Walking Around the City, Caracas, Venezuela, September 2025

Caracas continues to move at full speed — the pace of work rarely slows, and the days often blur into one another. Meetings, decisions, documents, calls — a rhythm that demands attention, precision, and, above all, presence. Lately, much of my focus has turned toward preparations for the rotation that lies ahead in 2026. Though still some months away, the groundwork is already being laid. Transition is never just a logistical task — it’s an emotional one too, full of small goodbyes and quiet reflections, even before departure begins.

In November, I’ll be travelling to Panama for a seminar — a welcome change of scenery and an opportunity to reconnect with colleagues and friends in a setting that feels both familiar and refreshingly different. The region continues to offer its own blend of intensity and grace, and I look forward to the conversations that will take place there.

Outside the office hours, another journey unfolds: my writing project. The memoir continues to grow, word by word, chapter by chapter. Memory is a complex companion — sometimes vivid and immediate, sometimes hesitant and cloaked in mist. But I keep returning to the page, trusting the process, allowing stories to take shape in their own time. It’s a strange and beautiful undertaking — part excavation, part offering.

Like many of us, I follow political developments around the world — and, like many, I feel a growing unease. The global headlines are often troubling, and the sense of powerlessness can be overwhelming. Much of it lies far beyond my influence. So I try to find balance — to stay informed, yes, but not consumed. I make a conscious effort to step away from the screen, to walk, to meet friends, to engage in moments that restore.

In that sense, Caracas is generous. Walking here is easy, and often enchanting. Bougainvillaea spills over walls, the scent of arepas drifts from corner shops, and the city’s light shifts beautifully across the hills. These small walks — these small escapes — offer their own kind of resilience.

Lately, I’ve also begun learning French. It’s going slowly — not because of the grammar or vocabulary, but the pronunciation. That, it seems, is a mountain of its own. Whatever I try to say comes out rather mangled, heavy with my Polish accent. I suspect it may always sound that way. At over fifty, picking up new accents feels like coaxing music out of a stubborn old instrument. But I keep trying, if only for the joy of learning and the humbling reminder of how difficult language can be.

If you’re curious to follow my writing journey, I invite you to visit the dedicated page for the project:
👉 Memoir of a Wandering Spirit

As always, thank you for reading — and for walking with me, in small ways, through these many crossings.