Mercado del Puerta, Montevideo, Uruguay, January 2026

After Lima, the road bent south.
 
In January 2026, the journey continued to Montevideo — a city that does not rush to impress, and perhaps for that very reason, leaves a deep mark. Most of my time unfolded there, along the wide estuary of the Río de la Plata, where water stretches so far that it forgets it is a river and begins to behave like the sea.
 
Uruguay welcomed me quietly. And I learned quickly that this is how it prefers to be met.
 
A city opened by walking
 
One of my first days in Montevideo was spent with Elias, a student of history and an attentive guide, the kind who does not perform knowledge but shares it. With him, the city began to speak in layers.
 
We started in Plaza Independecia, where the city negotiates between epochs. On one side, the old city gates once stood; on the other, modern avenues stretch outward. At the centre, Artigas watches patiently — not triumphantly, but thoughtfully — as if aware that independence is always an ongoing project.
 
From there, we drifted into the Ciudad Vieja, where Montevideo feels most itself. Streets narrow, façades soften, balconies lean slightly toward each other. The Catedral Metropolitanastood calm and dignified, carrying centuries without display. Nearby, small streets opened unexpectedly into cafés, bookshops, forgotten corners where the city seems to pause mid-sentence.
 
At Mercado del Puerto, smoke and voices filled the air. Parrillas hissed, conversations overlapped, wine glasses clinked. The market is not curated nostalgia — it is lived ritual, daily, generous, unapologetic. Montevideo does not romanticise its traditions; it simply continues them.
 
We walked toward the port, where cranes and ships reminded me how deeply the city has always been tied to movement and departure. Montevideo has sent people out into the world for generations — and received many back again.
 
Beyond postcards
 
Later, Elias took me north, away from the usual routes.
 
At the Mercado Agricola de Montevideo, life felt resolutely local. Fruit stalls, butcher counters, neighbours greeting each other by name. Around it, we walked streets shaped by earlier waves of migration — former Jewish shops, faded signage, traces of commerce and community layered quietly onto everyday life.
 
This part of the city felt honest and unposed. People living, shopping, arguing gently, getting on with their days. It was one of the most beautiful walks of the trip.
 
Days of wandering
 
The following days unfolded without structure, and that felt intentional.
 
I wandered again through the old city, then across Tres Cruces, near the Italian Hospital — a working district, practical, unadorned. Later still, the city shifted register once more around the World Trade Centre Montevideo, where glass and height speak a different language, one of global rhythm and forward motion.
 
By the coast, everything softened.
 
Near Pocitos, where my hotel was, days ended by the water. I walked along the rambla, watched locals pass with thermos flasks and mate cups, dogs trotting patiently at their sides. At the fish market nearby, silver bodies gleamed briefly before disappearing into paper and bags. Life moved at a human pace.
 
The beach did not dominate the city; it accompanied it.
 
A day in Colonia
 
One day carried me away from the capital entirely, on a bus to Colonia del Sacramento.
 
Colonia is a city of fragments. Portuguese stones, Spanish walls, uneven streets that curve rather than align. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site, it wears its history lightly, almost playfully. Cobblestones insist you slow down. Doors open onto gardens rather than statements. The river appears suddenly, wide and luminous, blurring the line between Uruguay and Argentina beyond.
 
Walking there felt like moving through a conversation between empires — unfinished, unresolved, quietly beautiful.
 
What remains
 
Uruguay does not insist on attention.
 
It earns it slowly, through light, through space, through the dignity of ordinary life. Montevideo, in particular, felt like a city comfortable with itself — thoughtful, slightly melancholic, generous in its silences.
 
I left feeling rested rather than exhilarated.
Grounded rather than dazzled.
 
Some places leave you with stories.
Uruguay left me with pace — and the sense that slowing down can be its own form of arrival.

Click here to access the album.

The Water Park, Lima, Peru, January 2026

Three days in Lima
 
I arrived in Lima without a plan, and that felt right.
 
Some cities ask to be prepared for. Others ask you to listen. Lima, I learned quickly, belongs to the second kind. It does not announce itself loudly. It reveals itself if you are willing to walk, to pause, to look twice.
 
I had three days. I decided early on not to rush them.
 
Day One — Walking until the city speaks
 
The first morning opened quietly in Miraflores. Light filtered through tall trees, cafés were only just beginning to wake up, and the streets felt unhurried, almost reflective. I walked with no destination, letting curiosity decide the route. Wide pavements, well-kept parks, occasional bursts of colour from bougainvillea or street art — the city felt composed, thoughtful.
 
Then the land dropped away.
 
Suddenly the Pacific appeared below the cliffs, vast and indifferent, a constant presence rather than a spectacle. From above, surfers looked like punctuation marks moving across long sentences of water. I leaned on the railing for a long time, watching waves repeat themselves with quiet discipline. Lima, I realised, lives with the ocean not as a postcard, but as a neighbour.
 
Hours passed like that.
 
By the time I drifted into Barranco, the mood had shifted. The streets narrowed, the buildings leaned slightly into each other, and stories seemed to cling to balconies and cracked walls. Barranco felt like a place that remembers. Once a retreat for the wealthy, later claimed by artists and rebels, it carries its contradictions lightly.
 
I crossed the Bridge of Sighs almost by accident. Someone nearby told the legend — hold your breath, make a wish — and I did, smiling at myself for doing so. Cities survive not because of facts alone, but because of these small rituals people agree to keep alive.
 
I ended the day tired in the best possible way, legs heavy, mind quiet, the city no longer unfamiliar.
 
Day Two — Stories layered on stone
 
The second day brought a different rhythm. I met Sebastián, and with him the city opened its deeper layers.
 
We stepped into the historic centre, where Lima shows its bones. The cathedral stood firm and solemn, carrying centuries of ceremony, conflict, and faith. Inside, the air felt dense with time. I thought about how many people had stood exactly where I was standing, each believing their moment was decisive.
 
Behind the presidential palace, Sebastián led me somewhere unexpected — a library, discreet and almost invisible from the outside. Inside, the noise of the city softened instantly. Shelves, desks, light filtering through high windows. It felt like a place that exists precisely so power does not forget to listen.
 
Then Lima changed tone again.
 
Chinatown hit us like a wave — noise, colour, heat, movement. Streets alive with shouting vendors, sizzling pans, signs competing for attention. Sebastián explained how Chinese migration shaped Lima’s food and culture, how fusion became tradition. Nothing about it felt curated. It was alive, functional, unapologetic.
 
Later, as daylight faded, fountains rose and danced in the park. Water leapt and twisted, lights changed colour, children ran between jets. It was theatrical, joyful, slightly absurd — and perfect. Lima, it seemed, is unafraid of delight.
 
The day ended with drinks back in Miraflores. Conversation slowed. We talked about life, work, the odd paths people take. The city felt closer now, no longer observed but shared.
 
Day Three — Preparing to leave
 
The final day was intentionally simple.
 
Shopping in Miraflores. A last coffee. Familiar streets that now felt almost routine. It is always a strange moment when a place stops being new and starts being known — even slightly.
 
I packed slowly.
 
Outside, the city continued as if I were not leaving. That felt comforting rather than dismissive. Cities that matter never cling. They trust you will remember.
 
What stayed
 
Lima did not overwhelm me. It did something better.
 
It let me walk into it, step by step, story by story, without insisting on being understood all at once. It offered calm and chaos, ocean and stone, ritual and spontaneity — and asked only attention in return.
 
I left knowing I had not finished with this city.
Some places make that clear quietly.
 
Lima did — somewhere between the sound of waves below the cliffs and the echo of footsteps in old streets.

Click here to access the album.
 

AI Generated Image of Caracas, Venezuela, January 2026

A living album, written as the year unfolds
 
This album is different from the others.
 
It is not a memory yet.
It is a story still in motion.
 
Venezuela in 2026 will be a live and evolving collection, growing week by week, season by season, until the day I finally leave the country for my next deployment. It will gather fragments of daily life, small journeys, conversations, landscapes, celebrations, quiet mornings, unexpected encounters, and all the ordinary magic that makes up a year lived with attention.
 
By the time this album began, I had already spent two and a half years in Venezuela. Long enough for the country to stop being only a destination and to become something closer to home. Long enough for streets, cafés, hills, faces and routines to carry memory. And yet, every day here still brings something new.
 
What will fill these pages over the coming months?
 
There will be Caracas in all its contrasts: the hills breathing green above the city, the sudden rainstorms, the colour of markets, the rhythm of evenings, the quiet dignity of ordinary days.
There will be journeys beyond the capital, small and large, planned and improvised.
There will be friendship, because this country has a way of offering it generously.
There will be tables shared, laughter, hallacas and coffee, conversations that stretch long into the night.
There will be light and shadow, because life always carries both, and Venezuela knows how to hold them side by side.
 
Above all, there will be presence.
 
As this album grows, it will become a gentle record of a final chapter of my time here: six more months of discovery, colour, work, connection and belonging, before the road bends once again toward a new horizon.
 
For now, it begins simply, with gratitude for the years already lived in this remarkable country, and with quiet anticipation for everything still waiting to be written.
 
Venezuela continues to teach me how to stay curious.
How to stay open.
How to keep walking forward with wonder.
 
And so this album opens its first page.

To access the album, click here.