I biked home along the empty streets of Østerbro in Copenhagen, Denmark, the late winter air biting at my cheeks. The government’s announcement echoed in my mind like the bell of the town hall clock. Compulsory military service—for everyone. Eleven months in uniform, wielding a rifle, learning to fight. And not because we’re at war, but to prevent one.

I shuffle into the market as the sky starts to glow a faint orange, the kind of dawn that promises no warmth. My reindeer fur jacket creaks with every step; the frost has stiffened it overnight. Around me, Yakutsk, Russia, begins its daily ritual, a city alive even in the most brutal cold. Exhaust fumes linger in the air, swirling around bundled-up pedestrians like restless spirits.

The wind in Iten, Kenia, has a way of speaking to runners. It brushes against your face, tugs at your clothes, and dares you to go faster. I remember standing at the edge of the school track, staring down the lanes like they were pathways to something bigger. I was only eight when my sports teacher first noticed me sprinting barefoot across the fields of our small village.

Walking through the crowded streets of São Paulo, Brazil, I often feel the weight of stories buried beneath the concrete. This city is a living mosaic of histories—some told, many forgotten. I used to think my own story was straightforward, just another blend of Brazil’s countless cultures. That was before I learned who my father was.

I watched Sana wrap her new headscarf neatly in front of the bathroom mirror at school today. It was light pink, matching the soft blush on her cheeks. She smiled when she caught me looking, but I could tell it wasn't a full smile. Not the kind she used to have when we chased each other during recess. I wonder if she feels different now—if she feels older or heavier.

The wind was particularly sharp that morning, cutting through the narrow streets of Punta Arenas, Chile, like a blade. I pulled my scarf tighter and watched the waves batter the shoreline. The Strait of Magellan has always had a way of reminding us who's in charge.

Last week, something happened that’s been stuck in my mind. I’m from Rome, Italy, born and raised, and last week in my systems architecture class, our professor surprised us with a group assignment—design a basic CPU scheduler simulation. Groups formed instantly, the usual clusters of guys gravitating toward each other. I lingered for a moment, then quietly joined a group of three who barely noticed me beyond a polite nod.

I watched the rain snake along the cobblestones of Calle de las Huertas, the city breathing under a grey sky. Madrid, Spain, had been my home for five years, yet some days it still felt like I hadn’t quite earned my place here. The streets hummed with life, but I moved through them like a ghost, unnoticed, blending into the rhythm of the city.

The scent of frying oil clung to me like a second skin. By now, it barely registered. I used to scrub it off in the evenings, thinking it made me less presentable, but after twenty years standing behind the counter of my friterie in Namur, Belgium. I wear it like a badge. People say my fries are the best in the world. I let them talk—who am I to argue?

The morning breeze still carries the scent of wet earth after last night’s rain. I sit by the window, watching a crow peck at something invisible on the ledge. Funny creatures, crows. In our stories, they carry souls to the afterlife. Yet here it is, struggling with a breadcrumb. Perhaps it’s ferrying some poor soul to a modest destination.

The wind off the Atlantic was stronger today, rattling the shutters of my apartment in Funchal. Four years here, and I still haven't gotten used to how quickly the weather shifts on this island. Madeira seduced me five years ago during a week-long vacation—the kind of escape you book on a whim when Munich's grey skies weigh too heavily. The sun, the cliffs plunging into the ocean, the gardens bursting with colors I'd only seen in photos—it felt like a world apart. So, I stayed.

Last week, I went to renew my driver’s license here in Mexico City. Simple task, right? Not for me. The line was long, the air smelled like old paper and cheap coffee, and the fluorescent lights hummed in that irritating way that makes you question your sanity. By the time I got to the counter, I was already tired.

The storm had rolled in fast, faster than I’d expected. I’d been out gathering shellfish along the rocky shore of Vancouver Island, Canada, humming an old whale song under my breath, when the sky shifted. The air grew heavy, and the wind began to howl through the cedars.

The catering tent smelled like overcooked fish, and the conversations around me were the same tired loops I’d heard a hundred times before. War, migrants, inflation, energy. They talked like it was all inevitable, like a storm you just had to ride out. I was holding a paper cup of lukewarm coffee, not really part of the group but close enough to listen. When I finally spoke, it was more out of frustration than anything else.

The office smelled the same as it always had: a faint mix of musty paperwork, cheap air freshener, and frustration. I sat in the same kind of metal chair I used to watch citizens sink into during my years in public service in Chengdu, China. This time, I was on the other side of the desk, clutching my forms, waiting for my turn.

The sun was barely up, but Bamako, Mali, was already awake. The market district buzzed with noise—vendors shouting, engines sputtering, people jostling. My battered old Peugeot 504 creaked under the weight of the family I was driving. A father, mother, and two wide-eyed children sat in the back, their silence as heavy as the heat that pressed down on us.

Twenty years ago, the sea betrayed us. It wasn’t the gentle horizon my father loved, the one he stared at during quiet moments on the dock. That day, it rose like a predator, devouring everything in its path. My father was one of over 160,000 Indonesians taken by the tsunami. He worked as a dock worker on the coast of Banda Aceh. There was no warning system then, no time to escape. Just devastation.

The barn smelled of fresh hay and warm animals, a scent I’ve known since I could walk. It was dusk, and the sky outside glowed a soft orange as I leaned against the old wooden door, watching the cows settle for the evening. My life has been rooted here, on this farm in the gentle hills of Croatia. Forty years of work have left my hands calloused and my back stiff, but they’ve also given me something far greater—perspective.

The scent of fresh bread barely cuts through the chill of winter in Madrid, Spain. I cradle my coffee, its heat seeping into my fingers as I stare at the street outside. It feels surreal to be here—half a world away from Buenos Aires, Argentina, where everything seems to be unraveling. I haven’t been back in six months, and the city I left behind feels like a distant memory.

The smell of smoke clung to my uniform, even after I had scrubbed my hands raw and changed into fresh clothes. It was past noon on New Year’s Day, and the house was eerily silent, except for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath my feet. My wife had gone to visit her sister, leaving me to my thoughts.