View over the skyline from Casco Viejo, Panama City, Panama, January 2026

In January and February 2026, a small window opened.
 
Work in Caracas briefly loosened its grip, and I was able to step away for twelve precious days — just long enough to breathe differently, to walk without urgency, to let distance do its quiet work. I flew out of Venezuela and landed in Panama City, initially for a single night. Then onward to Lima and Montevideo. And finally, back again to Panama for two more days before returning to Caracas.
 
A simple route on paper.
A deeply meaningful one in practice.
 
Panama has never been just a stopover for me.
 
Casco Viejo, remembered
 
Much of this short stay unfolded in Casco Viejo, the historic heart of the city and a place that carries layers of memory for me. Narrow streets, worn balconies, pastel façades shaped by centuries of fire, collapse, rebuilding, and resilience. Founded in 1673 after the destruction of the original Panama City by pirates, Casco Viejo has always been a place of reinvention — Spanish colonial bones, French balconies, Caribbean rhythms, and modern life stitched together.
 
Walking there again felt quietly emotional.
 
I passed buildings where I once lived, streets I knew by heart during a previous posting. Cafés where mornings used to begin slowly. Corners that still seemed to remember me, even if only I felt it. Casco has a way of holding time gently — not erasing it, not clinging to it, simply allowing it to coexist.
 
The city beyond postcards
 
Panama City revealed itself again through movement.
 
I walked along Avenida Balboa, where the skyline meets the sea and the Pacific stretches wide and calm, ships waiting patiently in the distance. I wandered through Vía Argentina, lively and familiar, shaded by trees and filled with conversations, cafés, and the easy rhythm of neighbourhood life.
 
And I returned to Ciudad del Saber — the City of Knowledge — where I once worked, thought, planned, worried, hoped. Built on the grounds of the former Canal Zone, it remains a place devoted to ideas, cooperation, and long conversations about the world and how to make it slightly better. Being there again felt like opening an old notebook and recognising your own handwriting.
 
Friends, pauses, and softness
 
This visit was not about ticking places off a list.
 
It was about meeting friends, some old, some newer. About sitting down without rushing. About laughter, shared meals, stories retold and new ones started. About allowing myself to simply be — not on assignment, not in crisis mode, not counting hours.
 
Panama offered that generously.
 
A quiet closing
 
This album captures a gentle interlude between chapters — a moment suspended between Caracas and the journeys that followed, between past versions of myself and the one I am still becoming.
 
It was a return filled with gratitude.
A pause shaped by memory.
A reminder that some places never fully let go of you — and perhaps never should.
 
Panama remains one of those places for me.

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Mercado del Puerta, Montevideo, Uruguay, January 2026

After Lima, the road bent south.
 
In January 2026, the journey continued to Montevideo — a city that does not rush to impress, and perhaps for that very reason, leaves a deep mark. Most of my time unfolded there, along the wide estuary of the Río de la Plata, where water stretches so far that it forgets it is a river and begins to behave like the sea.
 
Uruguay welcomed me quietly. And I learned quickly that this is how it prefers to be met.
 
A city opened by walking
 
One of my first days in Montevideo was spent with Elias, a student of history and an attentive guide, the kind who does not perform knowledge but shares it. With him, the city began to speak in layers.
 
We started in Plaza Independecia, where the city negotiates between epochs. On one side, the old city gates once stood; on the other, modern avenues stretch outward. At the centre, Artigas watches patiently — not triumphantly, but thoughtfully — as if aware that independence is always an ongoing project.
 
From there, we drifted into the Ciudad Vieja, where Montevideo feels most itself. Streets narrow, façades soften, balconies lean slightly toward each other. The Catedral Metropolitanastood calm and dignified, carrying centuries without display. Nearby, small streets opened unexpectedly into cafés, bookshops, forgotten corners where the city seems to pause mid-sentence.
 
At Mercado del Puerto, smoke and voices filled the air. Parrillas hissed, conversations overlapped, wine glasses clinked. The market is not curated nostalgia — it is lived ritual, daily, generous, unapologetic. Montevideo does not romanticise its traditions; it simply continues them.
 
We walked toward the port, where cranes and ships reminded me how deeply the city has always been tied to movement and departure. Montevideo has sent people out into the world for generations — and received many back again.
 
Beyond postcards
 
Later, Elias took me north, away from the usual routes.
 
At the Mercado Agricola de Montevideo, life felt resolutely local. Fruit stalls, butcher counters, neighbours greeting each other by name. Around it, we walked streets shaped by earlier waves of migration — former Jewish shops, faded signage, traces of commerce and community layered quietly onto everyday life.
 
This part of the city felt honest and unposed. People living, shopping, arguing gently, getting on with their days. It was one of the most beautiful walks of the trip.
 
Days of wandering
 
The following days unfolded without structure, and that felt intentional.
 
I wandered again through the old city, then across Tres Cruces, near the Italian Hospital — a working district, practical, unadorned. Later still, the city shifted register once more around the World Trade Centre Montevideo, where glass and height speak a different language, one of global rhythm and forward motion.
 
By the coast, everything softened.
 
Near Pocitos, where my hotel was, days ended by the water. I walked along the rambla, watched locals pass with thermos flasks and mate cups, dogs trotting patiently at their sides. At the fish market nearby, silver bodies gleamed briefly before disappearing into paper and bags. Life moved at a human pace.
 
The beach did not dominate the city; it accompanied it.
 
A day in Colonia
 
One day carried me away from the capital entirely, on a bus to Colonia del Sacramento.
 
Colonia is a city of fragments. Portuguese stones, Spanish walls, uneven streets that curve rather than align. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site, it wears its history lightly, almost playfully. Cobblestones insist you slow down. Doors open onto gardens rather than statements. The river appears suddenly, wide and luminous, blurring the line between Uruguay and Argentina beyond.
 
Walking there felt like moving through a conversation between empires — unfinished, unresolved, quietly beautiful.
 
What remains
 
Uruguay does not insist on attention.
 
It earns it slowly, through light, through space, through the dignity of ordinary life. Montevideo, in particular, felt like a city comfortable with itself — thoughtful, slightly melancholic, generous in its silences.
 
I left feeling rested rather than exhilarated.
Grounded rather than dazzled.
 
Some places leave you with stories.
Uruguay left me with pace — and the sense that slowing down can be its own form of arrival.

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The Water Park, Lima, Peru, January 2026

Three days in Lima
 
I arrived in Lima without a plan, and that felt right.
 
Some cities ask to be prepared for. Others ask you to listen. Lima, I learned quickly, belongs to the second kind. It does not announce itself loudly. It reveals itself if you are willing to walk, to pause, to look twice.
 
I had three days. I decided early on not to rush them.
 
Day One — Walking until the city speaks
 
The first morning opened quietly in Miraflores. Light filtered through tall trees, cafés were only just beginning to wake up, and the streets felt unhurried, almost reflective. I walked with no destination, letting curiosity decide the route. Wide pavements, well-kept parks, occasional bursts of colour from bougainvillea or street art — the city felt composed, thoughtful.
 
Then the land dropped away.
 
Suddenly the Pacific appeared below the cliffs, vast and indifferent, a constant presence rather than a spectacle. From above, surfers looked like punctuation marks moving across long sentences of water. I leaned on the railing for a long time, watching waves repeat themselves with quiet discipline. Lima, I realised, lives with the ocean not as a postcard, but as a neighbour.
 
Hours passed like that.
 
By the time I drifted into Barranco, the mood had shifted. The streets narrowed, the buildings leaned slightly into each other, and stories seemed to cling to balconies and cracked walls. Barranco felt like a place that remembers. Once a retreat for the wealthy, later claimed by artists and rebels, it carries its contradictions lightly.
 
I crossed the Bridge of Sighs almost by accident. Someone nearby told the legend — hold your breath, make a wish — and I did, smiling at myself for doing so. Cities survive not because of facts alone, but because of these small rituals people agree to keep alive.
 
I ended the day tired in the best possible way, legs heavy, mind quiet, the city no longer unfamiliar.
 
Day Two — Stories layered on stone
 
The second day brought a different rhythm. I met Sebastián, and with him the city opened its deeper layers.
 
We stepped into the historic centre, where Lima shows its bones. The cathedral stood firm and solemn, carrying centuries of ceremony, conflict, and faith. Inside, the air felt dense with time. I thought about how many people had stood exactly where I was standing, each believing their moment was decisive.
 
Behind the presidential palace, Sebastián led me somewhere unexpected — a library, discreet and almost invisible from the outside. Inside, the noise of the city softened instantly. Shelves, desks, light filtering through high windows. It felt like a place that exists precisely so power does not forget to listen.
 
Then Lima changed tone again.
 
Chinatown hit us like a wave — noise, colour, heat, movement. Streets alive with shouting vendors, sizzling pans, signs competing for attention. Sebastián explained how Chinese migration shaped Lima’s food and culture, how fusion became tradition. Nothing about it felt curated. It was alive, functional, unapologetic.
 
Later, as daylight faded, fountains rose and danced in the park. Water leapt and twisted, lights changed colour, children ran between jets. It was theatrical, joyful, slightly absurd — and perfect. Lima, it seemed, is unafraid of delight.
 
The day ended with drinks back in Miraflores. Conversation slowed. We talked about life, work, the odd paths people take. The city felt closer now, no longer observed but shared.
 
Day Three — Preparing to leave
 
The final day was intentionally simple.
 
Shopping in Miraflores. A last coffee. Familiar streets that now felt almost routine. It is always a strange moment when a place stops being new and starts being known — even slightly.
 
I packed slowly.
 
Outside, the city continued as if I were not leaving. That felt comforting rather than dismissive. Cities that matter never cling. They trust you will remember.
 
What stayed
 
Lima did not overwhelm me. It did something better.
 
It let me walk into it, step by step, story by story, without insisting on being understood all at once. It offered calm and chaos, ocean and stone, ritual and spontaneity — and asked only attention in return.
 
I left knowing I had not finished with this city.
Some places make that clear quietly.
 
Lima did — somewhere between the sound of waves below the cliffs and the echo of footsteps in old streets.

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AI Generated Image of Caracas, Venezuela, January 2026

A living album, written as the year unfolds
 
This album is different from the others.
 
It is not a memory yet.
It is a story still in motion.
 
Venezuela in 2026 will be a live and evolving collection, growing week by week, season by season, until the day I finally leave the country for my next deployment. It will gather fragments of daily life, small journeys, conversations, landscapes, celebrations, quiet mornings, unexpected encounters, and all the ordinary magic that makes up a year lived with attention.
 
By the time this album began, I had already spent two and a half years in Venezuela. Long enough for the country to stop being only a destination and to become something closer to home. Long enough for streets, cafés, hills, faces and routines to carry memory. And yet, every day here still brings something new.
 
What will fill these pages over the coming months?
 
There will be Caracas in all its contrasts: the hills breathing green above the city, the sudden rainstorms, the colour of markets, the rhythm of evenings, the quiet dignity of ordinary days.
There will be journeys beyond the capital, small and large, planned and improvised.
There will be friendship, because this country has a way of offering it generously.
There will be tables shared, laughter, hallacas and coffee, conversations that stretch long into the night.
There will be light and shadow, because life always carries both, and Venezuela knows how to hold them side by side.
 
Above all, there will be presence.
 
As this album grows, it will become a gentle record of a final chapter of my time here: six more months of discovery, colour, work, connection and belonging, before the road bends once again toward a new horizon.
 
For now, it begins simply, with gratitude for the years already lived in this remarkable country, and with quiet anticipation for everything still waiting to be written.
 
Venezuela continues to teach me how to stay curious.
How to stay open.
How to keep walking forward with wonder.
 
And so this album opens its first page.

To access the album, click here.

La Huerta, Caracas, Venezuela, December 2025

There is something tender and quietly resilient about spending the festive season in Caracas.

Late December has arrived, and while the backdrop may be complex—economically, socially, emotionally—what continues to shine, perhaps more brightly than anything else, is the spirit of the people. Christmas 2025 in Venezuela has not come without its shadows, but it has brought with it a depth of light that can only be found when joy is chosen, not given.

The days leading up to Christmas were a tapestry of small, meaningful moments. Walks through the city, with its unexpected pockets of colour and beauty, revealed trees wrapped in lights and music spilling out from balconies. Markets bustled with last-minute shoppers. Nativity scenes—pesebres—stood proudly in homes and shop windows alike, each one handcrafted with love and care.

One of the most special traditions I got to be part of this year was preparing hallacas. These parcels of maize dough filled with stewed meats, olives, and raisins, wrapped in banana leaves, are far more than food—they’re family rituals, they’re memory, they’re Christmas itself. Together with friends, we laughed, learned, and folded, our fingers sticky with dough and stories.

Evenings were spent gathering with friends, often around simple meals or under the blinking lights of modest but joyful decorations. In a city that dances between challenge and celebration, these gatherings felt like small victories of connection. They reminded us that festivity is not about excess, but about presence.

Caracas, too, surprises you. Its green hills, wrapping around the city like a protective cradle. Its murals, telling stories of resistance, resilience, and art. Its people—full of warmth, humour, grace.

There were moments of stillness too. Looking at the mountains as dusk fell. Listening to the city hum, not loudly, but steadily. Feeling part of something fleeting and, at the same time, timeless.

This Christmas may not have had snow or pine trees or carols in the traditional sense. But it had light. It had flavour. It had dignity. And it had a kind of magic that can only be found in places that insist on hope.

Feliz Navidad, Caracas. You’ve made this season unforgettable.

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Cementerio del Este, Caracas, Venezuela, October 2025

Just a week before All Saints’ Day—my favourite celebration back in Poland—I found myself wandering through the quiet paths of Cementerio del Este in Caracas. Perhaps it is that Polish reverence for 1 November, with its glowing cemeteries lit by candlelight, that instilled in me a love for these places of rest. Over the years, I’ve made it a quiet tradition to visit cemeteries whenever I travel—whether in Lisbon, Kraków, Luanda or Bangkok. Each one whispers its own story.

Cementerio del Este surprised me. Spread across the rolling hills of La Trinidad, it feels modern, almost minimalist. The flat stones, neatly mown grass, and geometric layout reminded me more of how I imagined North American cemeteries might look—open, ordered, facing the sky rather than enclosed by shadow. There are no gothic tombs here, no moss-covered angels or iron fences—just light, space, and a stunning view of Caracas, stretching out like a living mosaic in the valley below.

I walked slowly, letting the names, dates, and faces on the gravestones speak. Some offered smiles from old black-and-white portraits; others left only carved names to the sun. I paused often. These visits never feel like meditations on death—rather, they feel like celebrations of life. And this one was no different.

When my friend and I left the cemetery, neither of us felt heavy. Quite the opposite. We followed the day into a nearby restaurant and were gifted with an unexpected moment of joy: a group of dancers performing traditional Venezuelan folk routines, their music full of rhythm and colour. We stayed for a while, clapping, smiling, soaking in the joy of it all.

It was the perfect way to honour life—a quiet morning among the resting, followed by music, dance, and laughter among the living.

Click here to visit the album: 🕯️ Cementerio del Este: Life Reflected in Stone and Sky

Centre of Porto, Portugal, August 2025

Nine days under the Portuguese sun, wrapped in the smell of the sea, the shimmer of blue-and-white tiles, and the joy of shared adventures.
 
This trip wasn’t just about geography — it was about companionship, discovery, and seeing familiar places through the fresh, astonished eyes of others. I travelled with a beautiful group of people — Leo, Giovanni, Kate, Paulo, Maria, and Mahendra — and each one brought something special into the light of those days.
 
For Leo and Giovanni, it was their first time in Portugal. That fact alone gave the trip an extra glow. Every street we walked, every meal we shared, every view that opened before us — it all felt like a gift being unwrapped together.
 
We began in Óbidos, that fairytale town of stone and flowers, with its ancient castle walls embracing whitewashed houses. It always feels like stepping into another century. We wandered its alleys, climbed its ramparts, and paused to sip ginjinha served in tiny chocolate cups — a small but joyful ritual of this place.
 
From there, we explored the coastal villages of central Portugal — Foz do Arelho, São Martinho do Porto, and others nestled around forested hills and stretches of sand. The air was salty and warm, the Atlantic wild and playful. There were long drives past pine groves and golf greens, unexpected viewpoints where you could watch the sky melt into the water, and cafés where time politely slowed down.
 
With Giovanni, I returned to Nazaré, the town where land and sea seem locked in eternal dialogue. Even without the record-breaking waves of winter, Nazaré pulses with elemental power. Fishermen’s boats bobbed in the harbour, their colours faded by salt and sun. We climbed to Sítio, the clifftop district, and looked out over the vastness. It was quiet, but the roar of the ocean still echoed in the imagination.
 
Later, we went inland — deep into Alentejo, to visit Maria and Mahendra. Their warm welcome was matched by the calm of the landscape: undulating hills, vineyards, cork oak trees scattered like dots across golden fields. Here, the world seems to breathe more slowly. We shared long meals, ripe conversations, and moments of silence that felt as nourishing as the food.
 
And then, the jewel waiting at the north — Porto.
My first visit, and what a wonder it was.
 
Arriving in Porto felt like stepping into a living painting — steep hills covered in terracotta roofs, the Douro River gliding gracefully below, and the constant sound of footsteps on stone. The city is built of layers: Romanesque cathedrals, Baroque churches, narrow staircases, street art, the smell of grilled sardines, the echo of fado.
 
We walked the Ribeira, the historic riverfront district, with its labyrinthine charm and centuries-old facades. The colours of the buildings — ochres, pinks, deep reds — danced in the sunlight. From there, we crossed the iconic Dom Luís I Bridge, an architectural marvel designed by a disciple of Eiffel, and admired the view back across the river: the heart of Porto clinging to the hills like a theatre set.
 
There was something profoundly romantic and melancholic about Porto — a kind of noble fatigue, as though the city had seen too much beauty to rush anymore. The azulejos, Portugal’s famous blue tiles, told stories on every corner — saints, ships, angels, and kings — and each church seemed more intricate and moving than the last.
 
We tried Port wine at its source, tasted meals that were simple and rich with memory, and sat on high balconies watching the city exhale with the river.
 
Porto was a revelation. To see it for the first time, in the company of people I care about, was to understand why it leaves such a mark on the soul.
 
Across these nine days, we covered coasts and castles, markets and mountains, and the small in-between places where the most unexpected magic waits. We swam in cold Atlantic waves, got lost in sleepy villages, sat in silence under fig trees, and celebrated life with spontaneous toasts over fresh seafood and warm bread.
 
This wasn’t just a holiday. It was a patchwork of joy, sewn together by good people, golden light, and the sheer luck of being alive in such a moment.
 
I return now, heart full and grateful.
Grateful for the laughter, for the wide skies, for the way Portugal always manages to show me something new — even after all these years.

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Centre of Madrid, Spain, August 2025

In mid-August 2025, I set off on a journey to Portugal with my Venezuelan friend Giovanni. As fate would have it, our route included a stopover in Madrid—and what could have been just an airport layover turned into a beautiful five-hour adventure through the Spanish capital.
 
After landing at Barajas, we were joined by our dear friend Leo, another Venezuelan who had arrived earlier. The three of us hadn’t been together since our Polish-Slovak escapades earlier in the summer, so it already felt like a reunion worth celebrating.
 
Eager to make the most of our time, we took a taxi straight to the Banco de España metro station, right at the edge of Plaza de Cibeles. From there, we began a leisurely walk westward, soaking in the grandeur of Madrid’s most iconic boulevard—Calle de Alcalá.
 
We passed the Cibeles Fountain, where the goddess Cybele rides her chariot drawn by lions, watched over by the majestic Palacio de Cibeles, once a post office, now the city hall. From there, we continued along the bustling Gran Vía, often called the Spanish Broadway, lined with regal buildings, theatres, rooftop terraces, and classic shopfronts that give Madrid its unmistakable urban charm.
 
Despite the scorching summer heat, Giovanni was enchanted—it was his first time in Spain, and you could see the wonder in his eyes as we moved through the city’s heart.
 
We paused to admire the Metropolis Building, its ornate dome glinting under the sun, then meandered past Puerta del Sol, alive with performers, tourists, and the iconic clock tower of the old post office—the symbolic centre of Spain. From there, we strolled through the cooler side streets until we reached the elegant Plaza Mayor, where we stood beneath the colonnades, briefly escaping the sun and absorbing the square’s historic atmosphere.
 
Finally, we reached the Royal Palace of Madrid, standing proudly over the city, with the Almudena Cathedral just beside it. The views from the palace promenade were lovely—soft golden light, distant hills, and a city that felt both grand and lived-in.
 
Though our time was brief, we had truly walked through Madrid’s historic and architectural heart, weaving together laughter, curiosity, and the delight of shared discovery. After one last cold drink, we took a taxi back to Barajas, refreshed and grateful.
 
That evening, as our flight took off toward Lisbon, we looked back on a perfect afternoon—a mini adventure tucked between two countries, rich with friendship, sunshine, and the timeless beauty of Madrid.

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