Cities are living, breathing creatures, shaped by the humans who inhabit them. In return, they shape us too. We walk their streets, drink their coffee, breathe in their air, and all this before we can even get to know them. These creatures become a part of who we are, whether we intend it or not. Every city is a home for someone, a haven of hope, or a landscape of despair. They are places where we seek refuge, and at times, places we flee from. They mean everything and nothing to us people, simultaneously defining and defying what it means to belong.
Why don’t we carve out more time to get to know these soulful beings? How does a city smell like at dawn? What does it taste like after midnight? What memories do they leave for our minds to fly back to, and how do we recreate those sensations when we find ourselves unable to return?
Over the last three years, Tirana and I have formed a bond that has deepened with time. What began as a work relationship quickly grew into something much more meaningful. With each visit, we’ve grown closer, revealing layers of each other’s character. Now, Tirana has become one of the places I gladly seek refuge in. Here, I’ve found a world beyond the confines of the labels of work—a world rich with friendship, love, creativity, and the thrilling promise of what the future holds. I’ve seen Tirana in all of her seasons, and as she shifts her palette from the summer’s floral pink and blue, into wrapping itself in the warm hues of autumn honey and orange in preparation for winter, I find myself walking the streets with an umbrella in hand. Tirana breathes in the crisp air, its rhythm slowed, yet alive. I listen to the dance of sounds— the gentle patter of rain meeting the earth and the steady beat of my heels against the wet pavement. Together, they create a symphony, a quiet dialogue between the city and me, as we walk into the changing season. I ask myself if it is in the very essence of a city, in its light and shadows, that we find the fragments of ourselves. We forge relationships with these urban landscapes, and in doing so we become part of them, just as they become part of us.
As I see it, the world we live in was created for us, and each city offers its unique hue, a palette of human experiences. Sipping on a freddo espresso with a dear friend, I comment on my growing love for the lively capital of Albania. His reaction was swift, like a strike of lightning. With the heart of a polite soul, I watched him catch the words before they could escape, shifting them into something softer—”Oh, I am getting a bit tired of it.” But his eyes betrayed him. They couldn’t lie, holding the truth of what he really wanted to say, as if the weight of his real thoughts flickered behind them, just for a moment. While some of us run away from certain places, others walk towards them. Cities, with their ever-changing nature, offer both of us the thrill of discovery and the comfort of the familiar. Travelers often seek a sense of home in these vast, humming domes — a home that’s more internal than physical. In these spaces, we love, we hate, we laugh, and we cry. Together, we create memories—some fleeting, others eternal. And through it all, cities bear witness to our individual and collective stories.
Homes are more than bricks and mortar; they are the connections we nurture and the lives we weave within these spaces. Whether permanent or fleeting, each place can surprise us with offerings beyond our expectations, gently guiding us to the next if we’re open to their whispers. Cities, in their complex and unspoken dialogue, reveal our identities, expose our vulnerabilities, and mirror our shared humanity. They imprint themselves on us, becoming integral pieces of the puzzle we craft. With time, we find ourselves circling back to where it all began, revisiting the versions of ourselves that existed in those early spaces. In these moments, we can find the layers we’ve shed and the distances we’ve traveled. That, perhaps, is the rare privilege of aging—not just individually, but together with the places that shaped us. We grow in tandem, reflecting each other’s transformations, each moment a testimony to the passage of time and the lives lived within it. I’ve never understood the lament over cities changing. Of course they do, change is their nature, as much as it is ours.
But what does it mean to truly know a city? It’s more than just memorizing its streets or landmarks. I know nothing of Tirana’s map, but her being, I know well. She’s kind and thoughtful, and despite the sorrow etched deep into her being, there’s beauty in every line across her face. Each one is a testament to her bravery, her fear, and everything in between. And yet, she smiles, welcoming me with a heartfelt hug, offering warmth from a place that has seen so much. Her resilience shines through, as if to say, “I’m still here, standing tall, and so are you.” It’s about engaging with her soul—feeling the rhythm of her daily life, tasting the flavors that define her, and understanding the emotions she stirs within us. To know a city is to allow it to leave its mark on you, for you to bring it to the next one you visit, and this is how the cities get to know each other.
When I travel through cities like Istanbul, Paris, or Yerevan, I feel as if I am going to dine with an old friend. I can’t wait to hear what has happened since last time we met, yet again a privilege of moving and aging. Istanbul, the grandest love of my life who always keeps me on my toes, the enigmatic storyteller, full of new adventures one could only dream of. Paris, cycling around the nostalgia, infused with bitter complaints about life’s struggles, always with a head held gracefully high and fire in the eyes. Yerevan’s colorful plates on the table, with smells telling the history of resilience, carrying the weight of both tradition and transformation. My friends patiently listen to me and my stories of, mainly repeating dreams I’ve shared over the years. They are the ones reminding me of how many of these dreams have actually come true. I continue to move through this world, reminding myself that the cities are my friends, and like kindred spirits, they live within me. I bring their stories with me from one place to another, letting them guide me.
The rain continues, as does my walk in Tirana, and now I ask myself, “Who am I when you hold my hand?”.
What if cities could hear all we do and say? Imagine them as living archives, silently storing the traces of our everyday lives—the whispered conversations, the footsteps of those we’ve loved, the laughter of a summer evening. Amongst themselves, these cities might judge us, cheer for us, love us, or even despise us. They are both our friends and our enemies, shaping our stories without us ever realizing it. As they evolve over our lifetimes, so do our relationships with them. We may be born in one place, only to find that it’s vanished, transformed, or forgotten by the time we say our final goodbye. Yet, no matter how the story ends, we will always carry our memories of the cities we once called home—and they, in turn, will hold memories of us, as though we are forever etched in their streets, their air, and their heartbeat.
Feautured pictures by Niusha Khanmohammadi
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