Kinsale, Ireland, has the kind of streets that wrap around you and walk alongside you. From its stone walls, colorful cottages, and lush gardens hang stories—solid as rock, yet warm as wood. And when the sunlight spills across them, it carries the crisp scent of the Atlantic breeze.

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast. Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast Hemingway at a Paris café in the 1920s—where smoke curled in the air, wine glasses caught the light, and every conversation felt like the beginning of literature.

More than fifteen years ago, I first met Teresa. Not in person, but in the fragile pages of a doctoral thesis I once read about women and the Holy Inquisition. Soon after, I began tracing her footsteps, and it was then that I decided: one day we would come to Cartagena, Colombia. And here we are. I think of her each time we walk through the walled city.

It was a quiet June afternoon, and the Seine was calling. The clouds hung low, soft and layered—the way Paris sometimes likes to live her days: a little veiled, a little mysterious. We wandered along Quai Saint-Michel until the square at Place Saint-Michel unfolded before us, a stage alive with fragrance.

It was a quiet June afternoon, and the Seine was calling. The clouds hung low, soft and layered—the way Paris sometimes likes to live her days: a little veiled, a little mysterious. As I stepped onto the path beside the river, I couldn't help but think: this is where it all began. Over two thousand years ago, the Celtic Parisii settled right here by the banks of this river.

There’s a particular kind of calm you only find by the sea early in the morning. In Cartagena, Colombia, that stillness takes the shape of a curved walkway beside Bocagrande Bay. It’s not a grand spectacle, but something quieter, more intimate—like a gentle welcome from the day itself. As I walked in the direction of Castillo Grande, the city was just beginning to stir, and I had the water, the breeze, and the garden path mostly to myself.

That Sunday morning in Chapultepec Park began like any other stroll—until it wasn’t. What started as a simple walk turned into something profound: a quiet encounter with the sun, a telescope, and a sense of awe I hadn’t expected.

The first impression was awe. I felt small beneath that alarmingly beautiful iron structure. As if someone had said, “Here you go, Paris—your boldest touch, the one that will make you unforgettable.” Like the irreverent detail that makes an exquisite hat truly unique.

Through my travels, I’ve learned that small-boat fishing is a lonely trade—just you and the sea. One gives, the other takes. But the giver doesn’t always play fair, and the taker must know how to play the game—and when to step away. Still, they say, the sea always gives back in the end, even when it seems to have beaten you.

To stand here, simply watching the light move across the buildings, is to feel history without needing to explain it. We come from all over the world, drawn not only by beauty but by something deeper—something like belonging. Though we weren’t there when the stories were made, we are part of them now, just by being here.

The air felt like a silk embrace—warm enough to notice, light enough to float on. In moments like these, the skin seems to soften, letting the atmosphere wrap around it. And then it arrives: a sunset in all caps. The kind that defies words, because it isn’t just about what you see—it’s about what stirs inside you when the everyday miracle of dusk unfolds once more.

Coburg Street reminds us how joy can live in the everyday—in a quiet stroll, a colorful corner, or the ease of reaching what you need on foot.

Yesterday, we went to The Bulman, a cozy pub-restaurant perched in the little seaside village of Summercove, just outside Kinsale. When we planned this trip, we added Kinsale to the list simply because of the name. My husband is a Bulman, and his great-grandfather—also a Bulman—was born nearby, in Mitchelstown. His grandfather, Anthony Bulman, was born in 1894 and left Ireland for America in 1910.

On May 18th, old friends who live in France took us to a place unlike any other: Les Machines de l’Île Nantes. We weren’t quite sure what to expect. We had seen photos of the giant steampunk animals—mechanical elephants, fantastical birds, oversized insects—but nothing prepared us for the childlike awe they inspire. This isn't just an attraction; it's a…

We passed by Sin É three times before ever stepping inside. Each time, the doors were open, and the music spilled out onto the street like a warm breeze. But it was too full, too alive to squeeze into. Still, something about the place kept calling us back—the blue façade, the soft clinking of glasses, the laughter you could hear even from across the street.

I can no longer imagine living in a city where I have to drive to the pharmacy, grocery store, or a restaurant! The joy of a walkable city is like a smile—it’s simple yet incredibly fulfilling. This June 1st, John and I are celebrating five years of living in walkable cities. Cities that invite you to slow down, to notice, to feel more connected to everyday life. The kind of places where errands become gentle rituals, and the streets hold a quiet kind of freedom.

La Cigale Nantes has been welcoming guests since 1895, and the moment you walk in, you feel it. The history clings to the tiled walls, flickers in the antique mirrors, hums beneath the chandeliers. This historic brasserie doesn’t shout—it sighs. A place where time folds in on itself, and the present feels touched by something more poetic. Writers once came here with ink-stained fingers and unhurried afternoons.

There are places that say farewell for you, even when you can’t quite find the words. Walking along the edge of the Erdre River in Nantes, I felt that quiet grace wrap around me. The air was soft, the light delicate, filtered through a lattice of summer leaves. Grand homes stood in poised silence across the water, their reflections rippling slightly with the passing breeze.

While on my way to visit the Japanese Garden on Île de Versailles in Nantes, I took a quiet path that ran alongside the Erdre River. I hadn’t planned anything special for that short walk—just a simple stroll toward a peaceful garden in one of France’s most walkable cities. But just before reaching the entrance, I noticed a row of boats in Nantes resting along the water’s edge.

We wandered Rue des Tanneurs as if inside a watercolor painting, where time seemed to pause between one breath and the next. The pastel half-timbered houses, each with its own quiet soul, stood like sentinels from another century, their flower-filled windows watching the canal below. The water mirrored it all—the creamy yellows, soft roses, and gentle blues—doubling the beauty in a way that made us stop again and again, just to look.

We found Casa Rubinat on a quiet walk through Gràcia, Barcelona, during a warm afternoon in April 2025. No map, no plan—just wandering. And there it was, tucked along a serene little street shaded by trees. Carrer de l’Or feels like a gentle pause in the city—lined with homes, cafes, and everyday life. But right in the middle of it all, this modernist building catches your eye and holds it.

Certainly! Here's your revised text with relevant keywords naturally incorporated, without bold formatting: In the quiet heart of Nantes, France, the Basilique Saint-Nicolas rises like a sacred song in stone and glass. Step inside this stunning example of Neo-Gothic architecture, and everything slows. The high vaulted ceiling stretches above like open wings, its delicate ribs meeting in perfect patterns—a reminder of the care and hope that rebuilt this historic church after the French Revolution.

We had just finished lunch—savory crepes and cider—when we wandered into Place Félix Fournier, letting the streets of Nantes guide us. And there it stood: the Basilica of Saint Nicholas, rising unexpectedly from the quiet square, its spires catching the sun like a promise. At first glance, it’s a vision of beauty—graceful arches, delicate carvings, and a towering central spire.

When I first saw the Château des ducs de Bretagne, I didn’t just see a castle—I felt like I was stepping into a story. I’ve seen castles built to protect, with thick walls and heavy gates, made for battle. But this one is different. It’s the first residential castle I’ve ever visited, and you can feel the difference right away. Its shapes are softer, its colors lighter.

There are mornings we dream of rising early, walking hand in hand to the shore, and watching the sun climb quietly into the world. But sometimes, sleep cradles us a little longer, and by the time we stir, the day is already humming. I think of that now—how many dawns we miss without realizing it, how many moments slip past while we’re still tucked beneath the comfort of covers.