Views of Caracas, Venezuela, July 2025

August has slipped quietly into Caracas. The heat feels different now — thicker somehow, heavier — as if the city itself has paused to catch its breath. Streets are a little emptier; neighbours talk about escapes to the coast, chasing breezes and salt air. Even the city’s usual hum seems muted, softened by the weight of midsummer.

I stay behind, windows open to a humid stillness, watching afternoon storms roll over Ávila. Work continues, as it must, but my mind drifts elsewhere. Across the Atlantic, Portugal waits — and more specifically, Óbidos.

Óbidos is a different kind of refuge. A place of quiet stone streets, whitewashed houses trimmed in blue and yellow, and vines spilling over ancient walls. I remember walking its narrow lanes before, feeling history under my feet — a medieval rhythm that makes you slow down without even noticing. It isn’t loud like Lisbon or Porto; it’s a place that holds you gently, whispering rather than shouting.

What I’m dreaming of most is the coastline nearby — the sweep of Peniche with its rugged cliffs and fishermen mending nets by the docks, the endless stretch of sand at Foz do Arelho where the lagoon meets the restless Atlantic, and Nazaré with its dramatic waves crashing like liquid thunder against the shore. These places carry a raw, untamed beauty that I’ve missed. The Atlantic air feels different there — saltier, cooler, more alive.

This time, I’ll have a rental car, which means freedom to wander between these spots at my own pace, to pause at a hidden café for grilled sardines, to stand alone on a windswept beach at dusk and watch the tide pull everything away. Portugal always feels like a homecoming now, more so since I used my Portuguese passport for the first time earlier this year. Carrying it in my pocket isn’t just a document — it’s part of a story that still feels like it’s unfolding.

Travel is strange this way — even before you pack a bag, it reshapes you. I find myself noticing details of the everyday differently, as if my senses are practicing for something they know is coming. The light on Caracas rooftops, the echo of footsteps in quiet corridors, the smell of mangoes in the late afternoon heat — all tiny reminders that movement is life, that journeys, whether across oceans or through memory, keep us awake to the world.

For now, August holds me still in Venezuela. But on the horizon, Óbidos is waiting. Its ancient walls, its Atlantic winds, its calm streets where I can finally take a long breath. A different sun, a different breeze, a pause of another kind — one that feels very much needed.