Researcher, academic writer, and curious observer of everyday life. I write about Spain, culture, travel, food, and the small moments that often tell us more than famous landmarks ever could.
There is a point every year when I decide that summer has lasted long enough. The weather does not necessarily agree. This year, my autumn started before Barcelona’s did. I was still in Poland when the seasonal shift began: a little crochet, a few autumn decorations, the familiar pleasure
There is a particular kind of conversation you can have in Barcelona in which everyone complains about expats while, quite possibly, being one. Too many foreigners. Too much English. Too many remote workers. Too many people arriving with salaries earned somewhere else. Too many cafés full of laptops. Too many
It started with Sant Jordi. In the weeks before 23 April, Barcelona becomes rather difficult to separate from books and roses. Bookshops fill up, stalls begin appearing, and even Casa Batlló ends up covered in red roses. I was looking for a book for Javi. And somewhere along the way
I never thought much about vermouth. It wasn’t unknown to me. My dad drank it occasionally, so I had seen it around long before I moved to Spain. But in my head it belonged vaguely to the same category as Cinzano: familiar, slightly old-fashioned, and not particularly interesting
There is probably no official moment when a city becomes home. No notification appears on your phone. There is no ceremony, no point at which somebody says: Congratulations, you live here now. There are, of course, official ways of proving that you do. You can sign a contract. Put your
There is a peculiar stage in a delayed flight when you stop tracking your own flight and start tracking the one before it. The aircraft that is supposed to take you from Barcelona to Katowice is still bringing another group of passengers from Katowice to Barcelona, so suddenly their journey
This may be slightly disappointing, considering that I have been running since I was 21 and, since 2012, throughout the year. Surely after all this time I should have developed some profound thoughts about discipline, perseverance or becoming a better version of myself. I haven’t. I simply love running.
Barcelona has a way of writing its conflicts directly onto its walls. During Festa Major de Gràcia this year, some of the messages were particularly difficult to miss. And above one street: Welcome to the Vila de Gràcia. This is not Spain. We are the Catalan Countries. Seen separately, these
For a long time, I thought being busy was a sign that I was doing something right. There was always another deadline, another paper, another project, another email that could be answered immediately rather than tomorrow. And there is a strange culture around this, especially in jobs where work can
There is a moment in Poland, somewhere in the second half of August, that has always been my favourite part of the year. It is still summer. The days can be hot, everything is still green, and nobody is reaching for an autumn coat yet. But something has already changed.
I prefer the aisle seat. I still like looking through an airplane window. Who doesn’t? But somewhere along the way, flying between Barcelona and Poland stopped feeling like travel to me. It became transit. I sometimes joke that Airbus is an exceptionally literal name. An air bus. Some people
The first time Javi asked if I wanted a frankfurt, I didn’t think about hot dogs. I thought about Germany. More specifically, Frankfurt am Main. Frankfurter sausages. German food. Growing up in Silesia, those associations felt completely natural. German names, recipes and culinary traditions never seemed particularly distant to