For the last five years, this building and these views have been the accompanying element of my studies. Endless hours of study, stressful presentations, stretching deadlines and long classes, this building held it all. Very iften, when the days stretched a bit too long and sunset would come, there would come a moment in which, no matter the situation, I would stop a moment and enjoy the colourful skies visible all around. As the end of my studies here approached, one more long night of work was necessary, and the sky lit in colours one more time, to give one more break before the end.

This staircase outside my dormitory at CUHK is truly my place. While my home is full of family and my room has my roommates, this staircase belongs solely to me. I live on the third floor, and the laundry room is on the fifth, so I often take the stairs. It’s a quiet spot overlooking both the sea and the hills( that's something rare in Hong Kong’s dense urban landscape). I often pause here between chores or daily routines, thinking about life while watching the sky shift from day to night. In a university full of shared spaces and bustling people, this staircase, with its rare sea view and open sky, is quietly mine.

The Perico Feeling and the Strength of Belonging

The Perico feeling is more than a love for a football club—it is a deep-rooted identity, a powerful connection that binds people across generations. To be a Perico is to be part of a family that extends beyond blood, reaching into neighborhoods, cities, and hearts. The strength of this sentiment lies in its unity; it lives in grandparents telling stories of historic matches, parents passing on scarves, and children growing up with pride in blue and white.

In the stadium or far away, the Perico community stands strong. It is resilience, hope, and unconditional support. This feeling creates bonds that last a lifetime, reminding us that football is not just a game—it’s about belonging.

When it comes to talking about places in Barcelona that bring back good memories, the Maremagnum area definitely has to be mentioned. Back in my childhood, I used to spend exceptional afternoons there with my family, visiting the aquarium or the shopping mall. And I say "exceptional" because, at that age, going anywhere beyond my neighborhood already felt like a great family trip — even more so if it involved a unique place like a mall.

As I got older and was able to explore the city on my own, I started going there more often with friends. We would enjoy the large open spaces around the shopping center, playing football or just relaxing on one of the terraces.

In all of those memories, the best part was always the sea. Being located right at the port and with a drawbridge at the main entrance, the whole area felt like a little island to me.

Finally ,even today, every time I pass by Maremagnum, i remember those moments , feelings and persons that made that place special for me.

Palamós is a town on the Costa Brava, in the province of Girona. My grandparents and part of my family live there. We go almost every weekend and also spend a lot of time there in the summer. It’s a meeting point for all of us, both in winter and summer. I like it because it’s by the sea, and I love the sea. We usually have dinner at the port, where there are many restaurants and a nice atmosphere. Afterwards, we almost always get an ice cream and take a walk along the port or the promenade. It’s a place I really like, where I feel good and enjoy time with my family.

While walking -like many other days- along the Paseo Las Canteras with one of my friends, we stopped and realized how much that promenade had impacted our perception in cities in general. We started using it as a unit of measure; to point out how far something is we would say things like "Half a Paseo Las Canteras". THe calmness of the promenade beside the beach, walking without any cars interfering, long conversations that ended with a quick swim. El Paseo las Canteras is a place that shapes any person that gets to walk it as a routine. 

It’s a coastal village called Llançà, which is very special to me because I spent part of my teenage years and youth there during the summers. For that reason alone, it already has an important place in my heart.

One thing that makes Llançà unique is its location. The village is protected by the Pyrenees mountains. These mountains end in Cadaqués and create a kind of natural barrier. This makes Llançà a bit harder to reach.

Because of this, Llançà doesn’t get many tourists. In winter, you can still feel the true village atmosphere, with people who live there all year. Even in summer, when more visitors come, that local feeling stays.

This is a spot in my hometown, Radovljica, located under the A1/A2 highway. It’s a completely self-built and self-funded skatepark, created by the people and the local community. Whether you go there to skate or just to hang out, there’s always someone you know — someone you’ve either seen recently or haven’t seen in a long time.

The experience of this place peaked during the coronavirus lockdown, when everything else was shut down and the streets were empty. It became a refuge for the community — a space where we could gather without the public judging us for being together. At that time, it was the only place that felt alive, and it has never been as full before or since.

Every time I go there now, I remember the lockdown and how much fun we had — even if it didn’t follow the rules or social norms of the time.

This is Algodonales, a small village in the south of Spain where my parents are from. I go there often, and it always feels peaceful and familiar. The village is quiet, with not many houses, and most of the people who live there are older. Life moves slowly, and people know and help each other. The white houses, narrow streets, and mountains around it make it very beautiful. For me, Algodonales is important because it connects me to my family and my roots. It’s a place full of memories and stories. Even though it is small, it means a lot to me and to the people who live there.

I chose my current studio because it represents me in many ways. It’s a flexible space where everything is connected, reflecting my architectural approach; spaces that connect people and make them feel good. I chose a private interior because it’s where I disconnect from external inputs and find inner peace, allowing my creativity to flourish. I believe we must know ourselves first before truly connecting with the world.

This place also symbolizes freedom: I can go whenever I want, bring whoever I choose, and don’t need to explain myself to anyone. It’s a spacious area where I place my desk in the center to work on models and group projects. That openness and flexibility are why I feel there are no barriers here—only opportunities. To me, that’s what architecture should convey.

I would describe this experience as a form of meditation for me. In our everyday lives, we often focus too much on work, studying, and other responsibilities that fill our minds—often with thoughts that aren’t truly meaningful. That’s why finding activities like martial arts, especially Jiu-Jitsu, can be so valuable. It demands not only physical energy but also intense mental focus.

As people often say, practicing Jiu-Jitsu is like playing chess with your body. What I enjoy most about this sport is that it requires complete engagement—physically, mentally, and emotionally. You have to be fully present, and that level of focus is rare in most other sports, in my opinion.

Although some might assume that martial arts are inherently violent, Jiu-Jitsu—and many other martial arts—are actually rooted in respect, discipline, and courage. The tatami (training mat) teaches you how to remain calm even when you’re pushed to your limits. It helps you develop resilience and composure in difficult situations—skills that are incredibly valuable in everyday life.

Jiu-Jitsu is not just a martial art; it’s a way of life. It represents respect, discipline, and the pursuit of becoming the best version of yourself. That’s why I love it. 

*slurp* I take a sip of coffee. I am sitting in a strange dining room and looking out of the big window. I see an endless lake. I see bare grassy hills with no trees beeing warmed by the high altitude sun. A net of window frames engulfs the womb and protects me from the harsh sun. I can sense the past of this place; the worn parquet floor, the smell of old soviet furniture and falling plaster. My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps on the creaky floor; the waiter has brought me my paklava. As the honey meets my tongue, all my senses have been touched.