The Good Column | Visiting the Polo Bro Zoo

In a way, the city of Munich, where I'm currently staying for a few days, fits the new government cabinet: Both are predictably boring. Both will cost me a lot of money. And both are populated by filthy rich, questionable figures who operate on the far right.

Brown and blue are not only political traditions in Bavaria, but also fashion colors appreciated by many wealthy Munich residents: The women (who tend to be blonde, with ponytails and designer handbags) prefer pensioner-beige blouses and elegantly tailored Jil Sander suits in rich SA brown, while the men (tanned from the sun, with designer glasses with fire-engine red or transparent frames) wear captain-blue Italian suits and drive around the city center in convertibles, as if to say: "Look, I'm Count Snot and I don't worry about anything because I can shit all over you miserable pigs with my money."

What also continues to amaze newcomers here is the disconcertingly uniform look of the identically looking male adolescents, each with a smartphone glued to their hand, who all seem to indulge in the same uncanny polo shirt cult: Not only do they all wear white tennis socks, sunglasses, and expensive polo shirts in alpine white, dusty pink, sky blue, and canary yellow, but they also all sport the same sleek hairstyle, a hybrid of a late-80s popper parting and a neat Hitler Youth hairstyle. They seem to exist in a strange parallel world, completely isolated from our reality, where any form of counterculture or dissidence is unknown.

At the next table in the pub, the group of men is discussing unruly tenants, tax-saving tricks, and the latest profit margins in the real estate industry. Already in the morning, the Munich resident is tucking into not only white sausages and wheat beers, but also select rosé wines and colorful cocktails, which he has given unbearable names ("Pornstar Martini," "Skinny Bitch"). (If, as a relatively penniless but hungry Berliner, you opt for the "cheap lunch" at the downtown Italian restaurant recommended by friends, you'll still get away with a paltry €24 for a microscopic plate of scampi pasta and a glass of rosé wine. But that's no big deal; I had already decided to lose some weight anyway.)

Not only do they all wear white tennis socks, sunglasses, and expensive polo shirts in alpine white and canary yellow, but they also all have the same sleek hairstyle, a hybrid of a late 80s popper parting and a neat Hitler Youth hairstyle.

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But don't worry: none of this is particularly worrying, at least not if you ask the average native Munich resident, but rather the normal Munich mix of plenty of daily leisure time (the money works in the bank), a lot of joy in showing off one's own wealth and a lot of equally smug and one hundred percent agreement with Germany in general and Bavaria in particular.

If you wander through one of the numerous residential areas—if you live in Neukölln or Wedding, virtually every Munich neighborhood looks like a gated community or a millionaire's enclave—where strict regulations govern the gradation of different levels of wealth (the poor rich live closer to the streets polluted by car exhaust fumes, the rich rich far away from the noisy traffic), you'll quickly notice that there's not a chip shop or Dunkin' Donuts anywhere in sight. Instead, there are tax advisors, real estate agents, law firms, interior decorators, notaries, beauty salons, private clinics of every type and price range, delicatessens, and wine shops. If other urgent purchases need to be made (tailor-made clothing, silk lingerie), the wife simply drives into "the city" in her second BMW; it only takes two minutes. Most things are delivered anyway (fresh antipasti, champagne, coke).

What, however, always brings a Berliner, accustomed to being treated like a cockroach by sales staff, to his knees in gratitude is the enchanting friendliness of the people of Munich: For example, the cloakroom attendant at the Lenbachhaus, who spent several minutes giving me a detailed description of the various floors of the art museum (and the works on display there) before offering to personally escort me to the elevator. A courtesy I've never encountered in my 35 years in Berlin. Not to mention the supermarket employee with a Spanish accent who, when I asked if they had chilled beer, led me through the entire discount store like a child and pointed with a finger at a drinks cooler I'd overlooked, in front of which I stopped: "Here you are, sir." And with a wink: "Next time, I'll have a beer for you."

Nevertheless, I'm not sure whether, for the sake of a better future, it might not be time for Munich to return to its revolutionary traditions (the Soviet Republic, the Munich Bohemians, the Schwabing Riots). One thing is certain: there is an "Erich Mühsam Square" in the city today, but not a single house with that address (Erich Mühsam Square 1). That seemed to be something they wanted to avoid at all costs.