On a trip to England when I was 15, I was forced by my well-meaning but clueless parents to wait in line for over an hour to get into the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich. Aside from the obvious injustice of forcing a teenager to parade through a museum with exhibits such as Sextants Through History—which was even more annoying once I realized sextants had nothing to do with sex—I had to wait in a sea of people—sweaty, dirty, germ-laden people. As I milled about, surrounded by the great unwashed, my latent fear of germs bloomed like staphylococcus in a warm Petri dish. Read more...