As I sat in San Diego International Airport, I kept wondering what life would feel like thousands of miles away. The people, the cultures, the simple day-to-day things that had been familiar to me for twenty-one years. I’d traveled before as a kid—camping across the country, seeing new places—but this felt completely different. Anyone who’s been overseas knows that feeling. As the plane lifted off, the excitement finally hit, but there was still that quiet nervousness sitting with me.
Arriving in Venice made everything real. The things we saw in history books as kids were suddenly right in front of me. The language, the people, the pace of life—everything was new. I spent a little more than two days there and barely took a break. From sunrise to sunset I wandered, photographing, documenting, letting myself get lost on purpose. Not for anyone else, but for myself. As an artist, this kind of place feeds something in you. Even though I shared bits with friends and family, I never felt the need to be connected. When it’s night here and morning there, the disconnect is strangely energizing.
After Venice, I made my way to Lake Como—and honestly, that place stayed with me the most. The people, the music drifting through the streets, the way the evenings settled in… it felt unreal. One evening around 5 pm I wandered up a trail into a neighborhood and somehow felt both lost and exactly where I needed to be. The next day I walked to Cernobbio with no plan at all. It took about three hours from central Como, and I didn’t mind one bit. I even tried to rent a bike, couldn’t figure out the translation on the app, and just kept walking.
When I reached Cernobbio, I found this tiny brewery on a corner with “Brooklyn Brewing” painted on the brick—almost the exact logo I had found online four years earlier when I was designing my first brand. It blew my mind. I took a photo on my Pentax Zoom 90WR, but later that day I dropped it and lost the entire roll.
On the walk back, I passed a beach area where kids were yelling and running around. Two boys—maybe twelve or thirteen—were kicking a soccer ball, and I really wanted a photo. They noticed me, said a few things I didn’t fully understand, but were so full of joy that it carried right into me. I ended up kicking the ball with them for a few minutes. Before I left, I asked their names and got a photo of them with their arms around each other. It reminded me of being a kid with my best friend. That photo was lost in the broken roll too, but the moment still feels as vivid as ever.
From Como, I took the train to Basel and spent a couple of days there. Basel felt more like a real city, maybe closer to San Diego or LA. More people spoke English, which probably played a role in how comfortable I felt. I loved the morning train that stopped outside my place every day at 8 am—I'd hop on with no plan, no destination. Just exploring. I haven’t found that exact feeling back home yet, but I still chase it.
My final stop was Paris. I headed straight downtown—where the movies, the energy, the chaos all lived. I stayed farther out in a district called Montreuil, which felt much more real than the center. Paris itself was wild and definitely more tourist-heavy, but Montreuil had this honesty to it. The buses were filled with working-class locals, each person carrying stories I wish I could’ve captured.
After a short day and a half in Paris, I headed for the airport and squeezed into a middle seat for twelve hours back to LAX. The exhaustion hit me hard—ten days of walking ten hours a day will do that—but it was worth every second. The trip gave me stories and feelings I know I’ll carry with me for a long time.
Hopefully you find some joy in experiencing it all through a secondhand lens.
Thanks for reading — with love.
