The Bottle Is the Point, Not the Water

Bottled water is one of the most successful acts of repackaging in commercial history, and its genius is that there is almost nothing inside. Water is the one drink we can't improve — no vintage, no roast, no recipe. So we buy the container instead: the cool weight in the hand, the crack of the seal, the label's promise of a glacier. In cities with perfectly good taps, this is a small, portable luxury of distrust. Which is not nothing. It's a ritual, a reminder several times a day that you are a person who is taking care. The bottle is a talisman against thirst and against the vaguer fear that nobody is looking after the commons. I know the tap is fine. I still buy the cold one. That's the honest confession.