The route bends into the Isar valley and everything turns to river-glass. Emerald water, cool air, meadows leaning into the flow. Wheels whisper on quiet tarmac while Bavaria opens one calm curve at a time. Munich arrives like a held breath released—the first Gate, the first stamp on the Carnet de Passage for those who left Rovereto. Kilometers slip under the tyres; the North is a little closer. You can read it in their faces: free legs, easy smiles, joy riding ahead of them. A passing shower? P