To me, it remains incomprehensible that a people who can design

Host: The night has folded itself around the city like a heavy, velvet curtain. In the window reflection, neon lights scatter across the rain-soaked glass — fractured, like the memory of beauty misunderstood. The hum of traffic drifts upward from below, mingled with laughter, the faint clatter of dishes, and the murmuring music of a thousand private lives.

A small Berlin café, its walls covered in photographs — Bauhaus geometry, war-torn ruins, minimalist steel lines, and smiling faces at Oktoberfest. A collage of contradictions, perfectly human.

Jack and Jeeny sit in the back corner. Between them lies a slim notebook, open to a passage scrawled in ink:

“To me, it remains incomprehensible that a people who can design the Porsche 911 and sleek, white ice trains, who created the Bauhaus and speak at least three languages at birth, want to own twee Christmas figurines painted in gaudy colours, dress up in Bavarian lederhosen, and eat Haribo gummy bears.” — Rory MacLean

Host: The rain falls harder. The candle on their table flickers, bending light into gold and shadow. Jack’s eyes — gray, analytical — catch the glint of irony in the quote. Jeeny’s gaze, warm and liquid, carries something softer — a quiet affection for the absurd beauty of what makes people human.

Jack: [with a smirk] “You know what I love about this quote, Jeeny? It captures the tragedy of humanity in one breath — our inability to stay consistent. Genius engineers, architectural pioneers, yet still buying little wooden elves and gummy bears by the kilo. Rational minds, sentimental hearts — it’s pathetic.”

Jeeny: [smiling gently] “Or perfect. Maybe contradiction isn’t failure, Jack. Maybe it’s what makes us whole. You call it pathetic, I call it poetic. It’s our way of saying — we can build the Porsche, but we still need joy.”

Jack: [leans forward] “Joy doesn’t excuse kitsch. You can’t claim to be a civilization of modernists and still cling to plastic nostalgia. Bauhaus was purity of form, purpose stripped of ornament. And now those same people clutter their mantels with cartoonish angels and lederhosen dolls. You don’t see the irony?”

Jeeny: “Of course I see it. But I also see the beauty in it. The Bauhaus movement tried to cleanse life of decoration, to make everything functional — cold, clean, rational. But the human soul craves the irrational. It craves the colourful, the tacky, the comforting. You can’t reduce the heart to geometry.”

Host: Her words linger, soft but insistent. Jack watches her, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. The candle’s flame shivers, reflecting in his eyes like a thought he’s trying to extinguish.

Jack: “So what, then? You’re saying regression is necessary? That sentimentality is evolution? That’s the kind of logic that justifies mediocrity. When you elevate childish indulgence to philosophy.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying even genius needs tenderness. Think about it — the same Germany that designed the Porsche also wrote Grimm’s Fairy Tales. The same nation that gave us Nietzsche gave us gummy bears. That’s not contradiction, it’s depth. It’s proof that progress doesn’t erase the need for play.”

Jack: [shaking his head] “Play? This is more than play, Jeeny. It’s obsession. Haribo isn’t just candy — it’s comfort packaged as nostalgia. It’s regression disguised as identity. People drown in simplicity because complexity tires them.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it heals them. You think humans are machines of reason, but we’re not. We’re stories. We need symbols, rituals, even silly ones, to feel like we belong somewhere. The Porsche may get you across the country, but a gummy bear reminds you where home is.”

Host: The rain softens, turning from percussion to whisper. The café’s light catches the steam rising from Jeeny’s tea — thin, translucent, like the line between intellect and emotion.

Jack: “You’re defending contradiction as virtue. That’s dangerous. A civilization loses its clarity that way. One minute you’re designing Bauhaus — the next you’re drowning in consumer kitsch. Look around, Jeeny. The world’s addicted to comfort. Everyone wants the illusion of authenticity without the work.”

Jeeny: [eyes narrowing slightly] “But what if comfort is authenticity, Jack? What if people’s contradictions are the truest things about them? The problem isn’t that we crave both simplicity and brilliance — the problem is that we’re told we can’t. You talk as if logic and longing should be separate, but they’re both part of being alive.”

Jack: “I don’t buy that. Rationality gives direction. Sentiment dilutes it.”

Jeeny: “And yet you sit here defending a quote about people who made perfection and still eat candy shaped like bears. Tell me that doesn’t fascinate you.”

Host: Her challenge lands softly, like a raindrop hitting still water. Jack’s expression flickers — annoyance giving way to reluctant curiosity. He glances at the photo behind her — a black-and-white shot of a Bauhaus staircase, sleek, mathematical, flawless. Next to it, pinned on the wall, a child’s drawing of a red house under a yellow sun. Both framed. Both loved.

Jack: [quietly] “Maybe I do find it fascinating. But it still feels… inconsistent. How can the same mind that worships precision also crave the crude?”

Jeeny: “Because precision is exhausting. The mind builds the Porsche, but the heart builds the Christmas village. We live in that tension — between control and chaos, form and feeling. Rory MacLean saw contradiction and called it incomprehensible. I see it and call it human.”

Host: The wind rises, brushing against the windows. The flicker of the candle elongates their shadows on the wall — two figures tangled in light and thought.

Jack: “You know, when I was in Munich, I saw an old man in a tailored suit buying gummy bears. He looked ridiculous. I thought: ‘Here’s the problem with the modern world — no dignity left.’ But now… maybe I missed the point.”

Jeeny: [smiling softly] “You did. That man wasn’t losing dignity, Jack. He was reclaiming innocence. You call it regression — I call it restoration.”

Jack: “Restoration of what?”

Jeeny: “Wonder.”

Host: The word lands between them like a spark in the dark. Wonder — small, defiant, incandescent. The café grows quieter; the rain stops entirely. The smell of roasted espresso and wet cobblestone drifts in.

Jack: [after a long silence] “You think the future needs wonder?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Otherwise it’s just machinery. Efficiency without soul. The Porsche 911 is beautiful not because it’s perfect, but because someone dreamed it. The same dream that paints a figurine, or wraps sugar into a bear. They all come from the same hunger — to create meaning.”

Host: Jack looks at her — really looks — and the faintest smile finds him. Not the smirk of irony, but the reluctant curve of recognition.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is — the people who make perfection have the right to love imperfection.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. In fact, that’s what keeps perfection human.”

Host: The camera pans out. The candle burns lower, their reflections merging with the night beyond the glass. Outside, the city glows — steel and glass, laughter and candy shops, trains that hum like poetry in motion. A world that designs its future with one hand and holds a gummy bear in the other.

The contradiction isn’t a flaw. It’s a pulse.

Host: The café empties, but the echo of their words lingers — soft, alive, unresolved. Because to understand humanity, one must accept its paradox:

That the same heart capable of building a Bauhaus also needs a toy village at Christmas.
That precision without play becomes tyranny.
And that somewhere, between the engine roar of a Porsche and the crinkle of a candy wrapper, lies the most honest sound of all — the sound of people remembering they’re still human.

Host: Outside, dawn breaks faintly over Berlin. The light, pale and golden, glints off the café window — catching both the geometric lines of progress and the small, hand-painted figurine sitting on the shelf beside it.

It is beautiful.
It is absurd.
It is both — as all true things are.