A space for reflection
On Victoria Street, I watched people line up to photograph themselves in front of a location widely promoted as the inspiration for Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter novels. What fascinated me was that J.K. Rowling has publicly denied the connection. Nobody in the queue seemed particularly concerned. The goal wasn’t to verify the story. It was to participate in it.
That tension—between the Edinburgh that actually exists and the one people come to find—followed me through the entire city.
When I arrived in Inverness, I didn’t fully appreciate how far north I had come. The city sits at roughly the same latitude as Sitka, Alaska. Up here, the weather doesn’t simply change—it can shift with astonishing speed. One local told me that four seasons often pass in the span of ten minutes.
I learned that firsthand on a gray, sodden day. Wanting to visit Inverness Castle, I finished my lunch and hoped the downpour would ease. It didn’t. Eventually I pulled up my collar and headed out into the rain anyway.
The first thing I saw from my hotel room was a bridge.
St Andrew’s Suspension Bridge spanned the River Clyde just outside my window, its wrought-iron frame catching the afternoon light in a way that stopped me mid-unpack. Built between 1853 and 1855 by engineer Neil Robson, it was not designed to be beautiful. It replaced a busy ferry crossing and carried workers from Bridgeton and Calton to the factories of Hutchesontown. Pure industrial necessity. And yet there it was — genuinely elegant.
That combination — beauty that was never trying to impress anyone — turned out to be Glasgow in miniature.
I visited Hiroshima in 2023. It was my first time there, but the weight of the city precedes any arrival.
What struck me most was not simply the history, but the presentation. The reality of what happened is dark and overwhelming. Yet the city conveys it with a spirit of quiet reflection. There is no spectacle. There is no apparent bitterness. Achieving that balance is incredibly difficult, and it is the thing I remember most clearly.
Auckland sits on a narrow isthmus, caught between two bodies of water.
To the north, the Waitematā Harbour opens to the Pacific Ocean. To the south, the Manukau Harbour connects to the Tasman Sea. This geography defines the city. It is New Zealand’s economic center and its primary gateway to the world, home to roughly a third of the country’s population.
I had been told that Auckland was a city to pass through quickly. That proved to be wrong. It simply requires a bit of patience. It is a place that reveals itself gradually, rather than all at once.
Uluru, also known as Ayers Rock, sits in the center of Australia’s Northern Territory, far from the country’s major cities. It is roughly 1,800 miles from Sydney—a reminder of how vast Australia is, and how remote this landscape remains. The flight from Sydney is about three and a half hours nonstop.
Rotorua is different from other places in New Zealand. The difference is not subtle.
It has one of the largest and most visible Māori populations in the country. Over 40% of Rotorua’s residents are Māori—well above the national average—and the region sits within the traditional rohe of Te Arawa iwi. That presence is not confined to cultural sites or performances. It is part of everyday life.
You hear te reo Māori—the Māori language—spoken in schools and in public spaces. Marae are part of the landscape. Cultural expression is visible, but more importantly, it is continuous. It does not feel preserved for visitors. It feels lived.
It’s one thing to read about New Zealand’s tallest mountain; it’s quite another to see it suddenly rise above the horizon with such sharp authority.
The Māori name for the mountain, Aoraki, is often translated as “cloud piercer.” According to Ngāi Tahu tradition, Aoraki was an ancestor exploring the seas with his brothers when their canoe, Te Waka o Aoraki, capsized. As they climbed onto the overturned hull, the cold south wind froze them in place, turning them into the great stone peaks of the Southern Alps. Today Aoraki remains the highest of these brothers and holds deep spiritual and cultural significance.
Before this trip, I had never heard of Queenstown.
That almost feels embarrassing to admit now.
The first time I saw it — the mountains rising sharply from Lake Wakatipu, the impossible green of the landscape, the clarity of the air — my jaw literally dropped. Not metaphorically. I stood still.
Some places impress you.
Some rearrange you.
Queenstown rearranged me.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.