.

The effect was slow but total. Clan structures broke apart. Extended family networks weakened. What emerged was something new: the nuclear family, individual choice in marriage, loyalty to institutions rather than kin.

By the Age of Exploration, Western Europeans were psychologically unusual. More individualistic than any population on Earth. More willing to trust strangers. More comfortable with impersonal institutions – corporations, joint-stock companies, colonial administrations.

It didn’t make them morally superior. It made them organizationally lethal. The Dutch East India Company wasn’t built on family ties, but on contracts between strangers, governed by impersonal rules, scaling across oceans.

China had the ships. The Islamic world had the knowledge. But Western Europe had the organizational software to project power across the globe and outlast any individual.

Geography gave Europe the raw materials. A millennium of cousin-marriage bans gave it the cultural wiring to use them.

I think about this when I look at who’s building AI. Not family businesses. Not kin networks. Corporations of strangers coordinating through impersonal systems, scaling globally. The same organizational software, running on faster hardware.

The Potato’s Revenge

But Europe didn’t simply “win” the Columbian Exchange.

Remember that care package from the Americas? Potatoes, corn, tomatoes, cacao?

The potato was a miracle.

It could produce more calories per acre than any European grain. It grew in poor soil. It stored well. It was nearly impossible to tax – you can’t see it from the road like a wheat field.

Ireland’s population doubled between 1780 and 1840, fueled almost entirely by this Peruvian tuber. Northern Europe’s population exploded. The Industrial Revolution was powered, in part, by workers fed on American calories.

Then came the revenge.

Phytophthora infestans – potato blight – arrived in Ireland in 1845. Also from the Americas, ironically. Within five years, a million Irish were dead. Another million emigrated.

The potato giveth. The potato taketh away.

The miracle created dependence. The dependence created fragility. And when the system broke, it broke catastrophically – in ways nobody predicted when they were planting the first crop.

History isn’t a morality play. It’s a system of leverage, feedback loops, and unintended consequences that nobody fully controls.

That’s what makes me nervous about what comes next.

The Pattern

When two worlds collide, the one with more leverage doesn’t negotiate. It extracts. It transforms. It leaves the other side wondering what happened.

10,000 years of compounding advantages met 12,000 years of isolation in a single catastrophic afternoon. Nobody planned it. Nobody had to.

The pattern keeps repeating.

Globalization 2.0 was the Industrial Revolution. Steam, coal, telegraphs, railroads. The world shrank again. Populations that hadn’t industrialized found themselves colonized by populations that had.

Globalization 3.0 was the internet. Information moves instantly. Supply chains span continents. Countries that missed the industrial revolution leapfrogged with smartphones.

Globalization 4.0 is AI.

The Ships Are Sailing Again

In 1492, the leverage was ships, steel, and smallpox. The people who had them didn’t fully understand what they had. The people who didn’t have them didn’t see it coming until it was too late.

In 2025, the leverage is compute, data, and algorithms.

Who has the ships this time? The companies and countries with massive data centers, cheap electricity, and frontier AI models. A handful of organizations – concentrated in the US and China – control the infrastructure that will reshape every industry and every economy that touches the internet. Which is all of them.

Who’s on the other side? Anyone whose job can be done by a language model and whose skills are suddenly a museum exhibit. If you’re not sure whether that’s you… it might be you.

I’ve placed my bets on the ship-builders. Data centers. Energy infrastructure. The picks and shovels of the AI gold rush. Maybe I’m early. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just a guy with a thesis that conveniently matches his positions.

But this is what I keep coming back to:

The Aztecs weren’t stupid. They had mathematics, architecture, agriculture that rivaled or exceeded European methods. But they didn’t have horses, steel, or immunity. The gap wasn’t about intelligence. It was about which capabilities had compounded.

Most people today are still arguing about whether AI can “really” think, whether it’s “just” autocomplete, whether the hype is overblown. Moctezuma’s advisors debated whether the strangers were gods or men. By the time they settled the question, it no longer mattered.

By the time the question is settled, the outcome is already determined.

I don’t know if I’m on the right side of this. Nobody does. But I’d rather be wrong about timing than wrong about direction.

Fin.

We started this three-part journey in a Roman trattoria, watching a man defend the honor of tomato sauce – a tradition younger than the United States, built on a Mexican fruit he thought was eternal.

We ended up here: ships, germs, psychology, potatoes, and the uncomfortable question of what happens when the pattern repeats with better hardware.

The Columbian Exchange was Globalization 1.0. We’re living in its consequences, eating its crops, speaking languages it spread, occupying land it emptied.

And now it’s happening again. Different technology, same structure. Two worlds, those with leverage and those without, meeting in a moment that will reshape everything.

The ships are always sailing somewhere. The question is whether you see them coming.

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The modern trade wars, told through stablecoins and statecraft: Quid Pro Quo

TL;DR: Why did the ships only sail one way? Why Cortés in Tenochtitlan and not Aztec caravels in Seville? Geography, livestock, and 10,000 years of compounding luck.

Why the Ships Only Sailed One Way

In Part 1, I told you about the collision – how two hemispheres met after 12,000 years of separation, how food and disease crossed the Atlantic, how almost 90% of the indigenous American population died within a century.

But I left a question hanging:

Why did the ships only sail one way?

Why was it Spanish caravels in the Caribbean and not Aztec fleets in Cádiz? Why did 168 Spanish soldiers defeat an Inca army of 80,000, and not the reverse?

This question has haunted people for 500 years. The answers reveal more about ideology than about history.

The answer isn’t racial superiority or exceptional greed.

(If you’ve read Guns, Germs, and Steel, you’ll know where this is going…)

It’s geography. Climate. Domesticable species. And 10,000 years of compounding advantages that had nothing to do with virtue and everything to do with luck.

The Axis of Everything

Pull up a map of the world. Draw a line from Portugal to China.

It’s horizontal. Roughly the same latitude the whole way. Similar climates. Similar day lengths. Similar growing seasons.

Now draw a line from Alaska to Patagonia.

It’s vertical. You pass through Arctic tundra, temperate forests, deserts, tropics, more deserts, more temperate zones, and sub-Antarctic cold. Massively different climates stacked on top of each other.

Crops and animals are climate-specific. Wheat domesticated in Mesopotamia could spread to Egypt, to Greece, to Spain, to Northern Europe, to Persia, to India – because all those places have roughly similar growing conditions. One innovation, thousands of miles of diffusion.

In the Americas? A crop perfected in Mexico couldn’t easily reach Peru. Different altitude. Different rainfall. Different seasons. The Andes, the Amazon, the deserts of northern Mexico – these weren’t highways for ideas. They were barriers.

Eurasia’s horizontal axis meant innovations could spread. The Americas’ vertical axis meant innovations stayed local.

This compounded over millennia.

The Livestock Lottery

Why did Eurasia have horses, cattle, pigs, sheep, and goats… and the Americas got llamas?

Indigenous Americans turned teosinte, a nearly inedible grass, into corn – arguably the greatest piece of genetic engineering before we invented the term. But large mammals? The Americas got unlucky.

At the end of the last ice age, the Americas lost most of their megafauna. Mammoths, giant ground sloths, native horses, camels… all went extinct. The leading theory: early human hunters ate them before anyone thought to saddle them.

What was left? Llamas and alpacas in the Andes. Useful for wool and light cargo. Useless for pulling plows, carrying cavalry, or providing milk at scale.

Eurasia kept its horses, cattle, and pigs. The Americas didn’t.

Horses meant cavalry, fast communication, and military dominance. Cattle and pigs meant dense protein, meaning larger populations, meaning more specialists who didn’t have to farm – scribes, soldiers, priests, inventors.

Domesticated animals also meant diseases. Smallpox came from cattle. Measles came from cattle. Influenza came from pigs and birds. Eurasia’s long cohabitation with livestock hardened its populations – and devastated everyone else.

The Americas didn’t have these animals. So they didn’t have the calories, the cavalry, or the immunity.

Not because they were inferior. Because the lottery of extinction went against them 12,000 years before anyone was keeping score.

The Compounding Gap

By 1492, the compound interest of geography had opened a technological gap that couldn't be closed in a single generation – or a hundred of them.

Europe had steel weapons and armor, gunpowder and cannons, ocean-going ships with advanced navigation, horses (the tanks of pre-modern warfare), and immunity to devastating diseases.

The Americas had agriculture (often superior to European methods). Monumental architecture like Tenochtitlan and Machu Picchu. Advanced mathematics; the Maya invented zero independently. But none of that stopped a steel sword, outran a horse, or survived smallpox.

The gap wasn't about intelligence or culture. It was about which technologies had been invented, diffused, and compounded over the previous 10,000 years.

Eurasia had more land, more people, more domesticable species, more connection between civilizations, and more centuries of competitive pressure. Every empire that rose and fell left tools and ideas for the next one to build on. The Mediterranean, the Silk Road – networks of exchange that accelerated everything.

The Americas had civilizations, but they were more isolated – from each other and from the Old World. Innovations didn’t diffuse as widely. The competitive pressure was different.

The Audacity Gap

In 1519, Hernán Cortés landed on the coast of Mexico with about 500 men, 16 horses, and a few cannons. He was ignoring orders from the governor of Cuba. His mission, officially, was exploration, driven by rumors of immense gold and sophisticated cities.

The Aztec Empire had millions of subjects, a massive military, and a capital city larger than any in Spain. Cortés had 500 guys.

What did he do? He scuttled his own ships. Burned them, actually – or sank them, accounts vary. His men couldn’t retreat. They would conquer or die.

Then he marched inland, making alliances with every group that hated the Aztecs – the Tlaxcalans, the Totonacs, the Texcocans. By the time he reached Tenochtitlan, his 500 Spaniards were joined by tens of thousands of indigenous allies.

The Aztecs weren’t conquered by Spain. They were conquered by a coalition of their own enemies, led by Spanish shock troops with technological advantages.

Cortés succeeded through audacity, diplomacy, and leverage. Also: steel, guns, horses, and smallpox.

Thirteen years later, Pizarro did it again – 168 men against 80,000 Inca soldiers at Cajamarca. Horses they’d never seen, armor their weapons couldn’t penetrate. One afternoon, one empire decapitated.

That’s what a technological gap looks like when it compounds for 10,000 years. Leverage doesn’t negotiate.

Blood on Every Hand

The Columbian Exchange is often told as European villainy meeting indigenous innocence. The reality was messier.

The Aztecs ran an empire built on terror and human sacrifice. Estimates vary – several thousand per year on average, with tens of thousands during major ceremonies like temple consecrations. Hearts cut out with obsidian blades. Skulls displayed on racks. Flower wars fought specifically to capture victims.

When Cortés arrived, the peoples subjugated by the Aztecs didn’t see him as an invader. They saw him as a liberator. The Tlaxcalans had been fighting the Aztecs for generations. They joined the Spanish eagerly.

The Inca Empire was an authoritarian state that relocated entire populations, suppressed local languages, and executed dissent. It was in the middle of a civil war when Pizarro arrived – a war triggered partly by the smallpox epidemic that had killed the previous emperor.

Meanwhile, European kingdoms had been slaughtering each other for centuries. Religious wars would soon kill millions.

Every civilization had blood on its hands. Every empire was built on conquest. The difference in 1492 wasn't morality. It was capability.

If the technological gap had gone the other way, does anyone seriously believe the Aztecs would have sailed to Seville and asked nicely?

Power is abused wherever power exists.

That’s not a European trait, but a human one.

Still, the Spanish at least paused to ask. In 1550, the Crown debated whether indigenous peoples had souls. The English colonial model didn't bother with the question. The result: Latin America is mestizo. North America saw demographic replacement.

Neither model was good. But they were different.

The Question That Remains

Geography gave some civilizations advantages. Those advantages compounded. When worlds finally collided, leverage determined outcomes.

But this raises another question – one that goes beyond ships and steel.

Why did Western Europe, specifically, capitalize on these advantages so aggressively? Why did a peninsula on the edge of Eurasia become the launchpad for global colonization, and not China, or India, or the Islamic world – all of which had technological sophistication, ocean-going ships, and centuries of head start?

And if the pattern of collision and leverage keeps repeating – if history rhymes – what does that mean for now?

That’s Part 3.

Next: The Ships are Sailing Again – psychology, potatoes, and why the pattern is repeating. ⬇️

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TL;DR: Before 1492, there were no tomatoes in Italy, no potatoes in Ireland, no chili peppers in Thailand. When two worlds that had developed in isolation for 12,000 years finally collided, one had ships, steel, and smallpox. The other didn’t.

The Golden Apple

You’re in Rome. Sitting at a trattoria with a 4.4-star rating you looked up on Google Maps. You’re watching an old Italian man gesticulate violently at his son about the correct way to prepare sugo al pomodoro. Hands flying. Voice rising. A generational argument about tomato sauce – where food is religion and recipes are scripture.

Then it hits you.

This guy’s great-great-great-great-grandmother had never seen a tomato.

The pomodoro (“golden apple” in Italian) arrived from Mexico (aka the artist formerly known as Vireinato de Nueva España) sometime in the 16th century. For decades, Europeans thought it was poisonous (it’s in the nightshade family). The tomato didn’t become a staple of Italian cuisine until the 18th century.

The “ancient” tradition this man was defending? Younger than the United States.

You look down at your plate. Pasta al pomodoro. A lie dressed as heritage.

The Menu That Didn’t Exist

Before 1492, there were no potatoes in Ireland.

• The Irish Famine that killed a million people and scattered the Irish across the globe was caused by dependence on a Peruvian tuber that had only arrived about 270 years earlier.

• There were no chili peppers in Thailand, India, or China – that “authentic” Sichuan heat is Mexican, and every spicy Asian dish you’ve ever eaten is a post-Columbian invention.

• There was no chocolate in Switzerland; the entire Swiss chocolate industry is built on Mesoamerican cacao beans.

• No peanuts in West African stew – the peanut is South American, crossed the Atlantic, became a staple in Africa, then crossed back to America with enslaved Africans.

Every nonna’s “ancient family recipe” is probably younger than the Protestant Reformation.

The Columbian Exchange is the term historians use for the massive, permanent transfer of plants, animals, diseases, people, and ideas between the Americas and the Old World triggered by Columbus’s 1492 voyage. It reshaped every cuisine, economy, and population on Earth – and killed more people than any war in history.

For roughly 12,000 years – from the end of the last ice age until 1492 – the Eastern and Western hemispheres developed in complete isolation. Same species, same basic cognitive hardware, zero contact. Two parallel experiments in human civilization, running simultaneously, with no idea the other existed.

Then three leaky Spanish ships bumbled into the Caribbean, looking for India.

The Great Exchange

What followed was the largest biological swap in human history.

Historians call it the Columbian Exchange.

Think of it as two continents exchanging care packages (except one contained an apocalypse).

The Americas shipped east: tomatoes, potatoes, corn, cacao, vanilla, chili peppers, peanuts, avocados, squash, tobacco, rubber. For domesticated animals? Turkeys. And llamas.

The Old World shipped west: wheat, rice, sugarcane, coffee, grapes, citrus fruits, apples, bananas, onions, carrots. Horses, cattle, pigs, sheep, goats, chickens. And smallpox, measles, typhus, influenza, bubonic plague, cholera, malaria, yellow fever, whooping cough, diphtheria.

The Americas sent food. The Old World sent livestock, crops – and a pandemic apocalypse.

The Ledger That Doesn’t Balance

Within 100 years of Columbus’s landing, somewhere between 50 and 90 million indigenous Americans were dead – up to 90% of the population.

The cause wasn’t primarily warfare, though there was plenty of that. It was disease.

For 12,000 years, the populations of Eurasia and Africa had been brewing a biological weapon they didn’t know they carried. Smallpox, measles, influenza – these diseases evolved alongside dense human populations and their domesticated animals.

Europeans had survived countless plagues. The survivors carried immunity. They also carried the pathogens.

The Americas had none of this. No epidemic diseases (with a few exceptions). No herd immunity. No resistance.

When the worlds met, it was biological massacre.

(The Americas did send syphilis back – the “Great Pox” appeared in Europe in 1495. But it wasn't remotely a fair trade.)

The Death of Tenochtitlan

In 1519, when Hernán Cortés first laid eyes on Tenochtitlan, it was one of the largest cities on Earth.

Built on an island in Lake Texcoco, connected by causeways, filled with canals, temples, markets, and gardens. Population: somewhere between 200,000 and 300,000 people. Larger than Paris. Larger than London. Larger than any city in Spain.

Bernal Díaz del Castillo, one of Cortés’s soldiers, described the moment:

“We were amazed and said that it was like the enchantments they tell of in the legend of Amadis, on account of the great towers and temples and buildings rising from the water... Some of our soldiers even asked whether the things that we saw were not a dream.”

They thought they were hallucinating. Nothing in Europe compared.

By 1576 – less than 60 years later – the population of the Valley of Mexico had collapsed from roughly 25 million to about 1 million. Tenochtitlan, renamed Mexico City, held perhaps 30,000 people.

Smallpox arrived in 1520, brought by a single infected man on a Spanish ship. It swept through the city like fire. The Aztec emperor Cuitláhuac died of it after ruling for only 80 days. The disease spread faster than the Spanish could march, devastating cities and armies before the conquistadors even arrived.

This pattern repeated across the hemisphere.

Hernando de Soto marched through the American Southeast in 1539. He encountered large, complex societies along the Mississippi. When French explorers arrived 150 years later, they found scattered villages and stories of a great plague. De Soto’s expedition had carried the pathogens that destroyed civilizations he never conquered.

The Inca Empire was in the middle of a civil war when Pizarro arrived – a civil war caused partly by a smallpox epidemic that had killed the emperor and spread chaos through the realm.

The disease outran the conquistadors by years.

Entire cultures vanished before anyone could record their names. Languages. Histories. Technologies. Gone. Not conquered, but erased by microscopic organisms that neither side understood.

The Asymmetry

Why was the exchange so lopsided? Why did Eurasian diseases devastate the Americas, but American diseases barely touched Europe?

The answer comes back to those care package lists. Look at the animals.

Eurasia's roster: horses, cattle, pigs, sheep, goats, chickens, donkeys, camels.
The Americas? Llamas, alpacas, guinea pigs, turkeys, dogs.

Spot the firepower gap.

Most epidemic diseases – smallpox, measles, influenza – are zoonotic. They started in animals and jumped to humans. They evolved in societies with large domesticated mammals, dense populations, and urban centers.

Eurasia had all three, for thousands of years. The Americas had far fewer domesticable large mammals (most went extinct at the end of the last ice age), smaller and less dense populations, and fewer urban centers.

Europe was a disease factory. The Americas were immunologically naive.

It wasn’t a plan. It was 12,000 years of divergent biological evolution meeting in a single catastrophic moment. But the result was a lopsided apocalypse that shaped everything that came after.

The World We Inherited

The Columbian Exchange didn’t just change what people ate. It changed who lived, who died, and who inherited the Earth.

The population collapse in the Americas opened land for European colonization. The crops that crossed the Atlantic – potatoes, corn, cassava – fueled population explosions in Europe, Africa, and Asia.

The silver mined in Potosí flowed to China, reshaping global trade. The sugar planted in the Caribbean created demand for enslaved African labor, inaugurating the Atlantic slave trade.

Every major demographic, economic, and political pattern of the last 500 years traces back, in some way, to this collision (which is why I find it so fascinating).

To Be Continued

After a trip to México in 2022 – walking through the legacy of mestizaje, standing where Cortés stood – I couldn’t shake one question:

Why did the ships only sail one way?

Also, why was it Columbus stumbling into the Bahamas and not Aztec caravels landing in Seville? And why did Cortés conquer Tenochtitlan and not Moctezuma conquer Madrid?

The collision happened. But why was it so one-sided?

The answer is uncomfortable. It defies easy moralizing. And it explains more about the modern world than most people want to admit.

That’s Part 2.

Next: Haters Gonna Hate, Potatoes Gonna Potate – geography, guns, and the uncomfortable truth about civilizational divergence. ⬇️

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Frequently Asked Questions

What is the Columbian Exchange?

The Columbian Exchange is the term for the transfer of plants, animals, diseases, and people between the Americas and Afro-Eurasia after Columbus reached the Caribbean in 1492. The two hemispheres had been biologically cut off from each other for roughly 12,000 years – since the land bridge between Siberia and Alaska disappeared. Once reconnected, crops like potatoes and maize moved east while wheat, horses, and cattle moved west. The disease side was far worse – smallpox, measles, and other Old World pathogens killed an estimated 90% of the Indigenous population of the Americas.

What foods came from the Columbian Exchange?

From the Americas: potatoes, maize (corn), tomatoes, cacao (chocolate), vanilla, peanuts, squash, peppers (including chili), tobacco, rubber, and cassava. From the Old World: wheat, rice, sugarcane, coffee, bananas, citrus fruits, onions, and lettuce. Many of these transplants became so embedded in their new homes that the pre-1492 absence sounds made up – Italian food without tomatoes, Thai cooking without chili, Irish farming without potatoes.

Did Italy have tomatoes before 1492?

No. Tomatoes are native to western South America and did not exist anywhere in Europe, Asia, or Africa before 1492. Spanish explorers brought seeds back in the early 1500s, but Europeans were suspicious – many thought the fruit was poisonous because it belongs to the nightshade family. It took roughly 200 years before tomatoes became a kitchen staple in Italy. The same goes for peppers in India, potatoes in Germany, and peanuts in West Africa – all New World plants that arrived via the Columbian Exchange.

Why did European diseases kill so many Native Americans?

Immunological naivete. The populations of the Americas had been separated from Eurasian disease pools for thousands of years and had no inherited or acquired resistance to smallpox, measles, influenza, typhus, or malaria. In Eurasia, centuries of living with domesticated animals – cattle, pigs, chickens, horses – had created a brutal evolutionary filter: people who survived epidemics passed on partial resistance to their children. The Americas had far fewer domesticated animals and therefore far fewer zoonotic diseases to build resistance against. When contact came, epidemics often raced ahead of the colonisers, collapsing civilisations before Europeans arrived in person.

How many people died from the Columbian Exchange?

Estimates vary, but most historians put Indigenous mortality at roughly 90% of the pre-contact population over the first 100-150 years after 1492. If the pre-contact population of the Americas was around 50-60 million (some estimates run higher), that means tens of millions of deaths – mostly from disease, with warfare, forced labour, and displacement compounding the toll. Some researchers argue the demographic collapse was severe enough to cause a measurable drop in global CO2, as abandoned farmland was reclaimed by forests.

TL;DR: Two writers model opposite AI futures from identical starting conditions. The outcome isn’t one or the other – it’s a fracture. And 50% of my portfolio says the infrastructure layer wins regardless.

I checked my portfolio at 2 AM on a Tuesday. Not because something had moved. Because I’d just finished reading two macro memos that model opposite futures from the same starting conditions, and half of my net worth was sitting in the gap between them.

• wrote the bear case: unemployment at 10.2%, S&P down 38%, displaced white-collar workers driving Uber, Congress debating emergency transfers while protestors blockade Anthropic's offices.

• wrote the bull case: unemployment at 3.1%, S&P at 12,000, purchasing power up 18%, a 22-year-old in rural Arkansas accessing the same financial guidance that used to cost $500 an hour.

Same technology. Same timeline. Opposite worlds.

Both are worth reading in full. But the gap between them is the only question that matters.

Two Stories About the Same Machine

Strip both pieces to their skeletons and the disagreement is surprisingly narrow.

They agree on the setup: agentic AI leaps in late 2025, software companies get repriced, white-collar job openings collapse, and middleman businesses get crushed.

Where they diverge is on what happens to the money.

The bear says it spirals. Companies cut workers, that money flows into more AI, which cuts more workers. The money pools at the top and never recirculates.

“Ghost GDP” – an economy where the numbers look fine and the people aren’t. Five words: GPU clusters don’t buy groceries.

The bull says it spreads. Companies cut costs, that money gets redeployed – expansion, new hires, new markets. Purchasing power rises even if salaries don’t. And the historical prior is undefeated: technology-driven deflation has improved living standards every single time it has occurred at scale. Textiles. Steel. Automobiles. Computing. The internet.

Same dollars. Different direction.

The Race Condition

In software, a race condition is a bug where the outcome depends on timing, not inputs. Two processes compete for the same resource. Whichever arrives first determines the result.

That’s what we’re looking at.

• Process A: Income destruction. AI replaces white-collar workers. Those workers spend less. Their employers face margin pressure and adopt more AI. The loop accelerates.

• Process B: Cost deflation. AI makes services cheaper. Healthcare, legal work, tax prep, financial advice, insurance – the entire friction layer of the economy gets compressed. Purchasing power rises even as paychecks shrink.

Both processes are already running.

If cost deflation outpaces income destruction, people get poorer on paper and richer in practice. Your salary drops 10%, but your cost of living drops 25%. The bull wins.

If income destruction outpaces cost deflation, people lose their jobs before the savings arrive. You can’t benefit from cheaper legal services when you can’t make rent. The bear wins.

This isn’t a theoretical distinction. It’s the whole game.

Where Both Are Wrong

The bear assumes the spiral runs unopposed. No adaptation, no cost deflation offsetting income destruction. That requires every displaced worker to sit politely in the unemployment line while the economy hollows out around them. People don’t do that. People panic, adapt, and start questionable side hustles.

The bull assumes entrepreneurship outpaces displacement. Nine months of turbulence, then some guy’s laid-off uncle launches an AI startup from his kitchen table and out-earns his old salary by Christmas. Survivorship bias in a trench coat. For every one of him, there are dozens burning through savings on AI subscriptions for products nobody wants.

The bear underestimates human adaptability. The bull overestimates it.

The bear ignores deflation. The bull ignores leverage.

And both ignore friction.

Friction might be what saves us.

Both pieces assume frictionless adjustment. But the real economy is made of friction: regulatory capture, institutional inertia, contract law, procurement cycles, human stubbornness. Real estate brokers should have been extinct a decade ago – someone just paid one $50k for ten hours of form-filling, in 2025. Cockroach industries don’t read McKinsey reports.

Hofstadter’s Law applies in both directions: everything takes longer than you expect, even when you account for it. That slows the displacement and the recovery. But crucially, it buys the system time to respond.

Neither piece touches the physical economy. Both model a digital displacement hitting a services-based consumer economy. But the US has a bipartisan need for re-industrialization – batteries, semiconductors, desalination, grid infrastructure. China makes 90% of the world’s ammonia. If there’s a military confrontation, America can barely grow corn.

AI can’t build a bridge. Not yet. The physical world moves at the speed of permits, concrete, and labor – not the speed of inference.

Neither piece addresses the measurement problem. The bear models income. The bull models purchasing power. Neither captures what actually happens when an economy produces 10x more at 10x lower cost – that’s not “shrinking” in any sense that matters to the person buying groceries. It’s the measuring stick that breaks, not the economy.

The Fracture

And neither piece considers that the race condition doesn’t have to produce one winner nationally. That’s the one I can’t stop thinking about at 2 AM.

San Francisco, where 40% of jobs are in tech and finance, might live the bear case while Nashville, with a diversified economy and lower costs of living, lives the bull case. Same layoff. Different outcome. The same laid-off product manager is driving Uber in San Francisco by March and consulting for three healthcare startups in Nashville by April.

The national statistics would show something in between. Not a crisis, not a boom, but an economy where your zip code determines which future you got.

That’s not Ghost GDP and it’s not an abundance boom. It’s a fracture.

Economist modeled what it would actually take for the bear case to crash the whole economy: almost everyone would need to lose their job, nobody would want to buy anything new even if it were cheap, and the government would have to do nothing. All at once.

Implausible – but relax those assumptions even slightly and you still get meaningful drag. Not collapse. Not boom. Disappointing growth, unevenly distributed, with policy scrambling to catch up.

What This Means for Money

(Disclosure: my portfolio is irresponsibly long the AI infra layer. I am not a neutral observer.)

1. In the bear scenario, compute demand accelerates because companies are desperately substituting labor for machines.

2. The bull gets you to the same place from the opposite direction – the cost of intelligence drops, usage explodes, and the infrastructure strains under its own success.

3. In the fractured middle, both dynamics run simultaneously in different parts of the economy. Compute demand accelerates regardless.

That’s the AI Landlords thesis – own the energy and compute, let everyone else fight about the rest.

But the thesis being right doesn’t make the ride comfortable.

If the bear plays out even partially, the stock market crash hits everything on the way down – including infrastructure. Everything sells off before the market figures out what’s structural and what isn’t. That means sitting through a 30–40% drawdown with 50% concentration and zero cash, waiting for the market to do the math. The thesis becomes a pain tolerance test.

I believe cost deflation runs faster than the bears think and income destruction runs slower than the doomers model. I believe infrastructure is the right place to be while the race plays out.

But I’ve set limit orders to scale out on the way up. Because believing is not the same as being certain.

Two memos. Two futures. One machine.

My portfolio says the infrastructure wins either way. My limit orders say I might be wrong about the timing. And the fact that I’m writing this at 2 AM says I haven’t fully resolved the tension.

Nobody has.

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TL;DR: Every tech founder is writing about the end of economics – and their solution conveniently requires their product. The real question they won’t answer: who owns the future they’re building?

This time last year, I was weeding a field in New Zealand when I first heard a tech billionaire explain why I was about to become economically irrelevant.

Me. Not my job – me. I was pulling invasive plants out of volcanic soil for room and board – the kind of work that makes you receptive to radical ideas about the future of labour.

It was early 2025. Typical British nonchalance from Emad Mostaque, the founder of Stability AI. His company democratized image generation. Later that summer, he published “The Last Economy: A Guide to the Age of Intelligent Economics” – 170+ pages of civilizational prophecy, complete with phase transitions and a thousand-day countdown to economic transformation.

He’s not alone. Altman blogs about UBI and the “Intelligence Age” with OpenAI at the center.

Andreessen’s “Techno-Optimist Manifesto” defends moving fast, written by a man whose firm funds the movers. Balaji’s “Network State” recruits for crypto-sovereign communities he wants to create.

Every tech manifesto diagnoses a civilizational crisis that conveniently requires the author’s product to solve.

The problem is, some of it is insightful.

The Intelligence Inversion

Take Mostaque’s core argument: we’re entering a phase transition where the cost of intelligence drops to near-zero.

Unlike previous transitions, there’s nowhere left to pivot. When machines replace the mind itself, the traditional escape route – retrain, upskill, adapt – stops working.

His distinction between “metabolic” and “non-metabolic” labour is the sharpest framework in the piece. Human workers require food, shelter, rest, healthcare, meaning. AI requires electricity. That’s not a productivity improvement, but a different category of economic existence. You can’t compete on cost with something that doesn’t need to eat.

His thousand-day timeline? Astrology for people who think they’re too smart for astrology. His prescription conveniently involves a crypto-AI token he’s launching. Mostaque’s been right about some things (open-source AI) and catastrophically wrong about others (Stability AI imploded).

But the direction might still be right.

Why the Urgency

Thomas Piketty’s Capital in the Twenty-First Century argued that without aggressive redistribution, inequality spirals indefinitely. The rich save more, earn higher returns, and pull away from everyone else forever.

Most economists disagreed – historically, more hammers make hands more valuable. The system self-corrects. Piketty was wrong about the past.

Trammell and Patel showed why he might be right about the future.

When AI and robotics can do everything humans can, capital and labor become substitutes. More robots don’t make hands more valuable – they make hands redundant. The correction mechanism breaks. The capital share of income rises toward 100%.

Inequality doesn’t self-correct anymore. It compounds.

This is why the manifestos exist. Whoever owns capital when the transition occurs locks in that advantage – potentially for generations. That’s not inevitable. The French aristocracy didn’t see 1789 coming. Wars redistribute. Revolutions redistribute. Coordinated global taxation could redistribute. But absent major shocks or unprecedented policy coordination, the default path is wealth concentration becoming structural rather than cyclical.

The manifestos have intellectual backing. But the academic work owns the nuance.

They’re not just thought leadership. They’re positioning documents for a game of musical chairs where the music is about to stop.

The Kansas City Problem

Trammell and Patel drop a brutal asymmetry on wealth composition.

The richest Americans hold stocks and private equity – assets primed to explode with automation. The bottom 50%? Half their net worth is in real estate, usually the family home.

A house in Kansas City, they note, is capital “almost uniquely ill-suited” to ride an automation leap. Its value hinges on local jobs, commerce, community – the very things hollowed out when intelligence costs less than labor.

Working-class wealth is parked in an asset class that could deflate just as others compound.

Skin in the Game

I should be honest: I’m not a detached observer.

I am irresponsibly long AI infrastructure. HPC data centers, the unsexy plumbing beneath the AI hype train. My bet: we’ll run out of power before we run out of capital. Energy constraints will make companies with cheap electricity contracts the landlords of the new economy.

Reading Mostaque’s manifesto, I recognize my own logic wearing different clothes. His thousand-day window is my reason for concentrating rather than diversifying.

The difference between me and the tech overlords isn’t that I’m more honest. It’s that my bag is smaller.

I have writing to do, a narrative to maintain, a portfolio to justify. The manifesto industrial complex isn’t something I’m observing from outside. I’m a small-time participant. So when I say these manifestos contain real signal wrapped in self-serving packaging, I’m including my own work in that assessment.

The honest position is disclosed partisanship. I have a thesis. I have skin in the game. I have incentives that shape how I interpret information. So does Mostaque. So does Altman. The question isn’t “who can I trust?” It’s “whose incentives do I understand well enough to adjust for?”

My adjustment: equity over real estate. Index funds over nothing. AI-adjacent plays over index funds. Disclosed, not disguised.

The Ownership Question

These manifestos speak fluently of productivity, capabilities, timelines, abundance.

They go quiet on equity, distribution, who gets left holding metabolic bills. The authors sit on the side that benefits from not asking. To discuss distribution is to admit that the “Intelligence Age” might not be a rising tide, but a private yacht.

This time last year I was weeding a field in New Zealand, listening to a tech billionaire explain why I was becoming economically irrelevant. Even if I’d stayed in that field, committed to metabolic labor that AI can’t yet replace, I still wouldn’t own the farm. I’d still be trading hours for dollars while someone else accumulated the capital.

The metabolic vs. non-metabolic distinction is real.

But the deeper distinction is between those who own and those who don’t. That divide exists in the fields and in the data centers. It exists now and it’ll exist after the transition.

In a world of abundance, the real scarcity is ownership.

The manifestos promise a future of abundance.

They just don’t promise it’ll be your abundance.

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TL;DR: I typed an objection to something stupid at work. Clear, professional, correct. Then I thought about the politics, the performance review, the chain of screaming. I deleted the email. The stupid thing got approved. The Greeks had a word for what I lost in that moment.

It was 2019, a job I’ve since left, a meeting I haven’t.

Someone three levels above me had proposed something stupid. Not malicious, just optimization-brained in a way that would create months of downstream problems. I knew it. Two other people in the room knew it. I could see it in their faces.

I typed the objection. Clear, professional, correct. My finger hovered over send.

Then I thought about the politics. The capital I’d spend. The performance review in three months. It probably wasn’t even his idea – just passed down through the chain of screaming from above. The decision was already made and I’d just be the guy who made the meeting awkward.

I deleted the email. The stupid thing got approved. The downstream problems happened. I was right, and it didn’t matter, because I never said anything.

Not anger – I wasn’t wronged. Not regret exactly. More like a small death.

The Greeks had a word for what I lost in that moment.

Thumos

Plato divided the soul into three parts: reason (the head), appetite (the stomach), and thumos (the chest).

Thumos gets translated as “spiritedness” – but that sounds too gentle. It’s the fire in your chest. The seat of righteous anger. The drive for will, honor, and recognition. The part of you that refuses to be managed.

Thumos is what Achilles had too much of and most corpo drones have too little of.

You know you’ve lost it when you type the objection, then delete it. When you nod in meetings at things you don’t believe. When your choices become predictable to algorithms and you can’t remember the last time you risked anything that mattered.

You’ve been conditioned to accept it.

The Managed Life

Bureaucracies, credentials, corporate hierarchies – none of this is new. What’s new is the cage got smarter.

It’s not just a bureaucrat across a desk anymore. Recommendation algorithms predict your preferences before you have them. AI systems evaluate your resume in milliseconds. Performance management software quantifies your existence into KPIs. The old systems suppressed thumos through friction – paperwork, gatekeepers, slow processes you could occasionally rage against. A war of attrition.

The new systems suppress it through convenience. They optimize you so smoothly you don’t notice you’re being optimized. The path of least resistance is increasingly the only path visible.

The output of a thumos-dead culture has a name: slop. AI-generated content that sounds like everyone and no one, art that’s technically competent and spiritually empty – nutrient-free filler designed to pass through systems, not to mean anything. Slop is what you produce when thumos dies.

You can automate everything except the part of you that refuses automation.

Maybe this is Cope

I quit the optimization game. Left the career, sold the stuff, travelled the world, and now I’m collecting unemployment while writing essays about Greek philosophy. Of course I want to believe thumos is the scarce resource and compliance is the trap. It justifies every choice I’ve made.

So when I tell you the Managed Life is a slow death, you should know: I have been promoted to customer.

Maybe the optimizers are right. Maybe the people who never felt the heat in their chest are happier than the guy who burned it down and called it philosophy.

The Stoics would say so. They’d call thumos attachment – bondage to external recognition, the opposite of wisdom. The sage doesn’t send the email or delete it. He doesn’t care either way.

I’d rather be attached and alive than detached and optimized. Stoicism isn’t for me.

Nietzsche had a name for the alternative: Letzter Mensch. The Last Man. Comfortable, safe, optimized, and spiritually dead. No struggle, no aspiration beyond the next consumption cycle. “We have invented happiness,” says the Last Man – and blinks.

Fukuyama took the concept further: liberal democracy would triumph, the Last Man would inherit the earth – not through conquest but through comfort, the slow extinction of anything worth fighting for.

We’re building him at scale. Every friction removed, every choice predicted, every path smoothed until there’s nothing left to push against.

Thumos needs resistance. It’s a muscle that atrophies without use. Spend a decade nodding and following the algorithm-approved path, and you don’t just suppress the spiritedness.

You lose it.

The Test

Anyone can romanticize the dramatic exit. The ship-burning moment. The resignation letter that goes viral. That’s not thumos. That’s theater.

The real test is just another chewwssday. The accumulation of tiny choices that either keep the heat alive or slowly, imperceptibly, let it die.

You lose thumos in a thousand micro-surrenders, each one rational, each one safe, until one day you realize the fire is out and you can’t remember when it happened.

The heat in your chest is not a bug. It’s not “emotional volatility” that HR should help you optimize away. It’s the last thing the algorithms can’t reach.

And the next time you’re hovering over that email, finger on delete – maybe don’t.

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Introducing: the Router Brain as the cognitive version of thumos-death: ⬇️

TL;DR: I sold everything, bought a backpack, and spent two years trying to find myself. Found something better instead.

Somewhere in the Japanese Alps, I’m sitting alone at a family restaurant, eating the best beef of my life, and realizing I have no one to turn to and say “Are you seeing this?”

The Hida beef is perfect: Wagyu’s sophisticated cousin, marbling so precise it looks like abstract art. The setting is perfect. The solitude I’d craved is finally here. And yet.

This was a perfect experience. And it felt incomplete.

That moment – chopsticks hovering, steam rising – is where I need to start. You can’t write the thesis statement of a journey while you’re still in it. And I was very much still in it.

Act 1: The Departure

Many months earlier, I’d sold everything I owned and bought a backpack.

I wrote dispatches from airport lounges in Indonesia, survived a typhoon in Hakone, dodged scooters in Hanoi, and became an unwitting expert in the subtle art of squat toilet navigation. I called the series Moral Compass – real-time reflections from the road. This really meant processing the chaos of a world in transition while getting scammed for “environmental fees” in the Philippines.

The official story was exploration. Sabbatical. A chance to see the world while my knees still cooperated.

But let me be honest about what actually pushed me out the door. My company was dying. The kind of slow-motion collapse where everyone pretends things are fine while frantically applying elsewhere. And there was a deadline: the Australian work and holiday visa cuts off at age 30. I was 29. Now or never for that particular door.

TMT – The Travel Mate, girlfriend at the time, fiancée by the end – with her unwavering bias towards action put it plainly:

“Look, Julián… either we do this now, or we don’t do it ever. I’ve had it with being miserable during gloomy Berlin winters that seem to last 6 months. Fuck Greymany.”

She was right. We could always come back later. And if we didn’t leave now, we never would.

Plus – and this is the part I was almost embarrassed to admit – I wanted to run an experiment. Could I fund a nomadic lifestyle through investing and trading alone? No salary. No employer. Just me, a laptop, and the market. The trip wasn’t just about seeing the world. It was about testing whether I could make money work for me instead of the other way around.

So we liquidated. Donated. Sold the furniture to strangers on eBay Kleinanzeigen who haggled like their lives depended on it. Packed our bags. Bought a one-way ticket.

Then came the NPCs: well-meaning friends and family running pre-programmed dialogue trees about career gaps, CV concerns, the plan for when you get back. Nobody ever asks what the plan is for while you're gone. That's the interesting part.

I smiled. Nodded. Gave non-answers that satisfied no one.

And I should be honest about what made this possible – savings from corporate work, no mortgage, passports that open doors, a partner willing to join, German unemployment as a safety net. Not everyone can run this experiment. Any honest accounting of “what I learned” has to include “what I had that let me learn it.”

The truth? I didn’t have a plan. Plans felt like the thing I was running from.

I wanted to see which parts of my life I’d chosen and which I’d just inherited. Then I wanted to find out if I could tell the difference.

Act 2: The Road

The first months were exactly what the brochure promised. Australia, then northward – five months across Asia. Temples. Street food. The joy of getting lost in a city where you can’t read the signs.

But somewhere around month four, the novelty stopped working.

The “Law of Diminishing Temples” – the point where novelty itself becomes routine, and the twentieth shrine looks exactly like the nineteenth. That’s what I started calling it.

I was on a hedonic treadmill with better scenery.

New experiences slow down time – but only if you’re coming from routine. For the perpetually novel, routine becomes the scarce resource. I found myself craving boring days. The luxury of nothing happening. The ability to know that when I woke up, I would still be there tomorrow.

Then came the mini solo detour.

Which brings me back to that family restaurant in the Japanese Alps.

TMT was elsewhere that week. Solo time. Space to think.

The waitress waved me to a high chair seat at the bar. I ordered the Hida beef.

So I sat there, savoring each bite in that particular silence of eating alone in a foreign country. The beef was incredible. The setting was beautiful. And it felt incomplete. Because I had no witness. No one to turn to.

You need the alone time to hear yourself think. You need the witness to make sure you’re not just talking to yourself.

The “Traveller’s Paradox” – the tension between the freedom of movement and the meaning of staying – wasn’t really about places at all. It was about rhythm.

The rhythm between alone and together. Between motion and stillness. Between what I called Roam vs. Home – the insights you can only find by yourself and the meaning you can only create with others.

I finished the beef. Paid the bill. And somewhere between that restaurant and rejoining TMT later that week, the pieces started fitting together.

We were in Melbourne, pet-sitting a psychotic ginger cat named Sarge – though TMT quickly rechristened him “gatollina” because the way he tucked his paws while sitting reminded her of a chicken. Her mind works in mysterious ways. We had a penthouse borrowed near the MCG, a flight to Vietnam booked, and five months of Asia stretching ahead of us.

One morning we walked to Victoria Market. TMT wanted to make spare ribs – slow-cooked, aluminum foil, the whole production. I watched her navigate the butcher stalls, haggling over cuts, asking questions about marbling, and it hit me: she looked like she’d been doing this her whole life. Like she belonged there. Like she belonged anywhere.

That evening, eating those ribs in a stranger’s kitchen with a cat who’d later bite through her laptop screen, I had the thought for the first time: I want to marry this woman.

Not because of the ribs. Because of what the ribs represented. We’d left behind six years of building a life in Berlin – the careers, the apartment, the friends – and here we were, making ourselves at home in a borrowed penthouse on the other side of the world. And it was easy. Wherever she was, I could feel at home.

That feeling repeated itself across three continents. The sense that we could live here – and here kept changing, but the ease didn’t.

The Hakone Disaster is what I call it now, though at the time I had other names for it.

Picture this: a mountain town in Japan, famous for hot springs and scenic views. We’d planned it as a romantic spa town pit stop. Instead, we got a typhoon.

Está cayendo la del pulpo. It’s raining octopuses. The kind of rain that doesn’t just fall but attacks. The famous views were walls of gray. We spent the day trapped in a damp room, watching weather alerts in a language we couldn’t read, eating convenience store onigiri and wondering why we’d bothered.

I was furious. This wasn’t in the itinerary.

And then, the next morning: blue sky. Clear air. The mountains emerged like they’d been hiding a secret just for us. The kind of day that only happens after a storm – everything washed clean, the light sharper for having been withheld.

It was the best day of the trip. We stayed longer, snagged a last-minute ryokan deal, private onsen and all.

Rain is the antidote to FOMO. If every day were perfect, none of them would be. Constraints aren’t bugs in the system – they’re features. The disaster made the revelation possible.

I started noticing this pattern everywhere. The flight delay that forced an unexpected encounter. The closed restaurant that led to a family’s backyard chicken inasal roast. The unexpected wasn’t happening despite the friction – it was happening because of it.

Freedom without friction is meaningless.

And while I’m giving credit: TMT is the reason we could afford any of this.

Not just emotionally – financially. She discovered Trusted House Sitters, built us a killer profile, and turned us into professional pet-sitters across three continents. In expensive countries like Australia and the US, we’d stay in people’s homes for weeks, taking care of their pets while they traveled. Free accommodation. Living like locals. Plus: dogs.

The trading experiment worked. The house-sitting strategy worked. And I couldn’t have done either without her.

The final numbers: €48k total for 1.5 years, two people, three continents. That includes everything – flights, food, visas, the occasional splurge on Hida beef and truffle hunting in Tasmania (we slept in the car to make that one hit harder). Less than what most pay for rent alone, except we got the world.

Contigo hasta el fin del mundo, as they say. With you until the end of the world.

Act 3: The Return

The unglamorous truth about why we came back: the visa ran out. That’s it. No epiphany. Bureaucracy decided we were done with Australia, so we were done.

From Australia we pushed through New Zealand – camper van, farm stays, the works – then faced a choice: back over Eurasia or east through the Americas? We opted for the latter. Chasing cheap flights, completing the 360°, we landed back in Europe.

My father once told me the most powerful force in the universe is inertia. He’s right. At some point the cheap flights started pointing homeward. The currency of novelty was depleting. Moving forward had become automatic – but inertia works both ways. Eventually the forces of momentum and budget airlines deposited us back where we started.

The return wasn’t a decision. It was a slow running-out of forward momentum. Maybe that’s how most journeys end: not with revelation, but with logistics.

South America is for the next adventure – assuming I don’t let inertia win again.

I wasn’t the same person who’d left.

• The question wasn’t why did I come back?

• The question was who came back?

Some people call it “post-travel depression.” It’s not depression. It’s that the old templates don’t fit anymore. You’ve seen too many ways to live and now you have to pick one.

I’d spent two years searching for the perfect place – the one city to rule them all. It doesn’t exist. What exists is base camp. A place you settle for now, knowing you’ll move it later when the terrain changes or your needs do.

Remember Age of Empires? The way the map starts black, and you can only reveal terrain by moving your unit through it? That’s what these two years felt like – a prolonged scouting mission, revealing terrain I couldn’t see from home. Nothing like seeing places for yourself to realize the world the news describes isn’t a real place. Now, standing still, I can finally look at the whole map.

Act 4: The Synthesis

The Greeks had two words for time: chronos (clock time, the seconds ticking toward death) and kairos (soul time, when everything aligns and time seems to stop).

Travel happens in kairos. Those ichi-go ichi-e moments – “one time, one meeting” – unrepeatable encounters that brand themselves into memory. The middle-aged Korean man on a night out in Seoul calling me “Chuuliah’? That’s girl name!” before erupting in heavy belly laughter. The sandfly at sunset that made you scream unpublishable things mid-sentence.

But you can’t live in kairos forever. Routine is chronos. The daily practice. The boring work of building something that lasts.

I needed both. The kairos moments to remind me I’m alive. The chronos structure to actually build a life.

There’s an agricultural concept called fallow periods – times when you let a field rest, grow nothing on purpose, so the soil can regenerate. Two years of travel was my fallow period. I wasn’t producing. I wasn’t building. I was letting the soil recover.

Whether anything grows remains to be seen.

And the biggest bet? December 2025. I bought a ring. Bent the knee. She said yes.

I started this journey with a girlfriend. I finished it with a fiancée.

Part of me wants to frame it analytically – we’d run the experiment, the data was clear, the partnership was proven. That’s comfortable. The kind of thing a finance-brain guy says to avoid admitting he has feelings.

But that would be dishonest.

The truth is I proposed because I was in love. Nine years of it.

We haven’t faced the real tests yet – the ones without exit doors. But I stopped needing proof somewhere between pet-sitting an orange menace of a cat and dining alone in the Alps. Some things you just know.

I sold everything and bought a backpack.

Two years later, I’m ready to buy furniture again. Scouting for a base camp. Some days it feels like freedom. Some days it feels like I’m just back where I started with better stories.

Contigo hasta el fin del mundo.

The end of the world hasn’t come yet. But when it does, I know who I’ll be standing next to.

And somehow, that feels like the biggest adventure of all.

More from the travel archive: Moral Compass | Hot Canada | Location, Location, Compromise

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