There’s something about a city before it wakes up—the hush in the air, the slow yawn of the streets. I’ve always found my deepest connection with places in these quiet, early morning hours. The roads still carrying the previous night’s heartbeat, the pigeons beginning their rituals, a lone wheelbarrow patiently waiting, ready to carry what’s necessary for the day.

Cities have a way of revealing themselves in these moments. No pretense, no noise—just the bare bones of who they are, and who I am in them. I walk these streets like I’ve known them forever, and in some ways, I have. The cracked tiles, the faded shopfronts, the brush of chill against my face—they speak a language that doesn’t need translation. I have been trying to explain this to people. The flashbacks of intimate relations with Brussels, Tallinn, New York City, Tokyo, Frankfurt, Dublin, Beirut, Lahore, fortunately the list goes on…At times I’m closer to cities than I am to people.

In these still hours, I feel most alive. I’m not just passing through the city—I’m a part of it. And it, somehow, becomes part of me. These walks don’t just ground me—they nourish my soul. They remind me that belonging isn’t always loud or crowded. Sometimes, it’s just the sound of your own footsteps echoing through an empty street.

Currently in Thimphu, Bhutan, but I could fall in love with “anywhere.”

April 2025