David Enzel – A space for reflection

Crossing Half the Planet

February 22, 2026

The Longest Journey of My Life

For most of my life, Australia and New Zealand felt almost theoretical — names at the bottom of the map, separated from my daily reality by oceans and time zones. I had traveled far before, but never that far. The idea of seventeen hours in the air — followed by another eighteen on the return — felt less like travel and more like a test of endurance.

Distance has a psychological weight. It suggests effort. Risk. Fatigue.

And yet, this year, I decided to go.

I flew from San Francisco to Singapore — roughly seventeen hours suspended above the Pacific. I spent a couple of days exploring Singapore, then continued on to Melbourne for the Australian Open. From there I traveled through Australia and New Zealand, moving across landscapes that seemed improbably wide, watching light linger late into the evening as if the day itself resisted ending.

On the way home, I flew from Auckland to Singapore, paused briefly at Changi Airport, and then boarded Singapore Airlines Flight 24 to JFK — more than eighteen hours nonstop, one of the longest commercial flights in the world.

By the time I landed in New York, I had crossed half the planet.

Something in me had shifted.

The world no longer felt impossibly large. It felt connected. Reachable.

More surprising still: I realized I was comfortable with ultra-long haul travel. What once seemed daunting had become manageable — even calm.

The Singapore Airlines Difference

Singapore Airlines made that transformation possible.

From the beginning, the tone was set correctly. Boarding was smooth and orderly. There was no jockeying for position, no anxious crowding at the gate. People boarded when called. It felt controlled and respectful — a small but meaningful detail.

That sense of order carried through the flight.

The flight attendants are attentive without being intrusive. They seem to sense when you might need something and appear quietly. They smile. They make eye contact. There is a dignity in the way they move through the cabin.

What struck me most was how fresh and impeccably groomed they looked even at the end of a eighteen-hour flight. I genuinely do not know how this is possible. After that many hours in the air, most of us feel depleted. They appeared composed, polished, fully present — as though the length of the journey had not diminished them.

The pilots speak when necessary but otherwise allow you to rest or think. There is no unnecessary interruption.

The food is genuinely good — not merely acceptable, but thoughtfully prepared.

I boarded those flights with quiet apprehension. Eighteen hours sounds long when you say it out loud. But the time passed without strain. The airline’s culture — calm, attentive, precise — creates a sense of care that changes the entire experience.

In the future, I will go out of my way to fly Singapore Airlines.

Minor Quibbles

No experience is perfect.

I would have preferred touch-screen in-flight entertainment monitors with higher-resolution displays. The current system works well but feels slightly dated.

The business-class seat converts into a bed manually — you flip it over rather than simply reclining into lie-flat mode at the touch of a button. The crew will happily assist, and it is easy enough to do yourself, but a seamless transition would feel more modern.

These are small criticisms in the context of an otherwise remarkable experience.

Changi Airport

Singapore Changi Airport deserves its own mention.

It feels less like an airport and more like a carefully designed space for transition. The concourses are carpeted and quiet. The lighting is soft. Even the restrooms are thoughtfully arranged, with art and gentle illumination. Travel is inherently disruptive, yet Changi manages to soften it.

And then there is the Vortex waterfall at Jewel (shown above) — a reminder that even transit can contain moments of wonder. It’s the world’s tallest indoor waterfall — cascading beneath a sweeping glass dome.

What Distance Taught Me

Australia and New Zealand altered my sense of scale.

The landscapes were vast. The distances were real. The flights were long.

But I learned that distance is not something to fear. It is something to move through.

With the right airline, the right pacing, and a willingness to step onto the plane, even the far side of the world becomes accessible. The psychological barrier dissolves.

Ultra-long haul travel no longer intimidates me.

It has become, instead, a way of understanding how large — and how connected — the world truly is.

Memorable Places

January 13, 2026

Over the years I’ve stayed in many hotels. Most of them blur together. A few, however, have never left me.

This is not a list of the “best” or the most luxurious places in the world. It’s something more personal. These are properties — including one cruise line — that stayed with me long after I checked out. Places that, for one reason or another, made me feel unusually well cared for, at ease, or quietly happy to be exactly where I was.

I have stayed at every place on this list. None of this is theoretical.

The list is in no particular order and will continue to evolve over time. If a place belongs here for you, feel free to leave a suggestion in the comments.

Ballynahinch Castle Hotel & Estate — Connemara, Ireland

A former castle set deep in the Irish countryside, surrounded by rivers, fields, and misty hills. It feels less like a hotel and more like being a guest on a private estate where time has slowed down. Wikipedia – Property Website

The Thousand Kyoto — Kyoto, Japan

Modern, calm, and beautifully restrained. A hotel that understands that luxury can be quiet, light, and space rather than ornament. Property Website

Four Seasons Hotel Seattle — Seattle, Washington

Not a resort, not a palace — just an impeccably run urban hotel that made me feel at home in the middle of Seattle. Property Website

The Peninsula Hong Kong — Hong Kong

Old-world elegance without being stuffy. You feel the history the moment you walk in, and yet it never feels frozen in time. Property Website

Silversea Cruises

Not a hotel, but it belongs here. More than any other cruise line I’ve experienced, Silversea understands privacy, pacing, and the feeling of being a guest rather than a passenger. Website

Four Seasons Hotel Toronto — Toronto, Canada

Polished, welcoming, and quietly luxurious. A hotel that gets the balance between professionalism and warmth exactly right. I had the pleasure of staying in the flagship Four Seasons Hotel in Toronto at 21 Avenue Road in Yorkville — now long gone and replaced by a modern, elegant property. I still remember arriving after a long, delayed flight. The woman who checked me in said she wanted to come out from behind the desk and shake my hand. Even years later, that simple gesture stays with me: a moment of genuine human welcome. Property Website

What all of these places share is not a star ratings or a price points, but a feeling. Each of them made me feel temporarily rooted — not like I was passing through, but like I belonged there for a while. That matters more to me than novelty or spectacle. The places that stay with me are the ones that give me a sense of calm, dignity, and quiet pleasure, long after I’ve gone home.

I hope to add to this list as I travel, including on my upcoming trip to Singapore, Australia and New Zealand.

^{Last updated: January 13, 2025}

Paris, One Month After the November 2015 Attacks

January 3, 2026

In December 2015, I returned to Paris — a city I’ve loved for as long as I can remember. This visit was different. It came a little more than a month after the November attacks, when coordinated shootings and bombings struck the city, including the Bataclan concert hall. Many lives were lost, families were shattered, and the city felt the shock in its bones.

I didn’t come to photograph tragedy. I came because I needed to see Paris again — not only as a postcard, but as a place that had been wounded and was still standing.

Seeing beyond the “pretty Paris”

For years, my camera has been drawn mostly to the beauty of Paris — the bridges, the monuments, the river, the light. Those images still matter to me.

But on this trip, I realized I haven’t always paid enough attention to how the city lives — and how it responds to challenge. Paris has faced many: from the German occupation during World War II to more recent acts of terror. Each time, it absorbs the shock, mourns, and somehow continues.

I’m sharing these photographs now, years later, because I’ve come to see that my work has often focused on the surface beauty of the “City of Light.” This visit reminded me there is another Paris — one shaped by memory, resilience, and everyday life.

A walk to the Bataclan

Walking toward the Bataclan, the surrounding streets looked surprisingly ordinary. Cafés were open. People carried groceries. Traffic moved as usual. And yet there was a quietness underneath everything — as if the city were speaking in a softer voice.

Outside the Bataclan, the mood changed. Barriers remained in place. Notices were taped to railings. The familiar façade now carried a weight that was impossible to ignore.

People didn’t gather like tourists. They paused, looked, and moved on. It felt more like a place of memory than a concert hall.

Place de la République

Later, I walked to Place de la République. The square had become an informal memorial — candles, flowers, handwritten notes, photographs, flags. People moved carefully, making space for one another.

There was grief here, but also dignity. The city was remembering — quietly, without spectacle.

A deeper appreciation

This visit changed how I see Paris.

I still love its monuments and bridges, but I came away with a deeper appreciation for the everyday life around them — and for the resilience of a city that mourns, remembers, and keeps going.

Cahors: Stone, Wine, and the Endurance of Beauty

January 3, 2026December 20, 2025

Cahors lies roughly 110 kilometers north of Toulouse, tucked into southwest France along a dramatic bend in the Lot River. The Lot itself is a long, winding waterway—about 480 kilometers in length—that rises in the Cévennes Mountains near Mont Lozère and flows westward through limestone valleys and vineyards before eventually joining the Garonne River near Aiguillon. In Cahors, the river curves almost completely around the old town, shaping both its geography and its history.

Cahors feels both geographically and psychologically distant from the great urban centers of France. I was there with the Alliance Française of Washington, and traveling with a group that shares such a deep appreciation for French history and culture made every discovery more meaningful. Yet one structure, above all others, has stayed with me: the Pont Valentré.

The Pont Valentré: A Masterpiece of Stone

I have seen many of the world’s great bridges. Some are elegant, some monumental, others purely functional. But for me, the quiet power and restrained beauty of the Pont Valentré stands apart. To call it merely “old” is an understatement. It is majestic—a staggering feat of 14th-century engineering that commands the Lot River with calm authority.

Construction of the bridge began in 1308, commissioned by the consuls of Cahors to strengthen the city’s defenses and secure control of this vital river crossing during a period of frequent conflict. Built entirely of local stone, the bridge took nearly 70 years to complete, a testament to both medieval ambition and the sheer difficulty of such a project.

With its three fortified towers, thick arches, and narrow passageway, the bridge was conceived not merely as a crossing, but as a defensive structure—a fortified bulwark designed to protect the city as much as to connect it. What struck me immediately was its absolute integrity. The Pont Valentré does not rely on ornament to impress. Its beauty comes from its perfect proportions, its clarity of purpose, and its sheer defiance of time. Stone laid more than seven hundred years ago still carries weight, meaning, and history—without apology.

Recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the Pont Valentré is preserved not only for its architectural excellence but as an exceptionally intact example of medieval military engineering integrated into an urban landscape.

There is, of course, the famous legend associated with the bridge. According to local lore, the builder, frustrated by delays, made a pact with the devil to ensure its completion. When the work was finished, the builder outwitted him by assigning an impossible task—fetching water in a sieve—thus saving his soul. Whether one believes the story or not, the bridge feels almost mythic, as though it belongs as much to folklore as to history. When human ingenuity and endurance reach this level, legend feels almost inevitable.

I found myself comparing it to the Pont Alexandre III in Paris, because both are undeniably beautiful. The Parisian bridge is ornate, celebratory, and dazzling—a triumph of decoration and modern confidence. The Pont Valentré, by contrast, is elemental. It does not decorate the landscape; it belongs to it. It is not merely a monument—it is a survivor.

Beyond the Bridge: Château de Haute-Serre

The day continued with a visit to Château de Haute-Serre, a vineyard renowned for producing some of the region’s most distinguished Malbecs. Though it lies only about 10 kilometers—roughly a 15-minute drive—from Cahors, the estate feels far removed from the town. The road gradually leaves the river behind, rising into open countryside until you arrive at a place that feels notably quieter and more self-contained.

The contrast between the rugged medieval stone of the morning and the meticulously cultivated land of the afternoon was striking. At Haute-Serre, I felt an immediate sense of calm—a peaceful stillness born of space, order, and the slow rhythm of agricultural life rather than urban movement.

The estate unfolds across gently rolling terrain, with vines carefully tended and precisely aligned. Yet what impressed me most was the discipline of the operation itself. The winery was immaculate—spotless in a way that spoke to seriousness, precision, and deep respect for the craft. It was, quite literally, so clean that you felt you could eat off the floor.

We enjoyed an elegant three-course luncheon created especially for the Alliance Française of Washington. We began with a cream of pumpkin soup accented by Lardo di Colonnata, garlic croutons, and walnut oil. This was followed by duck breast served with carrot mousseline, kaffir lime, multicolored carrots, and an orange gastrique. Dessert was a refined praline mille-feuille.

The food was exceptional, the wine a revelation—structured, expressive, and unmistakably rooted in its terroir. Nothing about the experience felt rushed or performative. There was only a quiet confidence, born of tradition, patience, and care.

Final Reflections

Cahors and its surroundings reward those willing to slow down, learn a bit of history, and truly look. The region feels light-years away from Paris—calmer, quieter, and deeply grounded.

From the enduring stone of the Pont Valentré to the hushed order of Château de Haute-Serre, I was struck by a shared sensibility: places built with seriousness, maintained with care, and allowed to exist without spectacle. Whether medieval or modern, these are places that do not ask for attention—they earn it.

The Pont Valentré is remarkable not because it is decorative, but because it has endured—doing exactly what it was engineered to do for centuries. Paired with the excellence of Château de Haute-Serre and the shared pleasure of traveling with such thoughtful companions, Cahors reminded me that when tradition is taken seriously, it remains very much alive.

Some places impress you in the moment.

Others stay with you.

Cahors belongs firmly in the second category.

Carcassonne: A Day Among Ramparts, Stones, and Silence

December 14, 2025

One of the highlights of my recent trip with Alliance Française of Washington in Toulouse was our day trip to Carcassonne—a place I had heard so much about but had never seen for myself. I expected something impressive, even picturesque. What I did not expect was its sheer scale. Carcassonne is far larger, more enveloping, and more physically demanding than I imagined—a vast, medieval city carved from stone—and all the more memorable for it.

Double walls, watchtowers, and crenellations—defense rendered in stone.

A Fortress That Endures

Its origins stretch back to Roman times, but most of what we see today reflects medieval fortifications later restored by Eugène Viollet-le-Duc in the 19th century. His restoration was brilliant but controversial due to his use of northern-style conical slate roofs.

Passing through the main gates, you immediately understand why this site mattered so much strategically. This was not merely a town; it was a statement of power.

Walking the ramparts reveals the scale of Carcassonne step by step.

Narrow Stairs, Wide Views

Anyone visiting should be prepared: there are many stairs, and not gentle ones. Some are narrow, steep, and circular, twisting tightly upward along the ramparts. These passages feel unchanged by time, and climbing them is part of the experience. The reward is the view—sweeping countryside on one side, rooftops and stone lanes on the other—and a deeper appreciation for the fortress’s vastness.

Walking the walls makes clear just how extensive Carcassonne really is. Photographs do not prepare you for how long the ramparts stretch or how many towers punctuate the skyline. For all the fortification, the Cité holds quieter, spiritual treasures.

The Basilique: Light and Reverence

Located near the Château Comtal, the Basilique Saint-Nazaire-et-Saint-Celse is a place of striking calm and beauty. Often overshadowed by the walls themselves, the basilica deserves slow attention. Its stained glass—among the finest in southern France—fills the space with filtered light, offering a quiet counterpoint to the militaristic architecture outside.

It is a place that invites reflection, and for me it became one of the most moving stops of the day.

A Somber Cemetery

Nearby, the small cemetery of the Basilique parish makes a powerful, somber statement. Its unexpected stillness grounds the grandeur of Carcassonne in something more human and final. Surrounded by ancient stones, it reminds you that this place was not only defended and restored—it was lived in, suffered in, and mourned in.

An Open-Air Dream: Théâtre Jean-Deschamps

Another surprise was the Théâtre Jean-Deschamps, an open-air theater set within the walls of the fortress. It is genuinely impressive—grand, atmospheric, and beautifully integrated into its surroundings. Standing there, it was easy to imagine a summer evening performance under the stars, stone walls glowing as music or drama fills the space.

I would love one day to return and see a performance there. It feels like one of those rare venues where history and art genuinely converse.

Beyond the Walls: Food and Life

Carcassonne is undeniably a major tourist destination, but it handles this role well. Just outside the walls, in the lower city (Ville Basse), the nearby town offers many restaurants, and the quality is excellent. After a long morning of climbing and walking, I sat down to a traditional cassoulet, the signature dish of the Languedoc region—rich, hearty, and deeply satisfying. It was both delicious and filling, exactly the kind of meal that feels earned after a day like this.

Final Reflections

Carcassonne is not just something you see—it’s something you climb, walk, feel, and absorb. Its preservation is remarkable, its scale surprising, and its quieter moments—the basilica, the cemetery, the theater—linger longest in memory.

If you are in Toulouse and have a day to spare, Carcassonne is well worth the journey. Just bring good shoes, a sense of curiosity, and time enough to let the stones speak.

Albi: Brick, River, and Southern Light

December 11, 2025

Albi sits quietly in the Tarn, a small city of about fifty thousand people built along the river that shares its name. It’s only an hour from Toulouse, yet it feels more distant, as though it existed slightly apart from the rest of the world. I went without strong expectations and found a place that was coherent, beautiful, and welcoming.

What first struck me was the brick. In Albi, brick is not an architectural choice or a revival style — it is simply what they had. There was no local stone to speak of, so they used the clay from the riverbanks, fired it in kilns, and built an entire city from it. The result is a palette that changes with the light: pale peach in the morning, rose at noon, deep orange as the sun begins to fall. Every surface seems to absorb sunlight. Even the shadows are warm.

The cathedral of Sainte-Cécile rises from this landscape with a kind of massive grace. Often described as the largest brick building in the world, it has the presence of a stronghold rather than an ordinary church. The forms are heavy, cylindrical, almost defensive. It is genuinely difficult to describe the size of it. The building is enormous — far larger than photographs suggest — and from the ground it is hard to take in at once. You find yourself looking up, craning your neck, searching for a vantage point that will allow the whole structure to make sense. It was built in the aftermath of the Albigensian Crusade, when power needed to be proclaimed in masonry. To see it from the outside, one expects austerity. Yet the interior is surprisingly ornate — painted, gilded, and filled with color. The contrast is striking: a fortress with a jewel box within.

Albi rewards walking without urgency. The old town is intimate and charming, with narrow lanes, timbered facades, and small shops and cafés. At the center is the Marché Couvert, a covered market that feels lively without being loud. I had lunch there: grilled beef, a lovely salad, and a glass of wine. It was simple, fresh, and satisfying. The total was fifteen euros — the kind of meal that makes you feel momentarily lucky to be where you are. Travel days do not need to be grand to be memorable.

The Tarn River gives the city its orientation. The view from the Pont Vieux, the Old Bridge, is especially beautiful. From there, the cathedral rises above the water, reflected in slow green currents, and the town ascends the bank in orderly layers of red brick and tile. It is one of those perspectives that feels complete, as though the elements had always been arranged exactly this way. I could have stayed there for an hour, watching light move across the surface of the water.

Next to the cathedral stands the former episcopal palace, now home to the Toulouse-Lautrec Museum. I knew the posters — the dancers, the Parisian nights — but I did not expect the quieter works: tender drawings, portraits, early studies. Seeing them here, in the town where he was born, gives them a certain intimacy. The rooms are large, the walls thick, and the art seems to inhabit the space naturally. Nothing is strained. The museum feels like part of the city rather than an addition to it.

What most impressed me about Albi was its coherence. The materials speak to one another; the river and the architecture are in dialogue; the scale is human. The tourist office, surprisingly large and beautifully designed, fits the same pattern — practical, confident, and unpretentious. The city does not strain to impress you. It does not perform. It simply exists as itself, and that is enough.

I spent only a day in Albi, but the city stayed with me: the warmth of the brick, the shadowed interior of the cathedral, the quiet lunch in the market, the reflection of towers in the river. I had gone thinking it would be a pleasant excursion from Toulouse. I left thinking I could return quite easily, and perhaps stay longer. Some places whisper rather than shout, and linger in memory because of it. Albi is one of them.

Toulouse: Light, Stone, and the Quiet Confidence of a Great City

December 6, 2025December 4, 2025

Toulouse doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. France’s fourth-largest city has a way of revealing itself slowly—through the glow of its pink brick at sunset, the hum of its cafés, the youthfulness of its streets, and the golden light that pours across the Garonne River as if the whole city has turned its face toward the sun.

I had the privilege of visiting Toulouse as part of a group organized and led by Sarah Diligenti, Executive Director of the Alliance Française of Washington. She is a native of Toulouse, and her affection for the city is contagious. As a long-time member of the Alliance, it was a joy to see her hometown through her eyes. The experience felt less like tourism and more like being welcomed into someone’s place in the world.

The Beautiful Light Along the Garonne

If Paris has the Seine and Lyon the Rhône, Toulouse has the Garonne—and its light is different. Warmer. Wider. More relaxed.

Stand along the Quai de la Daurade in the late afternoon and you’ll see why photographers adore this river. The sun drops low, raking the facades of old brick warehouses and convents, and the water turns a deep metallic blue. The dome of La Grave seems to float. Couples sit on the steps. Friends carry bottles of wine. Life takes on a certain softness.

The Garonne begins high in the Spanish Pyrenees at the Pla de Beret and flows 529 kilometers northward through southwestern France before merging with the Dordogne to form the Gironde estuary, eventually emptying into the Atlantic near Bordeaux. Toulouse grew because of this river—because of its trade, its silt, its life—and the city still orients itself toward it.

Place du Capitole: A Stage Set of Grandeur

Every visitor eventually drifts toward the Place du Capitole, the city’s true living room.

The square is enormous—regal without being pompous. Its pale stone surface reflects the sky, and the façade of the Capitole, Toulouse’s town hall and theatre, stretches across an entire block like a Renaissance stage set painted in rose and cream.

Sit with a coffee and watch the square turn from morning bustle to afternoon languor. At night it becomes cinematic: couples posing under the arcades, groups of students weaving past, street musicians tuning their guitars. Sarah brought us here first, as if to say: this is where the pulse of the city can be felt.

If you want to understand Toulouse’s confidence, start here.

Couvent des Jacobins: Light You Don’t Expect

From the outside, the Couvent des Jacobins is easy to miss—just another brick wall on a quiet street in a city full of brick walls. But step inside and everything changes.

The light is astonishing.

Columns rise like palm trees, splitting the vault in a pattern unlike any other Gothic space in Europe. Sunlight filters through tall windows and dances across the floor, illuminating the famously delicate “palm tree” column that seems to hold the heavens together. The effect is both austere and uplifting—one of those places where the air feels different, as though centuries of contemplation have seeped into the stone.

It is a place you stumble into once and remember forever.

A City of Students—and Their Energy

Toulouse is often called La Ville Rose for its pink brick, but it could just as easily be called La Ville Jeune. It is one of the largest student cities in France—home to over 100,000 university students across institutions like the University of Toulouse, Toulouse 1 Capitole, Toulouse II Jean Jaurès, and the renowned engineering school, INSA.

This youthful energy is everywhere: in the packed terraces, in the narrow streets around Place Saint-Pierre, in the late-night laughter that spills out of wine bars. The city feels alive because its average age is young—and because young people shape its rhythm.

Toulouse at Night: A Mood All Its Own

After dark, Toulouse becomes reflective.

Lanterns glow under the arcades. The river absorbs the city’s lights and sends them shimmering back. The soundscape softens—just footsteps, distant music, the hum of a bicycle. Something about the combination of brick, shadow, and sky makes your mind wander. It is a place that invites thought, memory, and stories.

The night feels gentle yet filled with possibility—like a city that understands both its past and its future.

Notre-Dame de la Dalbade: A Quiet Gem

Visitors often overlook Notre-Dame de la Dalbade, but it deserves a moment.

Named for its once-white facade (la dalbade meaning “whitewashed”), the church stands in the Carmes district and is crowned with one of the most striking ceramic tympanums in France—a vividly colored Last Supper that seems impossibly bright against the brick surrounding it.

Inside, the church has a deep stillness. Sunlight falls in thin beams across the nave, revealing a space filled with the scent of wood and incense. It’s the kind of place that makes you slow down without realizing it.

Marché Victor Hugo: The Beating Heart of the City

If you want to understand how well Toulouse eats, go to Marché Victor Hugo.

It is crowded—in the best way. Fishmongers calling out the day’s catch. Butchers slicing lamb and duck confit with practiced precision. Cheese counters overflowing with pyramids of chèvre, sheep’s milk tommes, and wheels of Roquefort. Produce stacked in brilliant color.

This is not a tourist market. It is where Toulousains shop, gossip, argue, flirt, and order a glass of wine upstairs before lunch. Even if you buy nothing, the atmosphere is irresistible.

The Majesty of Saint-Sernin

And then there is Basilique Saint-Sernin, one of the greatest Romanesque churches in Europe.

The nave of Basilique Saint-Sernin, one of the great Romanesque churches of Europe. Columns and arches draw the eye toward the light.

Its octagonal bell tower rises above the low roofline of the city like a compass point. The church was once a major stop on the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela, and its size reflects that history—immense, solid, welcoming.

Inside, the columns and arches draw your eyes forward, as if the whole building wants you to move toward the light at the apse. It feels ancient in the deepest, most dignified way.

Toulouse Stays With You

Toulouse isn’t the first French city many travelers think of—but perhaps that’s why it feels so rewarding. It has beauty without pretense, history woven into daily life, and a warmth—of people, of light, of brick—that stays with you long after you leave.

It’s a city that doesn’t need to impress you. It simply does.

I left with photographs, yes—but also with the quiet glow of having been there, and the pleasure of seeing a city through the pride and affection of someone who calls it home.

Why Did I Wait So Long?

December 4, 2025

After years of saying, “One day I’ll get a 13-inch MacBook Air,” I finally did it. Costco dangled a Black Friday deal in front of me, and—what can I say—I blinked first.

And you know what? I’m delighted.

This light blue MacBook Air is small, light, and honestly… adorable. It’s the kind of computer that makes you want to leave the house, wander to a coffee shop, and type something—anything—just because it’s fun to use. It slips into a bag without the usual negotiation about weight, bulk, or whether I really want to carry a laptop today.

No, it’s not the most powerful Mac in the lineup. And the screen isn’t the luscious, movie-theater-in-your-lap panel of the Pro models. But the battery just keeps going, the machine stays quiet, and it runs full Mac apps without complaining. Best of all, it has an actual, comfortable keyboard—something my iPad, as much as I enjoy it, never quite replaces.

After a few days with it, I’m left with a single question: why did I wait so long? Sometimes I don’t need the “Pro.” Sometimes I just want something light, friendly, and ready to go anywhere.

The MacBook Air is exactly that. And I think it’s going to get a lot of coffee shop miles. ☕️

The Weight of the Emblem

November 11, 2025

There once was a man who believed that a certain emblem on the front of his car said something important about who he was.

He admired its engineering, its heritage, its quiet prestige. When he was younger, it made him feel that he had arrived — that he was honoring the world his father came from and the one he had built for himself.

Over time, though, something began to change. The emblem no longer shone quite as brightly. Repairs became frequent. Technology passed it by. Yet he held on, believing loyalty meant endurance.

One day, he realized he was no longer driving a car — he was carrying a memory.

He had mistaken sentiment for identity.

So he set the emblem down.

He chose something new, not because it was better or flashier, but because it fit the life he was actually living — simpler, steadier, still beautiful in its way.

And to his surprise, letting go didn’t feel like loss.

It felt like release.

He could remember his father with love, and still move freely in the world of today.

The Reinvention of Riggs Bank: Washington Landmark Becomes the Milken Center

November 1, 2025

Across from the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue stands the former Riggs National Bank building—a fixture of Washington life for over a century. In 2015, the Milken Family Foundation acquired this landmark, along with adjacent properties, spending a combined $86.5 million to secure their presence at the heart of the nation’s capital. (Bisnow) $31 million went for the Riggs building at 1503–1505 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, while an additional $55.5 million covered the neighboring properties, including 1501 Pennsylvania Ave NW and 730 15th Street NW. (Bisnow)

This wasn’t just a real estate acquisition; it was a symbolic statement. The location—directly opposite the Treasury and a short walk from the White House—signals that the project goes beyond philanthropy. The decision to establish the Milken Center for Advancing the American Dream in such a prominent spot underscores a belief that the values of opportunity and aspiration are central to America’s civic life.

Although the Milken Center bears the name of financier Michael Milken, its story also reflects a broader arc of reinvention. In the 1980s, Milken rose to prominence on Wall Street as a pioneer of high-yield bonds before pleading guilty in 1990 to securities and tax violations, serving prison time, and paying substantial fines. He was later barred from the securities industry. In 2020, President Donald Trump granted him a full pardon, citing decades of philanthropic work. Since then, Milken has devoted his wealth and influence to medical research, education, and philanthropy through the Milken Family Foundation and the Milken Institute—the organizations behind the creation of this new cultural landmark in Washington.

The original Riggs building, completed in 1899 and designed by York & Sawyer, held a storied history as “the Bank of Presidents.” Today, it’s been transformed into a cultural destination that repurposes stability into inspiration.

The Hall of Generations

At the heart of the restored Riggs Bank hall stands the Tree of Generations, a luminous golden sculpture symbolizing the connections among innovators, artists, and entrepreneurs whose work has shaped the American story. The installation rises beneath a grand skylight and classical ornamentation, filling the space with both light and metaphor.

This Hall of Generations serves as the entry point to the Center’s galleries, which explore the pillars of the American Dream—education, health, financial empowerment, and entrepreneurship. It is a powerful visual reminder that individual achievement grows from shared roots.

Gold-Leaf Gallery

This gallery features a gold-leaf vaulted ceiling that casts a warm glow over rich wood paneling and contemporary seating. Located near the Stand Together Theater, it merges historic craftsmanship with modern storytelling displays—a quiet, contemplative space that honors the grandeur of the building’s banking past and the optimism of its new mission.

A Landmark Reimagined

The Milken Center’s completion marks the culmination of a decade-long restoration project that united five adjoining historic buildings into one interconnected institution. What once served as the headquarters of Washington’s most powerful bank now invites visitors to think about how opportunity itself is built, nurtured, and renewed.

In a city where history and symbolism matter, the Milken Center for Advancing the American Dream stands as both—a place that transforms marble and glass into a living conversation about possibility.

For now, the Milken Center’s architecture remains its most eloquent statement. The restored marble halls and gold-leaf ceilings are breathtaking—among the finest adaptive reuse projects in Washington. Yet the exhibits feel tentative, more gesture than substance, as if the space itself is still waiting to discover its voice. Perhaps that’s fitting: a monument to aspiration still in search of the story it wants to tell.

I’m glad I visited the Milken Center. It was moving to see the former Riggs Bank so beautifully restored, its marble and gold alive again. Yet the experience left me with mixed feelings. For all its polish and ambition, the project feels oddly sad—an immense investment in image and permanence when the same resources might have done more tangible good elsewhere.