At the turn of the year 2025 to 2026, Google has come up with a gift for its numerous users.

From now on, the pages, tailored to the most common search terms by artificial intelligence and consisting of generic lists and platitudes will no longer appear at the top of the search results.

Instead, the search engine will give preference to pages that have clearly been written by people who have real expertise and present unique and genuinely personal experiences.

And so an artificial intelligence is currently checking whether our texts sound like artificial intelligence to an artificial intelligence. The thought makes me feel slightly dizzy.

The smell of toast and coffee fills me with an incredible sense of warmth. It carries the promise that this day will start off right. It always has.

As a child, I begged my parents endlessly to let me try their coffee. When they finally gave in and allowed me a sip, the disappointment was crushing. It was bitter, harsh and nothing like the comforting aroma I had imagined.

I didn’t touch coffee again for a decade.

I can still picture my parents’ satisfied expressions, convinced they had won a small victory in parenting.

That was long before baristas in suspenders started crafting latte art, before we could choose from five different kinds of milk, before tiny backyard roasteries began popping up in hip urban neighborhoods.

But one thing has never changed - my love for the smell of coffee.

I’m rarely the type to march through the supermarket, checklist in hand, darting from aisle to aisle like a woman on a mission.

More often, I meander through the shelves, half-lost in thought, on the lookout for inspiration.

That’s probably why the shopping cart of the lean marathon runner catches my eye - tofu, low-fat cottage cheese and a suspicious number of eggs.

It reminds me of a story a friend recently told.

In his office, an employee asked to speak with him urgently, in private.

Oddly, the man had skipped both his direct supervisor and that supervisor’s boss, going straight to my friend - the boss’s boss… 

“Do you have anything gluten-free? So, no milk?”

“You mean lactose-free?”

“I’d prefer vegan.”

“Well, we have a fruit salad or some of our sandwiches can be made vegan. There’s also a bagel with…”

“I’ll take the scrambled eggs.”

“Ah. Okay. I thought you wanted something vegan?”

“No, just gluten-free. I always say vegan for that.”

“Alright, so we’ll leave out the toast with the scrambled eggs to keep it gluten-free?”

“No, that’s not necessary. Toast is fine.”

Anyone thinking this conversation is made up couldn’t be more wrong.

The late nineties had faded into the past and the enthusiasm of the new millennium was beginning to wane.

I had graduated from the Technical University of Munich as an architect and decided to stash my Buffalo platforms along with the low-rise jeans in the attic.

But slipping into the black turtleneck of the architecture guild in my late twenties didn’t quite feel right.

The creative spark of my studies had fizzled out in the dusty routine of office life, bogged down by liability clauses and dull government regulations.

I couldn’t muster much excitement for the idea of arguing with the building authority.

So my husband and I surprised our parents with the plan to open a café  with a concept store.