Sydney Harbour at dusk, with the Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge illuminated as evening settles over the water.
When I arrived in Sydney, the first thing I noticed was the harbour. Few cities sit on water as beautiful as this — ferries crossing the harbour, the white sails of the Opera House catching the light, and beaches only a short ride away.
The famous views were every bit as striking as I had imagined.
But what stayed with me most were the quieter moments: an outdoor cinema beside the harbour, a peaceful reading room filled with light, and a conversation with a man inviting Jews to put on tefillin near Bondi Beach. Behind the postcard beauty of a city, there are always deeper stories.
The Pont Valentré, Cahors remains one of the most complete and uncompromising examples of medieval military bridge design in France.
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.
Cahors and the Lot River: The Lot curves around the old town, making the Pont Valentré not just a crossing, but a strategic gateway—binding geography, defense, and daily life into a single structure.
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.
Aging Malbec at Château de Haute-Serre: Bottles resting in the cellars of Château de Haute-Serre, near Cahors—wines shaped by patience, discipline, and a deep respect for place.
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.
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.
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.
Beneath the tricolor, history lingers: sorrow and triumph etched in stone.
For nearly fifty years, I’ve carried a love of Paris. For a long time, I thought it was an inheritance—a gift from teachers, photographers, French cousins, and friends. But only recently have I realized that Paris now belongs to me.
The seeds were planted early by my very first French teacher, Mrs. Stewart in Pittsburgh, who always made me feel valued and welcome. She made French not just a subject but a joy—something expansive, a new world opening before me. Later, a college professor urged me to take my first trip to France—a visit that included meeting my French cousins, who graciously introduced me to the City of Light and its culture, followed by a month at the University of Aix-en-Provence.
The Centre Pompidou illuminated at night — a bold icon of modern Paris, 2022.
I first visited the Centre Georges Pompidou in 1977, the year it opened. The building felt shocking in its modernity. I had never seen anything like it — exposed pipes and bold colors, right in the heart of Paris. How could this belong in the same city as the Louvre or the Assemblée Nationale?
The idea for the Centre took shape in the late 1960s, when Paris was still unsettled by the protests and strikes of May 1968. President Georges Pompidou, who loved modern art, wanted to create a cultural center that would feel open, democratic, and alive. His vision was to combine a public library, a museum of modern art, and spaces for music and performance under one roof — a place where tradition and the avant-garde could meet.
In 1971, an international competition was launched, drawing more than 600 entries. The jury, chaired by French architect Jean Prouvé, chose the radical proposal of two young architects: Renzo Piano, born in Genoa in 1937, and Richard Rogers, born in Florence in 1933 to a British family. Their design turned architecture inside out. By pushing structure, escalators, and utilities to the exterior, they left the interior wide open and flexible. Prouvé admired their daring — it was exactly the step into a new era that Pompidou had hoped for.
Over the years, as I returned to the Pompidou, I grew to love it. The plaza in front of the museum always recharged me. Young people sprawled on the ground, laughing, playing music, filling the courtyard with life. That sense of openness was not an accident — Piano and Rogers wanted the Centre to be a crossroads of art and community.
The lively plaza in front of the Pompidou, where art and play mingle, 2015.
I also remember riding the exterior escalator, climbing above the rooftops of Paris. From there, the city unfolded — Sacré-Cœur glowing on the horizon. It reminded me of Piano’s later projects, like the Shard in London and The New York Times Building in Manhattan, always searching for lightness and views. Rogers, for his part, went on to shape landmarks such as Lloyd’s of London and the Millennium Dome. Both would eventually win the Pritzker Prize — Piano in 1998, Rogers in 2007 — but here in Paris, their collaboration was at its boldest.
From the Pompidou rooftop, Paris stretches to Montmartre, with Sacré-Cœur glowing on the horizon, 2012.
Now, the Pompidou is closed for renovations, with reopening planned for 2030. I don’t know when I will see it again. What I do know is that I will miss it.
The Pompidou began as something I thought was too modern, almost jarring, and became a place I adore. It carries with it the daring of its architects — one Italian, one British — and the conviction of a president and jury who believed Paris could take a step into a new era. For me, it became just that: a space of art, of community, of Paris itself, bold and alive.
Signs in the Pompidou windows announce its closure for renovation — farewell for five years, 2025.
Born around 1028, William rose from Duke of Normandy to become a formidable force in European history. His decisive victory at the Battle of Hastings in 1066 brought England under Norman rule, setting in motion sweeping changes to the kingdom’s language, law, and social order. He was the first Norman King of England, and his reign reshaped the destiny of a nation.
William founded the abbey as an act of penance, after marrying his cousin Matilda of Flanders against Church law. When he died in 1087, his body was brought here to rest within the walls of the church he had endowed. Yet his remains would not know peace. Over the centuries, his tomb was desecrated multiple times—most violently during the French Revolution. Today, only a single bone, believed to be a femur, is thought to remain.
The tomb we see now, adorned with flowers and lit by candles, is at once modest and monumental. It speaks to the paradox of William’s legacy: a man who conquered kingdoms and changed history, yet whose earthly remains were reduced almost to nothing. The stone slab is a reminder of ambition’s reach and mortality’s certainty—a place of quiet reflection on how even the most powerful lives can end in fragility.
La Grande Arche de la Défense (“The Great Arch of the Defense”), originally called La Grande Arche de la Fraternité, is a monumental building in the business district of La Défense, in the commune of Puteaux, west of Paris. Usually referred to simply as La Grande Arche, the 110-meter-high (360 ft) cube is part of the historic axis that runs from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe. The distance between the two arches is about 4 km (2.5 miles). Built as one of President François Mitterrand’s Grands Projets, it stands as a symbol of modern France.
In 1982, a national design competition was launched at Mitterrand’s initiative. The winning entry, by Danish architect Johan Otto von Spreckelsen (1929–1987) and engineer Erik Reitzel (1941–2012), reimagined the Arc de Triomphe for the late 20th century. Instead of commemorating military victories, their design celebrated humanity and humanitarian ideals.
Construction began in 1985, led by French civil engineering company Bouygues. In 1986, Spreckelsen resigned and transferred his responsibilities to his associate, French architect Paul Andreu, best known for his work on Charles de Gaulle Airport. Reitzel remained involved until the monument was completed in 1989.
The structure takes the approximate form of a perfect cube, with a width, height, and depth of 110 meters. Some have suggested it resembles a hypercube—or tesseract—projected into three dimensions. Built with a prestressed concrete frame clad in glass and covered in white granite from Bèthel, Italy, the Arche has a striking, minimalist presence.
La Grande Arche was inaugurated in July 1989 during celebrations marking the bicentennial of the French Revolution, including a grand military parade that passed beneath its soaring frame.
If you’re interested in Pittsburgh, the blog Father Pitt offers a wide-ranging collection of photographs of my hometown.
The author remains anonymous, but the site is maintained with care and updated regularly. Each photo is accompanied by thoughtful descriptions, and the entire collection is released to the public domain under a CC0 dedication—making it both a visual resource and a gift to the community.
The Institut de France is a French learned society that brings together five académies, including the prestigious Académie Française, guardian of the French language. Founded in 1795 at the direction of the National Convention, it is housed on the Quai de Conti in the 6th arrondissement of Paris.
Today, the Institut oversees nearly 1,000 foundations, along with museums and châteaux open to visitors. It also distributes prizes and grants—amounting to more than €27 million annually in 2017—most of them awarded on the recommendation of the académies.
Faithful to the mission set for it in 1795, the Institut and its five académies continue “to contribute, on a non-profit basis, to the progress and influence of letters, sciences, and the arts; to honor useful inventions and discoveries; to recognize distinguished artistic achievements; and to reward noble deeds and the steadfast practice of civic and social virtues.”
Between 1933 and 1938, Nazi Germany staged massive rallies in Nuremberg. The former Nazi Party Rally Grounds remain the largest surviving complex of National Socialist architecture in today’s Germany. Designed by Hitler’s architect Albert Speer, the vast structures still convey the immense power of Nazi propaganda. Speer was later convicted of war crimes and crimes against humanity at the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg. He served 20 years in prison and died in London in 1981.
The Zeppelinfeld (Zeppelin Field), shown above, is one of the most striking remains. Its massive grandstand, 360 meters wide, was modeled on the Pergamon Altar of ancient Greece, with square piers inspired by Franco-American architect Paul Philippe Cret. After Germany’s defeat in 1945, American forces famously blew the swastika from its top. The name “Zeppelinfeld” refers to the landing of Count Zeppelin’s airship (LZ6) here in 1909.
I visited in April 2024, on a cold and windy day, with my cousin from Nuremberg who graciously served as my guide. The site felt stark, desolate, and impossibly vast—its scale resisting any attempt to capture it in photographs. Only a handful of visitors were there, but the immensity of the place chilled me. I tried to imagine the grounds filled with uniformed followers of Adolf Hitler, roaring in unison. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.
How could this have happened in Germany—a country with such a deep tradition of culture, learning, and science? Could it happen again? Is it already happening? The pull of the far right has not disappeared; it is rising once more.
What happened here was not inevitable. It can happen again.
