• Morocco Is a Mirror

    Morocco Is a Mirror

    The heat met us before our driver did, but it was dry and tolerable as we sat in the backseat and endured the last three hours of travel. The transfer was a monochromatic transition from city walls to farmhouses, interrupted only by palm, argan, and olive trees standing proud in the arid landscape.

    After spending one week visiting a friend doing research in Ghana, I moved north to spend another week in Morocco with family and friends. The trip was an unmet tension between myself and spaces unbeknownst as I moved through the streets of Essaouira and Marrakech.

    When you’re thrown into a space geographically and culturally distinct from the customary, it’s easy to reduce it down to presupposition–where phonetic and linguistic barriers would render you parti pris in your experience of it all. I entered with the subconscious assumption that I would have no point of familiarity. But when you meet a place where it’s at, it reflects facets of yourself revealed only in the unfamiliar–a woeful but wonderful paradox.

    Blue, all blue, the doors, the ocean, the fish stands. Essouira was cooling, both for the soul and the body and most days were spent walking through the medina, finding ceramic and silver wares to fill my luggage with. It took two days to confidently navigate my way through the main streets; this was abetted by the shopkeepers who recognised us (c’est les Australiens) and we would wave at them until we turned the corner.

    On the last day we made sangria and drank it on the top terrace (yes, we had two). White wine, fresh juice and cut up peaches swam in a teapot as we smoked, listening to music and watching the cats traverse across the stones and washing lines which framed the skyline.

    Later, we found ourselves in an outside bar. Crowds watched as the bodies below danced in the open air, moving to the sounds of the night. Loud music fed us until we surrendered at 1:30 am. We skipped along the water and back inside the city walls, running through the streets and past the cats as we clung to the last snatches of Summer.

    Four days back in Marrakech where the crowds and noises overwhelmed my senses and obscured my thoughts. Everything was an acceleration of the former and we frequently sought solace on the rooftops of restaurants and riads, where the heat danced through the doorways and windows.

    The city expresses itself by virtue of the people–foundational to how the streets operate. If you wake early you can feel the rhythm before the crowds drown it out. Mint tea on silver platters is a pharos for understanding the shared life here. Poured from a height and shared to neighbours, friends and strangers. After all, who are we if not our interactions with others? If not our moments of communion? Collectivism is the reflector of humanity. All it takes is some time, and reflection to see it.

    The final night I watched the mosque glow in the distance. We stared at each other, curious about our differences but connected in our similarities. The night smelt like orange blossoms and burning amber and I imagined myself running across the terracotta roofs, I would sit in the palm trees as the city rippled below me. Each moment, real or not, was a pilgrimage unto myself. Identity is a soft cage when you see yourself in relation to the world around you.

    Words by Emma Sun @emsun7s7

  • Light That Lasts: Amsterdam, a Living Archive

    Light That Lasts: Amsterdam, a Living Archive

    On a canal boat, wedged between my mother and a sullen french teenager, a vaguely classical tune drifted through the universal-fit earphones perched above my hoop earrings. 

    On the right, you’ll see the Westerkerk–that is, the Western Church. This is where Rembrandt van Rijn was buried in an unmarked grave. His remains were later exhumed and moved, as was the norm for the poor at the time of his death in 1669. 

    Today, you can pay your respects for the renowned painter at the commemorative stone on the north wall of the Westerkerk, or even at the Rijksmuseum!

    In art school, Rembrandt often came up in lectures and from tutors’ lips. My earliest associations with the name were a paint brand, the artist’s reputation as one of the the masters of light, and an advertised course in my home city where people paid to learn how to paint like him.

    The promotional images captured dutiful students cutting out and taping up A2-sized inkjet prints of his paintings. They spent five days in a row, six hours a day, trying to capture his famed light beside them, like a devotional exercise.

    In the Rijksmuseum, tourists huddled around a vast glass wall where The Night Watch (1642) sat, tended to by an art restorer in an elaborate contraption that carried her to the very top right-hand corner of the massive painting. We watched as she methodically stared at the laptop in her lap and then back at the canvas, and I wondered when she might start doing something more interesting–like making an irreversible black mark, or turning around and saying, Did you know that Rembrandt was buried in an unmarked grave, because he was bankrupt, poor, and his work was suddenly unfashionable?

    Rembrandt van Rijn, The Night Watch, 1642, oil on canvas, 363 cm × 437 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

    I will spare you the history of another Amsterdam-dwelling artist with a familiar story of incomprehensible posthumous fame, but I couldn’t help being amused by the Van Gogh plushies in the Van Gogh Museum gift shop, complete with self-inflicted, bandaged ears. I was even more intrigued by a rogue Miffy masquerading as Van Gogh, paintbrush in hand.

    The inescapable trope of the tortured, canonical, white male artist bores many. This trip had me noticing something new in the powerful ubiquity of these figures–a cultural weight that now seems to operate on the same plane as a fictional, minimal, white bunny.

    While I like to think of myself as educated in matters of fine art, there is something alluring about Miffy memorabilia, which more or less amounts to two dots and a cross. Towards the end of our visit to Amsterdam, we even made the pilgrimage to Miffy’s birthplace: Utrecht, a town only a short train ride away. In the station bookshops, her face stared back from children’s paperbacks in half a dozen languages. She beamed from umbrellas in the rain. 

    It doesn’t stop there. In Tokyo, she occupied entire store floors; in London, she dangled on a passerby’s house keys. I began to imagine my own mark, however small, threading through the world in the same way. At the risk of sounding existential, the thought of the ripples we leave behind long after our passing was the loudest refrain of my time in Amsterdam. I blame the fact that I was knee-deep in my masters, trying to understand what it might mean to make art that may last for centuries.

    After the museum, we walked through the Jordaan and drank mint tea in a narrow café that smelled faintly of sugar and damp wool. We ate cheese fondue with a basket of bread cut into too-small cubes, dipping them again and again into the same pale pool. 

    Looking down into the narrow canal, I remembered the sterile audio guide from that morning that mentioned how Amsterdam’s canals were built in the 17th century. Almost immediately, The Singel Bridge at the Paleisstraat, Amsterdam (1898), which I had seen only an hour earlier, leapt into my mind: the timeless, anonymous figure in the foreground, the impressionist rendering of Amsterdam’s iconic narrow buildings.

    George Hendrik Breitner, The Singel Bridge at the Paleisstraat, Amsterdam (1898), oil on canvas, 41 cm × 60 cm, Private Collection.

    Now the same scene sat in front of me in real time. An Amazon delivery truck whizzed past. A mother cycled by on her bakfeitsen (cargo bike), children settled in the front. A woman opened her comically narrow, tilted window to light a cigarette, dusting the ashes into the water below. Like other cities with long, layered histories, Amsterdam revealed itself as a living archive–where past and present do not replace one another, but coexist, with the promise of some form of immortality lingering in the air. 

    Rembrandt’s light draped over tram lines. Renaissance-period canals accompanied cars and coffee cups printed with two dots and crosses, and Van Gogh’s Sunflowers (1888) reappeared on tote bags slung over passing shoulders. Everything endured at once, and everything kept moving.

    Vincent van Gogh, Sunflowers, 1888, oil on canvas, 92.1 cm × 73 cm, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.

  • Finding My Rhythm in Barcelona 

    Finding My Rhythm in Barcelona 

    The moment I stepped out of the airport, Barcelona greeted me with a wave of warmth that felt oddly familiar. The air was thick and golden, humming with that same heavy humidity I know from Queensland summers. It clung to my skin, alive with salt and sunlight, an embrace that whispered, you’ve been here before, just in another hemisphere. 

    I arrived with my usual sense of morning purpose, the kind that likes an early start, an early finish, and the quiet order of daylight hours. But Barcelona doesn’t live by that rhythm. It moves differently. The mornings are unhurried, afternoons dissolve into languid pauses, and the nights, well, the nights belong entirely to the city. At first, I found myself fighting its tempo, bleary-eyed as dinner stretched past ten, conversations drifted lazily towards midnight and ‘early to bed’ was unthinkable. 

    At first, I fought it. My eyes stung past midnight, my internal clock protesting every late-night conversation and slow breakfast. But there’s something contagious about the rhythm of Barcelona, the unapologetic indulgence in rest, in connection, in life at its own pace. Somewhere between the second evening of tapas and my first siesta, I stopped resisting. I didn’t just adapt; I surrendered. And, somehow, it felt right. What began as a curiosity quickly became a revelation. The city wasn’t lazy, it was balanced. 

    My hotel room was modest and unassuming, in the heart of La Rambla. It was noisy, chaotic, beautiful. But my room held one extraordinary secret: a small terrace balcony that opened like a private stage over the city. When I looked straight ahead, the rooftops of Barcelona stretched in a terracotta mosaic toward the horizon: church spires and bell towers punctuating the skyline. When I looked down, La Rambla pulsed below, alive with its daily theatre of movement and sound: street performers, bustling bars and restaurants, the laughter of tourists and locals mingling in the same sunlit stream. 

    It became my favourite place in the world to sit, that little balcony. Somewhere between serenity and chaos, between being in the city and observing it. 

    What struck me most about Barcelona, though, wasn’t just its beauty or history, but its people. They are, without exception, genuine, grounded, and welcoming. Conversations came easily, smiles were unguarded, and help, in the form of restaurant recommendations or a nod of understanding, was always offered with warmth. There’s an authenticity there, a quiet pride in living well rather than merely living fast. 

    Of all the places I explored, the Picasso Museum remains my most cherished memory. Tucked within the narrow streets of El Born, it feels more like an intimate conversation with the artist than a gallery. The progression of his work, from the delicate lines of his youth to the bold experimentation of his later years, is deeply moving. Standing there,

    surrounded by the essence of a genius who once walked those same streets, I felt an unexpected stillness, a connection to the pulse of creativity that defines Barcelona itself. 

    By the time I left, I realised the city had changed me in subtle ways. What I’d found there wasn’t just a destination, it was a rhythm. A way of living that celebrates both energy and rest, both art and authenticity. I arrived a morning person, disciplined by habit; I left sun-kissed, sleep-deprived, and completely enchanted. A morning person who, for a fleeting moment, learned the joy of late nights and long, lazy afternoons. 

    Barcelona taught me that life doesn’t always need to move quickly to feel full. 

    It’s a city that doesn’t rush to impress you; it invites you to linger, to feel, and to breathe with it. And once you do, you carry its rhythm with you—long after you’ve gone.

  • The Greek Kafenio

    The Greek Kafenio

    Perched beneath a sea of casuarinas outside the kafenio, the old boys are onto their second or third elliniko kafe. Dressed in their weekday-uniform of plaid shirts with the top buttons undone, they’ve ditched their Lowes windbreakers for the season. Adorned now in their weathered golf caps, they relay the town’s gossip in their village tongue.

    Most of the time, they’re too engrossed in mindless conversation to notice anyone beyond their bubble. A circle of friends hanging out through time, a third space where they can meet without reservation.

    A traditional kafenio can be found in every Greek town, village, island and city. It’s not your quintessential café by any means, but rather a hub for conversation, a place to gather, and a way of life. During the waves of Italian and Greek migration to Australia in the 1960s, cafes, takeaways, and taverns quickly popped up around thriving city hotspots, providing spaces to build community and recreate a sense of home thousands of kilometres from their roots.

    For the diaspora, the kafenio acts as a parallel homeland, primarily serving older generations while preserving language, traditions, and cultural memory. It provides a space where stories from Greece are kept alive, creating continuity for those far from home.

    While gatherings of older generations at a café aren’t unique to Greek culture—these customs of unstructured togetherness are evaporating at a rapid rate.

    In big cities around Australia, the space between the personal and the public feels thinner. Beyond Europe’s piazzas and village squares, these casual corners of community—the spaces to linger without purpose—are becoming harder to find.

    There’s always a murmuring of ‘where to next,’ or the night abruptly ending just as it begins. At times, it feels as though connection has become transactional, a checklist item, rather than intentional: something that lies at the very core of our human nature. After all, most of our best memories, or even our misfortunes, unfold in the spaces between life’s scheduled moments.

    Greek kafenio culture, to me, stands as one of the last strong effigies of the 1960s migration—a living relic of what was once a hub for building community abroad. Within these spaces, motifs of my childhood form a blanket of comfort whenever I find myself passing through these suburbs, still untouched by gentrification, with a patriotism so palpable it could be served on a plate: evil eye shrines, iconography with scripture of orthodoxy, sepia-toned portraits of Greek football teams.

    In an age where such microcosms are vanishing, the kafenio remains both a sanctuary and a testament to a diaspora’s enduring spirit.

    And yet, for all this utopic vision of community, the practice is dissolving as younger generations rarely take these seats. Our “third spaces” are mostly wellness centres and online platforms. The suburban kafenio, once the heart of Greek life, now survives mostly with its creators: Australia’s first Mediterranean migrants.

    As these spaces dwindle, I find myself reflecting on what it means to lose cultural memory to assimilation. I suppose the fading of these spaces—especially those tied to my cultural heritage—leaves me longing for a side of my Greek-Australian identity that feels distant, almost dreamlike, and perhaps like it never fully existed. I find myself escaping into memories of golden afternoons of big backyard BBQs, cards at my grandfather’s roundtable and wine shared with neighbours over the backyard fence. These intimate, unstructured gatherings were the heart and soul of the community and without them, I feel as though I’m clawing onto the last crumbs of my identity by yearning for the nostalgias of my childhood. (A yearning that, I fear, has hardened into a defining trait of my personality lol.)

    I often take pride in my rich cultural heritage, in how my family remains deeply rooted in Greek traditions—something that feels completely natural to me, but which others might see as unfamiliar or unique. Of course, I am first and foremost an Australian woman. But my connections to the motherland often pull my allegiances into two.

    It’s bittersweet to think that one day this generation will fade, and with it, perhaps the lived nuances of this dual connection to Greece and home. Yet the memories endure, and perhaps it is now up to me to pass them on.

  • Beginner’s Modesty: Bathing Like No One’s Watching

    Beginner’s Modesty: Bathing Like No One’s Watching

    It’s uncharacteristically chilly for the first few days of Japan’s green season. Enduring downpours feed the canopy around us and a low-hanging cloud hovers over our mountain abode.

    So much for my summer vacation.

    Quickly, our days fall into a rhythm: drip-brewed coffee from a hole-in-the-wall cafe, a scenic drive to a lookout, a variation of conbini onirigi or cold soba. If the weather permits, an icy plunge into the Matsukawa River.

    And always—a visit to an onsen to close the day.

    Despite the tenacity of the rain and a very drawn-out spring, I get to enjoy the sacred baths outside of winter.

    The Japanese Alps boast some of the most idyllic hot springs I’ve ever seen—nestled into moss-covered valleys or perched on cliffside ridges with panoramic views. With full credit to my partner’s digital sleuthing and his commitment to doing things that no one else does, I’ve found myself knee-deep in some of the most beautiful, natural pools, rich in minerals of the Earth. Soaking beneath rustling leaves, with nothing but nature as company.

    We do have a local onsen we return to often. Not quite as remote, but charming nonetheless—tucked into the heart of a quaint little town in Nagano. We time our visits just before the last entry. Not entirely to avoid other humans, but mostly for the quiet luxury of having it to ourselves.

    Annoyingly, I’ve yet to fully shake what onsen regulars have come to call “beginner’s modesty.” So I’ve mastered the art of stealth—timing my entrances when the bamboo-lined change rooms are unoccupied.

    I like to think that my apprehensiveness towards nakedness is sourced from my more orthodox upbringing. But here, those inherited boundaries feel obsolete. Almost as if I’m the one out of place for clinging onto them.

    There is a desire to bask in eternal forty-degree bliss, at odds with the pervasive fear of getting my rack out in front of petite strangers. Around me, delicate silhouettes slip quietly into the space. Mine barrels in with curvaceous vengeance.

    When all is said and done, it’s foolish to assume I can get away with enjoying the baths by myself one hundred percent of the time. At some point, it starts to feel like I’m cheating the whole experience—like when gaijin wear their bathers in the water.

    Eight hundred yen is a steep price to loiter by the changeroom Asahi machine, waiting sheepishly under the neon flashing lights, anyways.

    When I do share the space though, it’s almost always with older Japanese women—composed, unbothered. After the first bare-bum barrier dissolves, it feels like no one is watching at all—or even cares to watch. It is a realisation that is uniquely humbling and freeing.

  • Dead Sea Dreaming

    Dead Sea Dreaming

    If you visit the Dead Sea during the summer, when the days are long and sticky, it’s best to dip into the water just before sunset or just after sunrise. It’s only an hour’s drive from Amman, a trip marked by a long highway lined with resorts and sun-bleached shops–each one conjuring memories of childhoods spent in the sun, the scent of plastic inflatables and sunscreen thick in the air.

    I’m used to visiting the water at dusk, just before dinner. In recent years, the make-shift beach reserved for our favourite hotel, the Kempinski Ishtar, has been enlarged, decorated with a drink stand and two brand-new outdoor showers.

    Standing at the shoreline is a meditative experience. You’ll find that the water tends to blend into the sky, creating the illusion that the sea stretches on forever. That couldn’t be further from the truth: the Dead Sea is evaporating at a rapid rate. Its exclusive salinity will soon be a thing of the past–a chapter closed forever, along with Egyptian mummification and centuries of conflict.

    If you ask, staff will source you some souvenir salt crystals, and if you’re fortunate, you’ll get a pretty one. However, there is a kind of guilt that comes with taking away from something as ephemeral as the Dead Sea.

    If you look like a tourist, someone will inevitably explain the “right” way to enjoy the sea.

    1. First, you should float in the water for five minutes. It’s no secret that the exceptionally high concentration of salt and minerals nourishes the skin.
    2. Then, dry off and apply mud to every visible inch of skin (avoiding swimwear, which the mud will permanently stain).
    3. You’ll be ready to go back into the water once the mud dries under the sun in ten minutes–pass the time by taking photos of your muddy limbs, or conversing with the medical tourist sitting next to you.

    It’s best not to spend too much time in the sea, because the salt is almost too potent, and can cause swollen legs. The water has a way of finding every vulnerability and making it sting: a paper cut you didn’t know you had, a tiny scrape barely exposing flesh.

    Anecdotally, spending time in the sea heals superficial skin issues like psoriasis and acne. I recall a woman who was often by the water, sitting on the edge of a sun lounger, with dried mud on her arthritic knees. The supposed benefits of the Dead Sea range from miraculous to modest–fifteen minutes of stillness, if nothing else.