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The first time I noticed InPost in Barcelona, it was not a parcel locker. It was a Punto Pack sign outside a local tabac, squeezed between signs for cigarettes and Catalan lottery tickets. The yellow logo was instantly familiar, even though the setting was not. I took a photograph, naturally.
At first, I photographed every Osborne bull I saw. Some appeared suddenly on a hill in the distance, black against a vast blue sky. Some emerged from behind dry fields and low mountains. Some were so monumental that they seemed less like objects and more like presences — as if they
I bought this T-shirt for my mum and only later realised that it was basically a complete Spain starter pack. Sun. Sangria. Flamenco. Bulls. Paella. Windmills. The Sagrada Família. None of it is wrong. It is simply not the whole story. After two years of living between Poland and
The hotel looked exactly like the kind of place where you expect a perfect breakfast. It stood somewhere on the road to Zaragoza, built of warm stone, with heavy wooden doors and thick walls that had probably witnessed decades of travellers coming and going. From the outside, it felt almost