Moving to Ethiopia, August 2026

A new chapter, one step at a time

This album is different from most of the others.

It is not a collection of memories looking back on a completed journey. Instead, it is a story that is only just beginning.

Having recently moved to Addis Ababa, this will be a living album, one that I will continue updating over the months and years ahead. It will become a visual diary of my life in Ethiopia, capturing both the extraordinary and the beautifully ordinary moments that make up everyday life in a new country.

Starting a new posting is always a mixture of emotions.

There is the excitement of discovering unfamiliar places, meeting new people, and gradually finding one's place in a different culture. There is also the challenge of beginning again: learning new streets, understanding new customs, building new friendships, and adapting to a new professional environment.

This album will document that journey.

It will follow my first impressions of Addis Ababa, my travels across Ethiopia, the remarkable landscapes, the rich history and cultures that make this country so unique, and the countless encounters that I know will shape my understanding of it. It will also reflect my professional life, working alongside colleagues and humanitarian partners, learning about the opportunities and challenges facing Ethiopia, and contributing, in whatever way I can, to the humanitarian response.

Above all, I hope this album will capture the process of getting to know a country—not only through its famous landmarks, but through conversations, everyday moments, shared meals, walks through neighbourhoods, journeys into the countryside, and the small discoveries that gradually transform an unfamiliar place into a home.

For now, these are only the first pages.

The story of Ethiopia is just beginning, and I look forward to discovering where it will lead.

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Travelling to Addis Ababa, Warsaw, Poland, August 2026

This album marks a quiet transition between two chapters of my life.

After a wonderful summer spent in Poland with family and friends, the time finally came to pack my bags once again. The holidays had come to an end, and a new adventure was about to begin.

Leaving Poland is never easy.

Every departure means saying goodbye to Mum, to family, to familiar streets and mountains that have shaped me since childhood. Yet this time there was also genuine excitement. Ahead lay Addis Ababa, a country I had visited before, but one that I would now call home for the next few years.

The journey itself became part of the story.

Flying with Ethiopian Airlines, we landed briefly in Vienna before continuing south towards Africa. Looking through the aircraft window as we descended over Austria, I found myself reflecting on the extraordinary summer that had just come to an end. I thought about all the moments spent with Mum, the many kilometres travelled with Giovanni, and the precious time shared with family before leaving once again for another posting.

It had been a holiday filled with laughter, conversations, beautiful landscapes and the quiet happiness that comes from being close to the people you love.

There was also another feeling accompanying me on this journey.

I was already missing Venezuela.

After almost three years there, it no longer felt simply like the country where I had worked. It had become another home, full of friendships, memories and experiences that I knew I would carry with me for a very long time.

Soon afterwards, Europe slowly disappeared beneath the clouds and another continent appeared below the wings.

Arriving in Addis Ababa felt familiar and completely new at the same time.

The city welcomed me with its high-altitude light, busy streets, distinctive eucalyptus trees and the constant energy that makes Addis unlike anywhere else. Often called the political capital of Africa, it is home not only to millions of Ethiopians but also to the African Union, the United Nations Economic Commission for Africa, diplomats, humanitarian workers and people from every corner of the continent.

Walking through the city during those first days, I felt that familiar mixture of curiosity and anticipation that accompanies every new posting. New colleagues. New neighbourhoods. New routines to establish. New stories waiting to unfold.

Every beginning carries a little uncertainty.

But it also carries possibility.

Looking back at these photographs, I realise they capture much more than a journey from Poland to Ethiopia. They mark the moment when one chapter gently closed and another quietly opened.

I left Poland with gratitude.

I left Venezuela with affection.

And I arrived in Ethiopia with excitement, curiosity and hope for everything that lies ahead.

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In one of the churches of Olomouc, Czechia, August 2026

Every long journey eventually begins with a farewell.

As my summer leave slowly drew to a close, I found myself appreciating the simple pleasure of staying close to home. After weeks spent crossing much of Europe, these final days were not about travelling far, but about enjoying familiar places with people who matter most.

They became a gentle ending to one chapter before another was about to begin.

I spent this time with Mum, Giovanni, and my family in Nowy Sącz, making the most of every remaining day before my departure for Addis Ababa.

One of our first excursions took Giovanni and me through the beautiful Rożnów Lake region.

We drove to Tropie, a place where history and landscape seem inseparable. Hidden among forested hills overlooking the lake stands the tiny Romanesque Church of Saints Andrew and Świerad, one of the oldest churches in Poland. Built almost nine hundred years ago, it remains wonderfully modest, inviting visitors not through grandeur but through simplicity. Standing there, surrounded by silence and greenery, it was easy to understand why hermits and pilgrims once chose this place.

Later, we continued along the shores of Jezioro Rożnowskie, stopping to admire the views before finding a quiet place beside the water for a drink. The lake shimmered under the summer sun while sailing boats drifted lazily across its surface. There was no particular plan for the afternoon. We simply enjoyed the luxury of unhurried conversation and the beauty of southern Poland.

Sometimes that is enough.

A few days later, another journey awaited us.

Together with Mum and Giovanni, we set off towards Velké Karlovice, in the eastern Czech Republic, where we had planned a short stay at a spa hotel tucked away among the Beskid Mountains.

The journey itself became part of the holiday.

Our first stop was Niedzica Castle, standing proudly above the turquoise waters of Lake Czorsztyn. For centuries the fortress guarded the historic frontier between Poland and Hungary, and its walls still carry countless legends, including the famous tale of the Inca treasure supposedly hidden somewhere within the castle. Whether true or not hardly matters. Places like Niedzica remind us that history often becomes richer through the stories people continue to tell.

Not far away, we stopped in Bukowina Tatrzańska for coffee.

The terrace overlooked the High Tatras, their jagged peaks rising sharply against a cloudless blue sky. We lingered longer than planned, simply enjoying the panorama. The mountains seemed almost close enough to touch.

Crossing into Slovakia, we spent some time exploring the High Tatras, where alpine villages sit quietly beneath towering granite peaks. Every visit there reminds me why this mountain range is often called the smallest alpine range in the world. There is something wonderfully intimate about it—grand enough to inspire awe, yet close enough to feel welcoming.

By evening, we reached Velké Karlovice.

The hotel proved to be everything we had hoped for. Comfortable rooms, excellent food, long evenings over dinner, mornings beginning slowly, and hours spent moving between the swimming pool, saunas and jacuzzi. There was no rush to see anything. The greatest luxury was simply having nowhere we needed to be.

From there we explored nearby Olomouc, one of the Czech Republic's most beautiful yet often overlooked cities.

Its elegant squares, colourful Baroque façades, churches, fountains and cafés immediately won us over. Walking through the historic centre felt like discovering a smaller, quieter cousin of Prague—equally rich in history, but without the crowds. The magnificent Holy Trinity Column rising above the main square, together with the astronomical clock and centuries-old university atmosphere, gave the city a remarkable character.

It was one of those unexpected discoveries that often become highlights of a journey.

The return to Poland became another excursion in itself.

We crossed the border through Český Těšín and Cieszyn, two towns divided by a river yet connected by centuries of shared history. Walking from one country into another took only minutes, a quiet reminder of how borders in Europe have gradually become places of connection rather than separation.

Further east we stopped in Wisła, nestled among forested mountains and known as the source of Poland's longest river, before continuing to Szczyrk, where ski slopes and hiking trails attract visitors throughout the year. Even in summer, the Beskids possess a calm beauty that invites slow exploration.

By evening we were back in Nowy Sącz.

The final days passed with family—my brother, his wife, and the children. Shared meals. Conversations stretching into the evening. Familiar laughter around the table. The kind of moments that rarely appear extraordinary while they happen, yet later become some of the memories we treasure most.

And now, the suitcases are open once again.

The holidays have come to an end.

Soon I will leave Poland and begin another chapter of my life and career in Addis Ababa.

Every posting starts with uncertainty.

New people.

New landscapes.

New challenges.

Looking back over these weeks, I realise how fortunate I have been: to share them with Mum, with Giovanni, with family and friends, travelling through places both familiar and new, collecting not only photographs but moments of genuine happiness.

Now another journey begins.

Ethiopia is waiting.

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Mołtawa Canal, Gdansk, Poland, August 2026

There are journeys that begin long before the car actually leaves the driveway.

This one certainly did.

For weeks, Giovanni and I had been talking about travelling north from Poland, crossing the Baltic countries and eventually reaching Sweden. The original plan had been to leave in July, but life had other ideas. The earthquake in Venezuela changed everything. Travel plans became irrelevant almost overnight, and the journey had to wait.

Eventually, in August, the moment came.

We left Nowy Sącz by car, beginning a long loop through northern Europe that would take us across Poland, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia, briefly into Finland, across the Baltic Sea to Sweden, and finally back to Poland by another overnight ferry.

For me, there was something particularly enjoyable about travelling this way with Giovanni. Much of this part of Europe was new to him, and I found myself experiencing familiar places differently simply because I was showing them to someone seeing them for the first time.

Our first significant stop was Warsaw.

It felt like the natural beginning: the Polish capital, reconstructed after almost complete destruction, simultaneously familiar and constantly changing. We walked through the centre and the Old Town, and I enjoyed that curious sensation of being both at home and a little bit of a tourist myself.

Then we turned north-east and crossed into Lithuania.

In Vilnius, we discovered a city that moves effortlessly between different centuries. There was the Baroque Old Town with its churches, courtyards and narrow streets, but also the much newer Vilnius across the river, with glass towers and the skyline of a modern European capital. Walking between the two felt almost like watching the city tell two versions of its own story.

From Lithuania we continued towards Latvia, but not directly.

The beauty of travelling by car is precisely this freedom to interrupt the straight line.

We stopped at the extraordinary Hill of Crosses near Šiauliai, where thousands upon thousands of crosses have accumulated over generations. It is difficult to describe the place without reducing it to either religion or history. It is both, of course, but standing there feels like something more: individual memories and private prayers gradually transformed into a landscape.

Then came the Baltic coast and eventually Riga.

Riga surprised us with its contrasts. We walked rather than cycled, which turned out to be the right decision: it allowed us to disappear into churches and buildings whenever something caught our attention. We wandered through the medieval streets, climbed above the rooftops for views over the city, explored the enormous Central Market and later moved into the elegant Art Nouveau districts. A boat trip through the canal and onto the Daugava gave us yet another perspective.

And then we continued north to Estonia.

Tallinn was different again.

Its medieval centre can sometimes seem almost impossibly well preserved: towers, walls, steep streets and old houses gathered above the Baltic. But Tallinn also brought something much more personal.

There I met an old friend with whom I had once worked in South Sudan.

One of the strange privileges of a life spent moving between countries is that friendships become scattered across the world. Years pass, careers move on, people end up thousands of kilometres apart—and then, unexpectedly, a journey brings two paths together again. Meeting in peaceful Tallinn after having known each other in the very different reality of South Sudan was one of those encounters that quietly reminds me how interconnected the different chapters of my life have become.

And Estonia gave us another unexpected possibility: Finland.

We took the ferry across the Gulf of Finland to Helsinki, turning what could have been an ordinary day into a small international excursion. After the ornate medieval atmosphere of Tallinn, Helsinki felt spacious, restrained and unmistakably Nordic: the harbour, Senate Square, the white cathedral rising above it, broad streets and the relationship between the city and the sea.

There was something rather wonderful about having breakfast in Estonia, spending the day walking around the Finnish capital, and returning across the Baltic to Tallinn in the evening.

Before leaving Estonia for good, we also drove east of Tallinn, away from the capital and into a quieter landscape of forests, villages and coastline. We visited Kaberneeme, looking out over the Baltic from the Estonian shore, and stopped at Jägala Waterfall before turning back towards Tallinn.

Then it was time for another ferry.

This time we did not come back.

We drove the car aboard and sailed overnight from Tallinn to Stockholm, crossing another stretch of the Baltic and waking up in Sweden.

There is something I have always liked about travelling on overnight ferries. You drive into the belly of a ship in one country, leave the car behind, have dinner, watch the coastline disappear, sleep—and the following morning the doors open onto somewhere entirely different.

Stockholm was waiting for us.

After the compact medieval centres of Vilnius, Riga and Tallinn, Stockholm seemed to spread itself across water. Islands, bridges, ferries and boats became part of everyday movement through the city.

We walked through Gamla Stan, but also deliberately went beyond it. We visited the remarkable Vasa Museum, standing almost beneath the enormous seventeenth-century ship that sank on its maiden voyage and emerged from Stockholm harbour centuries later. We spent time on green Djurgården, explored Skansen and crossed the water on local ferries. We also discovered other sides of the city—from Södermalm and its viewpoints to the quieter spaces away from the historic centre.

Having our own car meant that Sweden did not end at Stockholm.

When it was finally time to head south, we left the capital early in the morning and began the long drive towards Karlskrona.

That final Swedish road was one of my favourite parts of the journey.

At Brahehus, we stopped among the ruins high above the enormous Lake Vättern, with the water stretching towards the horizon below us. Then came Gränna, with its wooden houses, small-town atmosphere and famous red-and-white polkagris sweets.

From there we continued through the forests and lakes of Småland. Sweden became progressively quieter and more rural as the hours passed: trees, water, farms, small settlements and long stretches of road.

Eventually we reached Karlskrona, the historic naval city scattered across islands on Sweden's southern coast.

And there, once again, we drove onto a ferry.

This time the destination was Gdynia.

Another cabin. Another night at sea. Another invisible border crossed while sleeping.

By morning, we were back in Poland.

But the journey was not quite finished.

We continued to Gdańsk, a city whose history has always seemed inseparable from the wider history of Europe and the Baltic. After days of changing languages, currencies, ferries, roads and hotel rooms, there was something comforting about being back in Poland.

And perhaps the most appropriate ending of all was not another monument or viewpoint.

It was a family dinner in Gdańsk.

After so many kilometres, countries and cities, the journey ended around a table—with conversation, food and family.

Only afterwards came the long road south towards Nowy Sącz.

Looking back at these photographs, what stays with me is not simply the number of places we visited. Yes, there were capitals and medieval streets, Baltic beaches and waterfalls, ferries and forests, museums and castles. In a relatively short time we crossed Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Finland and Sweden.

But the geography is only part of the memory.

I remember the pleasure of showing Giovanni places that were new to him. I remember looking at familiar parts of Europe through his eyes. I remember sitting with an old friend in Tallinn and suddenly finding South Sudan, Estonia and years of shared history at the same table. I remember the brief crossing to Helsinki, the nights aboard ferries, waking up in another country, driving through Swedish forests, and finally sitting down with family in Gdańsk.

Perhaps that is what I love most about travelling overland.

There is no abrupt disappearance from one place and appearance in another. You watch the landscape change. Languages change on road signs. Architecture changes. The light changes. One sea keeps appearing from different shores.

And gradually, almost without noticing it, the road itself becomes part of the story.

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Museo del Pro, Bogota, Colombia, August 2026

Leaving Venezuela

Every posting eventually reaches its final page.

Some endings arrive quietly. Others come unexpectedly. Mine came after almost three unforgettable years in Venezuela, a country that welcomed me with warmth, challenged me professionally, introduced me to extraordinary people, and slowly became much more than simply another place of work.

This album begins not at an airport, but on the road.

Together with my dear friend Giovanni, we left Caracas by car, travelling west towards Valencia. The familiar motorway, the mountains gradually disappearing behind us, the last roadside areperas, petrol stations and viewpoints—all of it felt strangely different knowing I would not be making this journey again, at least not as someone living in Venezuela.

Every kilometre carried memories.

Projects completed. Humanitarian missions. The earthquake response. Meetings that stretched late into the evening. Weekend escapes to Choroní, Mérida, Canaima and Los Roques. Countless conversations. Friendships that I know will remain long after geography changes.

By the time we reached Valencia Airport, the reality of departure had finally settled in.

Rather than rushing directly back to Europe, Giovanni and I decided to spend two days in Bogotá.

It proved to be the perfect transition between continents.

One of the first places we visited was Monserrate, the mountain that watches over the Colombian capital from more than 3,100 metres above sea level. Reaching the summit, the city unfolded beneath us like an endless mosaic of rooftops stretching toward the distant Andes.

Bogotá has a particular beauty.

Not obvious at first glance perhaps, but one that reveals itself through its scale, its history, and its remarkable setting among the mountains.

From Monserrate, we could appreciate all of it.

Later, we wandered through La Candelaria, the city's historic centre. Its colourful colonial houses, balconies overflowing with flowers, steep cobbled streets, and countless cafés create an atmosphere where history feels wonderfully alive. Murals cover many walls, blending contemporary social commentary with artistic expression. Students, musicians, artists, and visitors mingle effortlessly, giving the district an energy that feels both youthful and timeless.

In the afternoon, we met a Colombian friend for lunch before continuing together to one of the country's greatest cultural treasures: the Gold Museum.

The museum is extraordinary.

Housing more than 30,000 pieces of pre-Hispanic goldwork, it tells a story far richer than precious metals alone. Gold, for the Indigenous cultures of Colombia, was never simply a symbol of wealth. It represented spirituality, transformation, power, and the relationship between human beings and the natural world.

Walking through its galleries felt like travelling backwards through thousands of years of history.

Delicate jewellery, ceremonial masks, intricate figurines, animal representations, and ritual objects demonstrated astonishing craftsmanship. Among the museum's most celebrated pieces is the famous Muisca Raft, whose discovery helped inspire the enduring legend of El Dorado—the mythical city of gold that fascinated generations of European explorers.

What impressed me most, however, was not the gold itself.

It was the reminder that long before colonial conquest, the peoples of these mountains had already created sophisticated societies, complex spiritual traditions, remarkable artistic achievements, and rich cultural identities.

The museum tells that story beautifully.

Eventually, it was time to continue.

The airport once again.

Suitcases checked.

Boarding passes collected.

Goodbye to South America.

Our journey home was long but comfortable. Turkish Airlines carried us first to Panama, then onward across the Atlantic to Istanbul, one of the world's great crossroads between Europe and Asia. Changing aircraft there felt symbolic somehow—moving from one chapter of life into another.

The final flight brought us to Kraków.

Stepping outside the terminal, the familiar Polish air immediately felt different from the tropical warmth we had left behind only a day earlier.

One final drive remained.

South.

Home.

As we drove from Kraków towards Nowy Sącz, I found myself thinking not about the kilometres ahead, but about those already travelled.

Venezuela had changed me.

Professionally, it had been one of the most demanding postings of my career. Politically complex. Humanly rich. Culminating in one of the largest humanitarian responses I have ever coordinated following the devastating earthquake of 2026.

Personally, it had given me something equally valuable.

Friendship.

People whose kindness transformed an overseas posting into a genuine home.

Places that slowly became familiar.

A language that now comes naturally.

Memories impossible to separate from the country itself.

As this album closes, another chapter begins.

Ahead lies Poland for a short while.

Then Ethiopia.

Another continent.

Another home waiting to be discovered.

That has always been the privilege of this life.

To keep moving.

To keep learning.

To keep carrying a small piece of every country forward into the next one.

Thank you, Venezuela.

For everything.

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At the Transition Camp, La Guaira, Venezuela, July 2026

Venezuela, June–July 2026

There are journeys we choose.

And there are journeys that begin because nature suddenly changes the lives of hundreds of thousands of people.

This album documents those days.

In June 2026, a powerful earthquake struck north-central Venezuela, leaving entire neighbourhoods damaged or destroyed, particularly in La Guaira, but also affecting parts of Caracas and neighbouring states. Within minutes, ordinary life was interrupted. Families lost homes. Roads collapsed. Schools, health centres and public buildings were damaged. Entire communities suddenly found themselves sleeping outdoors, uncertain what the following days would bring.

For me, these photographs are not simply a record of an emergency operation.

They are a tribute to the remarkable resilience of the Venezuelan people.

In the days that followed, I had the privilege of witnessing one of the most inspiring aspects of humanitarian work: people coming together.

National authorities, firefighters, civil protection teams, volunteers, international search and rescue specialists, humanitarian organisations, United Nations agencies, the Red Cross, community leaders and neighbours all worked side by side.

The Emergency Response Coordination Centre became a place where decisions were made rapidly, information constantly updated, and countless organisations attempted to transform uncertainty into coordinated action.

Beyond the meeting rooms, the real work unfolded in the streets.

Many of the photographs show temporary shelters established and managed by humanitarian partners, both Venezuelan and international.

Families tried to recreate a sense of normality beneath tents and temporary structures. Children continued playing. Volunteers organised activities, distributed food, water and hygiene kits, while health workers, protection specialists and engineers quietly carried out their work.

Displacement camps are rarely places anyone wishes to remember.

Yet they also become places where humanity reveals itself at its strongest.

Neighbours caring for neighbours.

Parents trying to reassure frightened children.

Volunteers working long after exhaustion should have overtaken them.

Other images capture the scale of destruction.

Collapsed buildings.

Cracked roads.

Entire neighbourhoods transformed in a matter of seconds.

Particularly moving are the scenes from La Guaira, where the earthquake left visible scars across communities already accustomed to living between mountains and the sea. Looking at these photographs today, it is impossible not to think about how quickly certainty can disappear.

Nature reminds us, from time to time, that all human plans remain fragile.

Yet destruction is only one part of this story.

The other part is resilience.

Again and again, I met people who had lost almost everything but still found the strength to smile, to help one another, to clean debris from streets, to prepare meals for neighbours, to organise communities, to rebuild.

These photographs cannot fully capture that spirit.

But they offer glimpses of it.

Humanitarian work often happens quietly.

It is made up of thousands of conversations, assessments, meetings, distributions, technical decisions, logistics plans and moments that rarely appear in newspapers. Behind every visible action stand hundreds of people — many of them local staff and volunteers — whose names are seldom known outside the communities they serve.

This album is also a tribute to them.

To colleagues from Venezuelan organisations.

To United Nations agencies.

To international and national NGOs.

To European Civil Protection teams.

To rescue workers.

To health personnel.

To engineers.

To logisticians.

To drivers.

To cooks.

To everyone who chose service over comfort during those difficult weeks.

Looking back now, I remember not only the destruction, but also the extraordinary dignity with which so many Venezuelans faced those days.

The earthquake changed landscapes.

It damaged buildings.

It disrupted lives.

But it never succeeded in breaking the generosity, solidarity and quiet courage of the people I met.

And perhaps that is what I hope these photographs preserve above all else.

Not only the memory of what was lost.

But also the remarkable strength with which people chose to begin again.

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Essaouira, Morocco, June 2026

After returning from Canada, Mum and I spent a day in Warsaw before setting off once again. It was one of those pleasant pauses between journeys: a sunny day in the Polish capital, still full of memories from Canada, conversations about Tahir, Amna and little Hania, and anticipation for what awaited us next.

Ahead lay Morocco.

The flight from Warsaw to Agadir was smooth and uneventful, carrying us from the green landscapes of Central Europe to the warm Atlantic coast of North Africa. As the aircraft descended over southern Morocco, the colours below changed dramatically. The greens gave way to ochres, browns, and the soft blues of the ocean stretching endlessly along the shoreline.

For the following week, Agadir became our home.

Unlike many historic Moroccan cities, Agadir is a place shaped by renewal. The devastating earthquake of 1960 destroyed much of the old city, and what visitors see today is largely the result of reconstruction and resilience. Modern and spacious, it combines long beaches, palm-lined boulevards, fishing traditions, and a relaxed atmosphere that makes it particularly welcoming.

Our hotel stood close to the beach, and many mornings and evenings were spent simply walking along the broad promenade. The Atlantic was never far away. Sometimes calm, sometimes wild, it accompanied the city with a constant rhythm.

We explored Agadir slowly.

We visited the reconstructed Medina, wandered through the lively souk, and climbed to the old Kasbah overlooking the city. From there, the views stretched across the bay, the modern city, the fishing port, and the distant mountains. Standing above Agadir, it was easy to appreciate both the beauty of the landscape and the remarkable story of a city rebuilt from tragedy.

One of the pleasures of travelling is conversation, and Agadir offered many opportunities for it. Shopkeepers, guides, restaurant staff, and ordinary residents were often eager to talk. Through these conversations we learned more about local life, the region’s history, and the importance of agriculture, tourism, fishing, and particularly argan oil, which has become one of Morocco’s most famous exports. Produced almost exclusively in this region, argan oil supports thousands of local families and has become known worldwide for both culinary and cosmetic uses.

Naturally, we also experienced a traditional hammam. For Mum, it became one of the highlights of the trip. The combination of steam, warmth, scrubbing, and relaxation left us both feeling refreshed and wonderfully pampered.

One evening, our travel agency organised a cultural and culinary event that proved particularly memorable. There was music, traditional dances, horse displays, stories about Morocco’s Arab and Amazigh (Berber) heritage, and a feast of local dishes. It was an evening filled with colour, movement, and hospitality, offering a glimpse into the rich cultural tapestry that has shaped Morocco over centuries.

Beyond Agadir, we ventured further afield.

One excursion took us to Marrakech. Few cities announce themselves quite like Marrakech. The old city seemed to vibrate with energy. The narrow streets, crowded souks, historic palaces, and bustling squares created a sensory experience unlike anywhere else I have visited. Every corner seemed to offer another surprise: spices piled high in vibrant colours, craftsmen at work, hidden courtyards, and centuries of history woven into daily life.

A second excursion led us north to Essaouira, a city entirely different in character. While Marrakech feels intense and vibrant, Essaouira moves to the rhythm of the ocean. Its white walls and blue shutters, fortified ramparts, fishing harbour, and artistic spirit create an atmosphere that is both relaxed and deeply attractive.

The journey to Essaouira itself was part of the experience. Travelling by coach with fellow Polish holidaymakers, we passed village after village, watching everyday Moroccan life unfold through the window. Markets, farms, roadside cafés, mosques, and children walking home from school created an ever-changing panorama. At one point we stopped in a colourful village where vivid walls and local crafts added even more colour to an already beautiful day.

I found myself enjoying these moments almost as much as the destinations themselves. There is something deeply satisfying about watching a country reveal itself gradually through its roads, landscapes, and ordinary daily life.

As our week drew to a close, I found myself reflecting on how much we had seen and experienced in a relatively short time. Morocco had offered us magnificent scenery, fascinating history, generous hospitality, excellent food, and countless opportunities to learn.

Most importantly, it had given Mum and me another adventure together.

Now, as I pack my suitcase and prepare to fly back to Warsaw, I find myself thinking not only about the places we visited, but also about the privilege of sharing these journeys with her. The beaches of Agadir, the colours of Marrakech, the sea breezes of Essaouira, the conversations, the meals, and the laughter have all become part of a collection of memories that will stay with us long after the journey itself ends.

I leave Morocco with gratitude, curiosity, and a quiet certainty that I would very much like to return one day.

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The Old Town, Warsaw, Poland, May 2026

Between Canada and Morocco, there was Warsaw.

Not as a final destination, and not merely as a stopover either, but as one of those in-between pauses that unexpectedly gather their own meaning. After returning from Toronto, before continuing onward toward North Africa, Mum and I spent a day in the Polish capital — walking slowly, resting a little, allowing ourselves to simply be present in the city.

Warsaw greeted us with warmth and movement.

The city always fascinates me because it exists simultaneously in several different centuries. Glass skyscrapers rise where ruins once stood. Carefully reconstructed streets sit beside modern boulevards filled with trams, cafés, offices, and crowds flowing constantly in every direction. Few places in Europe embody reinvention quite like Warsaw.

Glass, steel, and memory

We spent part of the day walking among the skyscrapers of central Warsaw.

The skyline has changed dramatically over the past decades. Towers of glass and steel now dominate parts of the city that, during communism, felt grey, restrained, almost suspended in time. Today, the centre pulses with confidence and ambition. International companies, hotels, restaurants, and apartment towers stretch upward into the spring sky, giving Warsaw an energy that often surprises those visiting for the first time.

And yet even here, history is never absent.

The massive silhouette of the Palace of Culture and Science, controversial and iconic at the same time, still watches over the city. Gifted by Stalin in the 1950s, once hated by many as a symbol of Soviet domination, it has gradually become woven into Warsaw’s identity — not loved by everyone perhaps, but impossible to imagine the city without.

Warsaw often feels like that: complex, layered, unwilling to fit neatly into simple narratives.


The Old Town

Later, we wandered through the Warsaw Old Town.

To walk there is to walk through both history and reconstruction. Almost completely destroyed during the Second World War after the Warsaw Uprising, the Old Town was rebuilt painstakingly, stone by stone, using paintings, photographs, and memory itself as guides. Today it stands not only as a beautiful district, but as a monument to resilience and cultural survival.

The pastel façades glowed softly in the afternoon light.

Tourists moved between cafés and narrow streets. Church bells echoed occasionally through the square. Artists sold paintings beside old walls. There was life everywhere — not theatrical, simply lived.

Walking there with Mum felt especially meaningful. There is something deeply comforting about sharing familiar places quietly, without needing to explain them.


Beside the Vistula

Toward evening, we made our way to the Vistula River.

The river has become one of Warsaw’s great social spaces in recent years. Paths stretch along the embankments, cafés and bars open toward the water, cyclists and runners pass constantly, and people gather simply to sit and watch the light change over the city.

The Vistula itself feels different from many European rivers.

It remains slightly wild, less controlled, less polished. Sandbanks still appear naturally along its course. Birds move across the water. Even in the centre of the capital, there is a sense that nature continues negotiating space with the city rather than fully surrendering to it.

We sat there for a long time.

The evening light softened the skyline. Conversations drifted around us. Boats moved slowly across the river. After so much recent movement — Caracas, Lisbon, Warsaw, Toronto, Prince Edward County — the stillness of that moment felt unexpectedly important.


Time with Mum

More than anything, this album is about time with Mum.

Not dramatic moments. Not grand events. Simply shared space, conversations, meals, walking together through places both familiar and changing.

As life moves faster and journeys become increasingly frequent, these quieter days acquire greater value. They remind me that travel is not always about discovery. Sometimes it is about companionship — about experiencing places through the calm presence of someone who has shared your story from the very beginning.


Before the next horizon

Soon Morocco awaited.

Another airport. Another flight. Another landscape entirely different from the ones we had just left behind.

But Warsaw provided an important pause between those worlds — a day of spring light, river air, old streets, modern towers, and quiet family closeness before the journey continued onward once again.

And perhaps that is what travel increasingly means to me now:

Not escaping life, but moving more attentively through it.

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