Coalesce. Between beaches.

A city breathing between two bays.

San Sebastián, Spain

Donostia, as San Sebastián is called in the local Basque language, sits between two beaches, and neither side competes with the other. La Concha curves wide and generous on one side, a perfect crescent that faces the bay and is a major beach vacation resort with towering, exclusive hotels attracting all kinds of tourists. Zurriola catches the Atlantic swell on the other side, a rougher, younger, less composed side attracting lots of surfers. The city lives between these two moods and seems entirely comfortable with the contradiction.

Arrival, under golden towers.

I arrived in the late afternoon, when the light over the water goes honey-coloured and the Parte Vieja, the old town, begins to wake up properly. The narrow streets between the cathedral and the port slowly start to come alive after the siesta, and by early evening they fill with couples, small groups, families, everyone moving slowly and without particular purpose, just enjoying the culinary richness and cinematic backdrop.

Everywhere in Spain it's called tapas; here in the Basque country they are called pintxos: small bites, most of them resting on a slice of bread, skewered or balanced or arranged with the kind of casual precision that takes years to make look effortless. In San Sebastián it feels like an architecture of a magical evening, each bar its own small room in a labyrinth that somehow all connects. There is a Spanish saying: "El viaje es el que te transforma, no el destino." "The journey is what transforms you, not the destination." This is an essential understanding that the best things are not destinations. They are doors you keep opening.

Sunset view and everyone's meeting point

We started at sunset at the Akerbeltz bar with a perfect view of La Concha, just above the harbour, and started our tour through the old town. We passed the Koruko Andre Mariaren Basilika, a magnet of the old town, slightly uphill, where everyone gathers at the steps, enjoys the impressive view into the old town, meets, and just chats. The plan and habit is to move around from bar to bar and get stuck at one. One glass of txakoli, the local white, poured from a height to open it up, sharp and slightly sparkling, and two or three pintxos at one bar, then out into the street again and through the next door. Each place has its own character, so completely that stepping between them feels like crossing a threshold into a different idea and world. Ganbarra bar is loud and tiled and lit like a club, its counter a crowded still life of anchovies, Russian salad, eggs, and a specialty Basque roasted pepper (piparras).

Pintxos, waiting to be chosen.

The next one is a wood-panelled bar with dimmed lights, way quieter, the pintxos fewer but created and prepared with greater devotion. Another is barely a room at all, yet people fill it and it is full, because the risotto it serves is apparently worth standing in the doorway for (Borda Berri). What strikes me, moving through them, is that none of these places are similar, but somehow fit all together like concepts complementing each other.

Piparras, bacalao, and whatever else survived.

What all these bars have in common is that Basque feeling of giroa, an atmosphere and understanding of warmth made from gathered people and small pleasures. It is not only present here. It accumulates, bar by bar, glass by glass, through a specific vibe that is interconnected from place to place.

By ten o'clock we had eaten perhaps twelve pintxos and drunk three different wines, not hurried once, just enjoying the atmosphere and scenery, making friends and getting advice on what to try out next. A pure rush of bliss and culinary delights.

Last sunrays, low tide, La Concha

Later, back along the seafront, La Concha was dark and calm, the lights of the bay reflected in the water. Zurriola was behind us somewhere, still restless with thundering waves. The shadows of Santa Clara Island, a small, flat island sitting right in the middle of La Concha bay, stretched calmly across the water. In summer there's a small beach on it and a boat that takes you across. It just sits there, perfectly placed, calmly framing and guarding the bay.

Evening settles over the bay.

We took a small hike up the promenade and the mountain guarding the bay, entering the world of Bar Resaca. It feels more like a theatre foyer, a big mirror behind the bar, people who look like movie stars, nicely dressed, with confident, friendly looks scanning the room. Lots of people are gathered here, waiting patiently to order drinks, the bartender immersed in the perfect cocktail, ignoring the impatient looks, too focused on adding the right ingredients. We finally ordered two beautiful glasses of bubbles, enjoying the jazzy atmosphere inside and chatting with happy people outside, with a perfect view over La Concha, before descending to the beach to watch the annual summer fireworks show.

A sphere of summer night lights.

It is quite a display, in an exquisite location, with so many culinary delights and different vibes to watch the fireworks, almost a feeling of getting sucked into a sphere full of different shapes, symbols, and musical themes. An exclamation point on this unique place, one that never stops giving, and never stops surprising you, all over again.

The bar that doesn't announce itself, but everybody knows.

The night concludes in the Pokhara bar, these places you would usually just find by accident or a local tip. It sits between the two beaches at the side of the Urumea river, not quite old town, not quite seafront, slightly hidden, the kind of bar that doesn't announce itself, but everyone knows it. A bottle of sagardoa, the Basque cider, cloudy and cold, is being ordered. We are standing outside in front of the window with it because there was nowhere left to sit, and it didn't matter, it was just a cozy vibe.

La Concha, dark and calm.

This describes the city between its two beaches perfectly. The bar is completely at ease with itself, mostly locals, but welcoming to everyone. I thought, this is what it looks like when a place has stopped trying to be impressive, showing off, and simply becomes amazing in all its imperfections and contradictions. It's like when perfect small things add up and coalesce, they become something bigger and special.

Harbor & Horizon

Evening light, after a day that needed outrunning.

How running is not only a trend but a necessity

Zuiderstrand, Den Haag

A beautiful summer day, not too warm, not too cold, the perfect summer bliss. Sunshine, temperatures around 24 degrees, and a slight breeze cooling the house and the body. A day full of work, the mind bloated with new ideas and errands to be done, plans for future projects. A natural way of concluding a day like this would be to go to the beach, soak in the warmth, occasionally jump into the slightly wavy sea to cool down, with the added thrill of not getting stung by a jellyfish. And to top it off, after drying a bit, to chug down a couple of beers or a nice rosé with a view over the bay, letting the soul wander.

But the body and mind are demanding something more action-filled. All that cortisol from a stressful day, the mind still racing, ready to let loose. And just at the perfect time, my new running shoes arrive. Unsure of the feel, the shape so different from my worn-down tennis shoes, I get an extra boost of energy, ready to make myself a name in unboxing and product testing. A definite sign, sent by the running shoe company: go run! One step after another.

A couple of stretches, a nicely composed running outfit topped off by my new orange running gods, and I march away. Up the small hill by my house, through the harbor neighborhood, where a group of business-convention types block my way across the bridge to the seaside. But my adrenaline and the sheer happiness of moving are so intimidating that they leap aside, delegating and warning others to make room for me. By now I am almost flying along, a bundle of pure energy. A short wave of thankfulness, full of pride and an extra boost, and I sprint away toward the second harbor and on to the sea

Off toward the North Sea, past the harbourmaster's post.

Now my muscles tell me to calm down. That first phase, coming out of the starting blocks like a rocket, pays its dividend in shortness of breath and a few muscles tweaking. I slow down and settle into a sustainable tempo, one I can survive for the next half an hour. I soak in the environment around me, looking at the boats in the harbor, from small sailing yachts to the big coastguard cutters and fishing trawlers. A fresh sea breeze hits my face, and tells me: just one short ramp up past the harbor, and the seaside and the harbor entry are in front of me.

Magically drawn to the sea, my tempo increases, but more rhythmically now than before. A big smile runs across my face when I see the wavy sea and the beach washed in that perfect summery yellow. A wide stripe of open sand runs right along the water. The perfect arena to jog along the coastline.

Open sand, right along the crashing waves

Watching the crashing waves, trading runner's greetings, I observe the dunes and the people roaming the beach. I feel superior as a runner right now, almost snobbish, striding along the coastline, taking in nature's beauty, an uncontrollable feeling of happiness and bliss overcoming my brain and my body.

That is what running is about. The perfect moment when you surrender all the thoughts from before, clearing out your mind and ending up completely in the here and now. The further I go, the more kilometers I stack up, the more I feel myself resetting, further and further, back into some default baby setting.

On the horizon a big ship enters the harbor and blows its horn. A sign? A greeting? Sometimes we do not have to chase the deeper meaning of everything around us, or everything about who we are. Sometimes the solution is just a run, to see the beauty of it all.

Coming home, a feeling of calm and relaxation washes over me.

Reset complete. Life is good.

The Land of Mega Pumps

Wake-up call in the Windy City. Photo: Oindrila Bose/Unsplash

The ritual of coffee and finding a cozy place that feels like home

Chicago, Illinois, USA

The most beautiful thing in the morning is to wake up, rested but still sleepy, the sun peeking through the curtains and a fresh breeze going through the house, when the thought of a freshly brewed coffee hits you. On weekends preferably in bed, home brewed, with a freshly baked cinnamon bun. But most of the time a jolt of energy overcomes you and catapults you out of bed, ready to start the day on the right foot and keep moving, before the madness of the day arrives. Off to the land of unlimited morning energy.

A quick splash of water onto the face and head, quickly dressed up in a half running, half leisure wear outfit, sliding into some sports sneakers, and out in the still dim reality to the heavenly morning place: The Coffee House.

In the USA a friend once described her walk to the coffee place as a ritual that feels like being home again every time she returns — the morning walk to the next Starbucks.

The place of unlimited morning energy. Photo: Alex Feleja/Pexels

This corporate powerhouse of industrialized coffee making has completely transformed the “Art and Ritual” into a business transaction, which somehow still feels like a modern slightly quirky coronation. Quick and efficient, with minimal human contact. If you haven't ordered over the app for a quick pickup, the in-store order demands a precise order command manual. If you are not following it accurately, eye-rolling and impatient silence will follow, looking down on such amateurism, but with an extremely high reward if executed correctly.

There I stand, overwhelmed by the choices in front of me, thousands maybe even a million of different options. New trend drinks like the Unicorn Frappuccino, okay?! But the drink looks more like a mix of all body scrubs from Lush combined or maybe a Tropical Butterfly Lemonade Refresher, mhmm apperently trying to display the whole spectrum of colors in one drink. Maybe not something to start the day with, and I'm not feeling adequately suited style-wise for such a drink anyway. My eye catches a cold brew coffee — nah, that sounds promising for a morning wake-up call maybe with some sweet and saltiness in it.

1000s of different coffee choices and new trends. Photo: Rachelia Kriss/Unsplash

"One Iced Salted Caramel Cream Cold Brew, Venti, please," I proudly throw at the person at the register, who has been eyeing me patiently the whole time, waiting to finally take my order. She counters with: "Would you like that with normal, light, or extra salted caramel cream foam?" Crap. She got me. Slightly confused but still confident I answer: "Ahh make it an extra this time" — even though I have never ordered it before, and I’m already regretting my big-mouthed choice. But bigger, better… you know the verse, I'm just trying to fit in here, what can I say. With a professional attitude she registers it and asks for a name. Today I go by Lenny, easier to write down and pronounce than my real name or other creative inventions like Lawrence for some reason. She puts the order through to the preparation counter, I pay and trot over to the pickup area, full of pride at having mastered the jungle of choices and order procedure.

Arriving there, I find myself being pushed around by customers streaming in now, hunting for their coffees and scones or egg pastries. It takes a while, waiting patiently now in the back, while more and more people gather in the pickup area, before the magical moment arrives: "One Iced Extra Salted Caramel Cream Foam Cold Brew Venti for Lenny!" it echoes through the room. Yesss, that's me! Step aside, people, I've been chosen! Nods of admiration all around or maybe looks admiring the courage? Ahh, he went with an extra salted caramel cream foam. "Sure, yours will come next," I mumble with a little weird eye wink to a bystander with an impatient, disappointed face checking his morning messages on his phone. I glide on the imaginary rolled-out red carpet to the counter to pick up my iced coffee trophy with its perfectly, artfully mixing colors.

With a now satisfied face I start slurping at my drink while trotting back to the waiting area, because for some reason the oatmeal my companion ordered takes the longest to prepare — everything feels mechanically well trained in this place, but the oatmeal here feels like it is meticulously freshly prepared by a retreat yogi back in the kitchen.

Starbucks baristas serving the morning crowd. Photo: Vaishnav Chogale/Unsplash

The first sips are a symphony of different flavors, perfectly balanced, very good choice. Then it hits me: a rush of sugar sweetness activating my brain membranes and completely numbing my taste buds. I give my companion, now impatiently waiting for her oatmeal, almost ready to jump over the counter herself to prepare it, a taste of my iced brew specialty. "Really nice huh? But maybe a tad too sweet?" I ask her, rhetorically, already sure of the answer. "Yes," she answers with a face somewhere between delight and cringing, "a bit too sweet. I wonder how many pumps they put in there?"

I'm a man of action, especially in this place. The indirect command has been received, and my foreigner attitude, a mix of curiosity and innocence, pushes me back to the counter. "Sorry, can I ask you something? How much salted caramel did you put in my drink?" With an interested but slightly surprised look, the preparer at the station throws back at me: "The usual six pumps for an extra salted caramel cream Venti." My eyes flash open in disbelief. "Oh wow, thanks," is all I can bring out, although I'm ready to scream: Isn't that the whole frigging syrup bottle?!!

Good old cane sugar in this country is a necessity rather than a choice. And yes, this heavenly palace of coffee curiosities added a measurement to the sugar supply in their drinks, not in cups or ounces or any other common measurements for liquids in this world, but in PUMPS. Dangerous measurement if you ask me. My theory: the more trained and fast-paced the Barista is, the fewer pumps you have to order, because they're not too shy to jolt that pump accordingly. With newbies, give it an extra one, they're still afraid of it, like everyone should be with this sweet dynamite.

Morning walk in Chicago’s rising sun. Photo: Jerry Kavan/Unsplash

The oatmeal arrives and we walk out, deeply laughing about the pump festival in my coffee. Well, next time I’ll know, in the land of mega pumps, better order half the amount and add that to the perfect order procedure, to actually have a morning coffee instead of a sugar rush with a straw.

The walk back feels amazing in the now rising sun, still few cars on the road, birds chirping, dog walkers still night fuzzy trying to navigate the four-legged friends out of their front yards, the morning dew and mist still laying in the air while the city slowly wakes up. One task of the day already completed. I smile at my companion and she smiles back, pure happiness and joy thanks to the place of unlimited morning energy.

Morning in the Windy City. Photo:Ryan Heuer/Unsplash

¡Pura vida!

Volcano Arenal, clouds drifting past the peak

La Fortuna, Costa Rica.

A beautiful morning, the sun already shining warm on the main square at Parque La Fortuna, the volcano Arenal in the distance towering impressively over the area, clouds moving through and covering it once in a while. A small store of frutas y verduras (fruits and vegetables) with a sugarloaf-shaped roof, almost like a garage yard sale, full of avocados: big, heavy ones in perfectly ripe state, piled up on tables next to other fruits and vegetables. I pick up a loaf of bread and some butter from a small local supermarket nearby. I find myself a spot in the sunshine, on a bench in front of a pergola, the Catholic church behind me in the middle of the square, and make my own breakfast. A street dog lazing on the lawn, strolling around from time to time, making his rounds, checking in on me, as if the whole square were under his care. By his third round, his name is Charlie. No menu, no waiter, just pure simplicity and an animal friend in sunny calmness.

Charlie, the street dog lazing on the park lawn

I press my thumb into the skin of the avocado and it gives in immediately. That particular sign that tells you the timing is exactly right. Not a day too early, not an hour late. I spread a good chunk of butter on the bread, lay the avocado across it in thick slices, lots of flaky salt, some pepper, and a good amount of slowly drizzled honey.

Parque La Fortuna in the sunshine

And the beauty of it: this simple green fruit is quietly one of the healthiest things you can put on bread. The creaminess that makes it feel so indulgent is mostly the good kind of fat, the heart-friendly, monounsaturated kind, the same family as olive oil. It adds more potassium than a banana, a solid dose of fiber, vitamins E and B, and its fats even help your body absorb the nutrients from whatever you eat alongside it. A breakfast that tastes like a treat and still quietly gives your body all the vitamin superpowers. Like the Costa Ricans would say: ¡Pura Vida! (Pure life!)

Super ripe avocados. Photo: Eddie Pipocas/Unsplash

I sit there on the bench, eating my masterpiece, crafted with artistic precision and the few tools I have - really, really slowly, Charlie completing another round, unbothered. My mouth watering at the symphony of tastes coming together and melting in my mouth. Just some water and freshly pressed orange juice to go along with it.

Parque La Fortuna. Charlie patrolling the area

What struck me, sitting in that sunshine with the avocado bread melting on my tongue, was how completely the whole thing held together. Nothing competed. The avocado its rich creaminess, topped by the honey giving it a quiet sweet surprise. The butter underneath it all, doing its invisible work, like a rug holding the room together. The salt balancing the sweetness out perfectly and the pepper giving it a pinch of spice and character. Each thing fully itself, each thing making the others better. Simplicity in perfection.

Avocado bread. Photo: Faruk Tokluoglu/Unsplash

Recipe: The open slice — for two

2 big slices of bread, freshly baked

1 ripe avocado

Unsalted butter

Flaky sea salt

Black pepper, freshly ground

Honey runny (or hot honey, for a flaming kick)

Butter the toasted bread generously. Slice the avocado thick and lay it across. A steady slow drizzle of honey over it, a good amount of flaky salt, a crack of pepper. That’s it. Eat slowly in the sun or wherever it shines for you ;-)

Enjoy! ¡Buen provecho!

Surf.

The art of being in the moment, and one with nature

Nothing pulls you in with such elegant fascination as surfing. Not padel, not sourdough baking, not cold showers or natural wine tastings. It's one of the most beloved activities around - the trend sport of the moment, even though it has been with us forever. In a coastal town, conversations these days go something like this: "So, do you actually surf?" Here in The Hague, it's like being asked whether you like Kimchi, or whether you are in a run club; delivered, if the answer is no, with a faintly reproachful tone. And instantly the advice follows, "You should really try it," completed with where to start and what to buy. It doesn't matter in the slightest whether the person opposite you is a bloody beginner or a seasoned surf pro.

Surfing between worlds - rose-coloured sky over Europe's biggest port, Rotterdam

Most advice we receive a dozen times a day is noise; people want to share their community, their sense of belonging, and that is fine. But this one feels different. It sounds less like a recommendation than an invitation into a faith.

Hard chargers go foiling

Mostly, people mean wave surfing, or its flashier cousin, kitesurfing. The self-declared hard chargers go foiling now, especially wing foiling. The equipment alone is intimidating: it gives off the vibes of a survival expedition and practically yells in the face of the ordinary beachgoer that this is serious business, not a leisure activity. Respect it and stand aside. All of it underscored by a self-confident gaze out to sea and a studied ignoring of the non-surfers admiring the setup.

I always find myself smiling. Not because the behaviour puts me off, or because I find it ridiculous, but out of pure awe for that person's anticipation of an incalculable adventure, for their deep focus on the conditions at sea. What has Mother Nature cooked up today? How am I going to navigate this choppy wave salad of the North Sea? What's the best way out past the break? And where, down the line, are the best conditions hiding?

Catching a small roller

It may be the ultimate task of our times: to find calm and focus in the open air, unreachable, pure happiness. No ringtones, no messages popping up on a screen, no one demanding your attention from a thousand miles away. Just the self and its abilities, trying to master an art that can never quite be mastered, supported and sometimes hindered by the fellow surfers scattered across the wavy scenery. I truly admire the dedication to self-fulfilment. It is a life lesson in patience and endurance, disguised as play.

A petulant observer on the pier

The sun is still high in the sky at this time of year, mid-August, around eight o'clock, and it still carries real power. The water has reached 21 degrees, unprecedented for this corner of the earth: almost a bathtub by Dutch standards, and one of the stranger gifts of a changing climate. I feel an instant urge to buy a board on the spot and throw myself into the waves with the surfers now arriving in droves, ready to shed the day's work sorrows and reset their inner balance. But as a petulant observer, still handicapped by a summer flu, I choose instead to study, laugh, enjoy, and blissfully watch the spectacle from the concrete pier, guarded by its wave breakers.

There is something quietly astonishing about sitting at the edge of the ocean, almost at eye level with the surfers, just slightly above them, watching them paddle out and fight the relentless crashing waves to reach the sweet spot where the perfect wave might carry them in, seemingly without effort. You can spot the beginners: still intimidated, battling not only the power of the water but also their own balance and their own boards, just to make it out at all. And then there is the selection of the waves themselves. Some look promising at first, only to crash down and collapse; others die away a few meters on, just when someone has committed to them.

Evening lineup at Zuiderstrand - the North Sea winding down slowly

It is like trying to make the right decisions in life. Some work out and some don't. Some look glorious and fizzle. Some build slowly, quietly, and become absolute monsters.

The wave washing machine

I find it fascinating how the more advanced surfers ride the slow rollers with immaculate patience, knowing exactly when to accelerate, when to carve the turn, and when to pump the brakes and throw themselves out before the wave collapses or the shore arrives. That instinct, reading your surroundings and the conditions while not taking out your fellow surfers in the process, is a spectacle worth watching in itself.

But in the moment, I confess, it's the beginners I find most entertaining. Good old Schadenfreude, as we say in Germany. Not because I celebrate their failure, maybe a bit, comes with the heritage I guess, but because I have been exactly there: hanging in by a thread, desperate not to be swallowed by the wave washing machine, collecting the smiles and silent nods of acknowledgement from the surfers around me. Everyone started out like that. Everyone knows the battle.

Last light, last waves, no hurry to paddle in - just soaking in the moment

What strikes me is the relentless will to keep going, to try again and do it better, even when the exhaustion is palpable and the power is dwindling. Every failure is a lesson: read the next wave differently, pop up on the board immediately, attack the angle of the wave down the line and ride its flow naturally instead of fighting it. It is exactly what life demands of us. Failure is pre-success; to reach it, we have to keep trying and find our rhythm and flow. Out here, that lesson is taught with nothing but a surf plank and Mother Nature's endless wave force.

Surf's up

A perfect moment of awe, even for a mere spectator on the harbour pier, in the now-setting evening sun, with the thunder of the waves shattering against the breakers. It occurs to me, watching them, that the surfers are not escaping the world so much as returning to it, to the version of it that existed before all the noise.

Maybe tomorrow I will be out there myself: tossed around, navigating the ocean's unknowns, finding solitude in the sheer endless rolling of the waves.

For sure. Surf's up.

Morning delight

Zuiderstrand, Den Haag - early morning at the North Sea

Zuiderstrand, Den Haag. Early in the morning the sun slowly creeps up behind the dunes, filling the whole beach with a tender morning yellow. The North Sea waves calmly roll to the shore, almost flat, interrupted only by the occasional sandbank.

Zuiderstrand, the native beach in The Hague that can be crowded, full of beach chatter and buzzing beach bars, children building big sand castles on hot summer days. That one is electric too, but that’s not the one I'm talking about.

The one worth getting up for is earlier. The light is still deciding whether it wants to fully reveal its colours. The sand is cold underfoot and there is almost no one, just the occasional runner, the tired dog walkers throwing tennis balls to entertain their four-legged friends, and the seagulls sitting in the sand, enjoying the first rays of sun or searching the waterline for food. The North Sea is crystal clear and completely peaceful. Exactly what I need in the morning.

In summer you feel the pull towards the water. It doesn't take much bravery, just the willingness to commit before you talk yourself out of it. You go for it. A morning dip. The cold hits you all at once and then for a few minutes you are entirely, unambiguously awake. No thoughts. Just water, sunlight, the sound of small waves, the taste of salt in your nose and mouth. Occasionally your foot catches something besides the soft sand, maybe it’s a stone, a fish, a crab. The sea has its unknown secrets. Immersion is the key, not panic.

You slowly come out of the water, one final dip of the head under the surface, and walk back up the beach. The day hasn't started yet and you already feel ahead of it. A wave of happiness washes over you as you throw the towel over your head and feel the warmth of the sun on your skin. The sun is rising steadily now. More morning dippers arrive, and strangers exchange glances of quiet admiration and nodding, sometimes an occasional Goedemorgen. There is an invisible connection between people through nature's beauty. That's the whole thing. That's what matters.

A perfect moment of morning delight.

Morning swimmers and dippers in the North Sea