Movado Ermeto Travel Clock

Back when time didn’t follow you around on a screen, it had to be packed. Literally. If you were crossing time zones—or just crossing town—you needed a companion that was compact, reliable, and didn’t look like it belonged to your dentist.

Movado answered with the Ermeto, a travel clock so cleverly designed, it wound itself every time you opened or closed it. No winding crown twisting required—just a slide of the shutters and your watch springs to life. Is it functional? Absolutely. Is it a tiny dopamine hit every time you use it? Also yes.

This particular example is the 18K yellow gold version. Which is to say: this was never meant to be discreet. With vertical ribbing across the shutters and a case that opens like a miniature Art Deco vault, it’s as much an object of design as it is a timekeeper. Even closed (45.5 x 31mm), it feels like something you’d find in a museum vitrine next to a Cartier cigarette case or a Van Cleef powder compact. Opened to its full 65.5mm, it reveals a dial that continues Movado’s design DNA: a square hobnail-textured center borrowed from their famed “Gentleman” wristwatch, bordered by sharp baton indices and clean dauphine hands. Every surface plays with light. Every angle has a reason.

The details don’t stop there. The crown features a delicate flower engraving—an almost unnecessary flourish, but exactly the kind of thing that shows this wasn’t phoned in. There’s also a small loop discreetly tucked on one end, letting you attach a chain, clip, or lanyard should you feel like wearing your punctuality as a pendant.

Flip it around and there’s a small fold-out stand built into the back. Set it on a hotel nightstand and you’ll understand why jet-setters of the mid-century made space in their luggage for something like this. Before phones, flight trackers, or quartz convenience, the Ermeto was what you brought to make sure you didn’t miss your train to Marseille or your table at the Savoy.

Today, it represents something more: the growing appetite for horological objects that live beyond the wrist. Items with utility, yes, but also presence. Collectible curios that tell stories as easily as they tell time. And while many Ermetos were plated or made in silver, this one is solid gold—mint, unapologetically shiny, and almost suspiciously well-preserved.

Slip it into a pocket and it disappears. Open it and it demands attention. Either way, it’s the kind of thing that reminds you that great design isn’t always worn—it’s carried, admired, and occasionally shown off when someone asks for the time.