You step into a Japanese city, and suddenly, your visual perception shifts: the world turns pink, petals float in the air, cling to the hair of passersby, drift across the river’s surface, dance through the streets. The wind carries them like confetti, and you walk through a scene that feels like it’s been filtered through the lens of a nostalgic dream.
Cherry blossoms don’t bloom slowly. They explode. They burst, flare, and vanish—leaving you with a fleeting sense of something untouchable, something that won’t last long but will stay with you forever. In that moment, there’s no rush, no noise, just the realization that you’re catching a moment you’ll miss for the rest of your life. Memento mori, if it were a person.

Tokyo isn’t a place where cherry blossoms are admired in silence. Tokyo is a typhoon! Maybe I’ll always associate it with that vibe because that’s how I first saw it—caught in a whirlwind of atmospheric chaos. The rain poured down like a monsoon, but Stefan and I didn’t stop. Keep walking! That’s when I finally understood the phrase, “There’s no bad weather, just bad clothing.

Luckily, we had the right clothes (and shoes), but even more than that, an insane drive to keep going. Transparent umbrellas became a way of life. The city was soaked and stunning. We were exhilarated. That was the day I fell in love with rain.

After rain, there’s always a rainbow. Here, it was Meguro River. I stumbled upon it by accident and had one of the most magical experiences of my trip. Here, cherry blossoms fall directly into the water, while skyscraper lights reflect between the petals. Walking along the river felt like stepping into a pink-tinted dream, as if someone had erased the boundary between reality and fantasy. That was the night I fell in love with unplanned destinations.

Is this really a hanami festival? Yes. People spread out blankets under the trees, pop open bottles of sake, and turn their small picnics into gatherings that last until sundown. My first real shock was in Ueno Park—everyone was there. Couples, families, elderly people sipping matcha (but without making a concept out of it) and gazing up at the pink canopy above them. The wind carried the scent of cherry blossoms and the warm breath of spring. It was crowded, but no one cared. That was the day I learned to love crowds

And then—Shinjuku Gyoen. More than a thousand cherry trees of different varieties, blooming in every shade of pink. Expansive lawns, quiet serenity. It felt like stepping out of Tokyo’s chaos and into a pocket of calm. People lounged on the grass, laughing, sharing food—nothing was rushed. Here, time didn’t exist. That was the moment I learned to love pink.

• Ueno Park – Total chaos and the best picnic vibe. Crowds, sake, laughter, and petals everywhere.
• Meguro River – Cherry blossoms falling into the water, Tokyo reflecting in them. A dream for slow walks.
• Shinjuku Gyoen – Escape from the madness into sprawling lawns and a serene, fairytale-like atmosphere.
• Chidorigafuchi – Romantic scene with rowboats under cherry trees. Feels like a movie.
• Yoyogi Park – The most laid-back hanami – like a giant urban picnic full of laughter and good energy.

You’re sitting in a Shinkansen, the bullet train gliding through the landscape as if defying friction. Outside, cherry blossoms flicker past the window in soft pink blurs—like a GIF stuck on three frames. In Tokyo, there was rain; in Kyoto, perfect zen awaits. But here—somewhere between worlds—there is only the rhythmic pulse of the train and the feeling of being somewhere, yet nowhere at the same time.

At one point, we pass a small, forgotten station. No tourists, just an elderly Japanese man in a coat, calmly waiting for a train of his own.

My friend from the train told me about her mother. How she had passed on to another world. I thought of my father. And of that old man we had just sped past at 300 km/h. He was gazing into the distance, maybe toward the future, maybe toward the past.

We both fell silent, lost in thought… and then—Kyoto Station.As if we had skipped a part of the story.

A teleport in the real world?

Kyoto isn’t Tokyo. Time moves differently here. I wander through the old Gion district, passing by traditional wooden houses, and suddenly, I see a group of women in kimonos walking beneath cherry blossom trees. I can’t tell if I’m looking at the present or some distant memory from centuries ago.

The Golden Pavilion is already in perfect harmony with its surroundings, but when the cherry blossoms reflect on the lake’s surface, the scene feels surreal. It looks like a carefully composed image from a Japanese ukiyo-e print.

And Arashiyama? It’s not just a bamboo forest. It’s a place where cherry blossoms grow between the slender bamboo trunks, blending into a vision of nature’s perfect balance. I walk through the quiet, the sounds muffled, the scents crisp, and the light filtering through the branches as if passing through a magical veil.

• Gion – Vintage Japan vibe, cherry blossoms and kimonos at every corner.
• Golden Pavilion (Kinkaku-ji) – Iconic zen scene with blossoms reflecting in the water.
• Arashiyama Bamboo Forest – Cherry blossoms + bamboo = pure nature magic.
• Maruyama Park – The ultimate Kyoto hanami spot, steeped in old-world charm.
• Heian Shrine Garden – Perfectly manicured gardens, an oasis of peace in the city.

Osaka is a completely different story. Here, hanami isn’t just in the parks. Here, it’s woven into the city’s rhythm, tangled with the energy of a place that never really sleeps. Osaka Castle Park is the classic spot for hanami, but the real magic happens in Dotonbori.

At night, cherry blossoms glow under the reflections of neon signs, while people sip cocktails in colors that blend perfectly with the petals above them. Osaka doesn’t celebrate hanami in silence—here, you drink, eat, dance, and feel like you’ve stepped into a Japanese film where everything is too intense to be real. And that’s the whole point.

• Osaka Castle Park – A classic hanami postcard moment, with the castle in the background.
• Kema Sakuranomiya Park – Relaxed atmosphere along the river, packed with locals.
• Dotonbori – Neon, cherry blossoms, chaos, and cocktails in sakura shades. Osaka at its peak.
• Tsurumi Ryokuchi Park – A lesser-known but stunning garden for those who want a quieter hanami.

You only understand the true value of hanami once it’s over. When the petals fall, when the rain washes the streets clean, when Tokyo returns to its concrete tones, when Kyoto becomes just an ancient city again, when Osaka stops glowing in pink.

But something remains. That feeling of walking through a whirl of petals, hearing the laughter of strangers beneath the trees, inhaling the scent of cherry blossoms mixing with the evening air. You can’t take it with you, but it stays in you forever.

Everything flows, every journey is life in miniature. It starts out planned, but always unexpected. It can be chaotic, and sometimes full of rain. Then, you find your pink-tinted glasses, and the sun shines again. After that, there’s the breakup (with the destination), the goodbye (to the destination), and the end (of the magic).

If this is what life after the … end feels like, I’m okay with it.

That’s the souvenir I brought back from Japan.

Am I now officially recognized as an ikigai life coach?

How do you end up packing your bags for a destination none of your friends have ever been to? If you’re like Stefan and me, the answer is: without planning. To be clear, this doesn’t mean the trip itself wasn’t (very) carefully planned—it just means the decision to go happened spontaneously, unexpectedly, like one of those ideas that pop into your head, and instead of dismissing it, you let it grow.

I was casually texting with some friends we often travel with, and as we were listing places none of the four of us had ever been to—which, trust me, is harder than it sounds—I pulled out a wild card I had been keeping in my back pocket for years: India.

I had always wanted to see it up close. Even though it was completely different from anything familiar, India attracted me for several reasons: first, its aesthetic—one that I doubt could leave anyone indifferent. Then, the endless stream of dreamy imagery from books and films, always filtered through the eyes of Westerners like Kipling and Bertolucci, whose visions I wanted to compare with my own—because capturing a mind like theirs isn’t easy. And finally, the ultimate element: uncertainty. The unknown. That part of the world that had never been part of my firsthand experience, only a myth.

Stefan, at that moment, wasn’t exactly thrilled about the trip—and that’s an understatement. Our friends, who had been listening to his doubts for months between the day we booked the trip as a group and the day we actually left, can confirm that he kept saying: “I have no idea why I needed this in my life.”

The first thing that surprised us—mainly due to our lack of prior knowledge of Indian history and its art—was just how present Islamic architectural elements are. This particularly struck Stefan, who, as an architect, was mesmerized by the absolute refinement of the ornamentation, the endless subtle variations of patterns, the lines, and the spatial dynamics.

Of course, ten days is nowhere near enough to become an expert—we barely scratched the surface of what this endlessly fascinating country has to offer. Most of the buildings we saw date back to the 12th–17th centuries, from the Mughal era. Still, it was more than enough to open our eyes to an entirely new world and just how different it is from what we in Europe and the West associate with those centuries.

We explored the famous Golden Triangle: Delhi, Jaipur in Rajasthan, and Agra in Uttar Pradesh.

Red sandstone is everywhere, quite literally making India a pink-hued land, along with marble. Airy spaces and water elements were another common feature in all the buildings we visited. Every space had either a fountain or a pool, adding a sensory dimension—both visually and acoustically.

Yes, monkeys and cows roam freely. Yes, the crowds are overwhelming, as are the countless sounds. Yes, the streets do sometimes look like a movie set. But India is so much more than the preconceptions we carry before stepping foot on its soil.

For starters, there is no such thing as “one India,” not formally and certainly not experientially. It’s a collection of 28 independent states and 8 territories, each with its own identity—even different languages. Although we only visited a tiny fraction of it and are well aware that things vary greatly from region to region, we felt safe everywhere.

And something else followed us everywhere—the scents. Riding through narrow city streets in rickshaws, we passed by shops and market stalls overflowing with the aroma of incense, jasmine, and all kinds of fragrant spices. Everything was incredibly clean, and flowers were omnipresent. Indians weave bright yellow, orange, and pink flower garlands as offerings to the gods.

You might be surprised—just as we were—to learn that India doesn’t have that many foreign tourists. Or rather, it doesn’t have the massive hordes of international tourists you see elsewhere. Most of the people traveling in India are Indians themselves, and everything is designed to cater to them. We were often stopped by locals on the street who wanted to take pictures with us—because many of them had never seen Westerners in real life.

This is one of the main reasons why I wouldn’t recommend visiting India on your own. While Indians are incredibly friendly and welcoming, having someone who knows the terrain, the people, and how things work makes all the difference, and yet, beyond the stunning architecture, the colors, the flavors, and the aromatic streets, the people left the deepest impression on us. One moment, in particular, changed everything.

Visiting a rural school was not on our original itinerary, but it turned out to be the most unforgettable experience of the trip.

Tucked away in winding village streets, a small, single-story house with just three classrooms—only one of which had desks and chairs, while the other two had children sitting on the floor—served as a school for about fifty students. In India, primary school is not legally mandatory; it is a privilege.

The children we met, dressed in crisp pink shirts that made up their uniform, welcomed us with a warmth and joy so pure that it’s hard to describe. The surge of emotions we felt is difficult to put into words without sounding overly sentimental. It’s something that has to be experienced rather than explained.

India is its people. After everything, they are what leaves you speechless—the way they treat each other and the way they treat strangers. Their generosity, openness, and spontaneity, combined with their sharp intelligence, make this country truly one of a kind.

A friend recently sent me a WhatsApp postcard from America—a photo of a café entrance called French Press. It instantly took me back to a (long-gone) time when I bought that very contraption on a trip, back when such things weren’t available in my country, nor were low-cost flights. Today, everything is within reach. I’ve long replaced my press with a noisy machine, but budget-friendly flights? I’d never trade those. What I would change are mainstream experiences, which have started to bore me. Like those overcrowded Adele concerts, where people pay for something they’ve already seen—a perfectly engineered thrill. It’s like shopping on Temu: you never really know if you needed that gadget or just threw your money away on impulse.

While everyone was chasing mega-events and ticking off their “must-do” lists, I decided to look for something off the radar, in a place everyone thinks they already know. France and Provence naturally emerged as the perfect choice.

When I set my mind on something, I have to make it happen. For this birthday, I wanted to embrace a slower, more effortless way of life—so off I went to the Alpes-Maritimes region. I’ll admit, it took me a few days to even memorize the name of the village I was heading to, despite speaking French. As my Instagram feed kept flooding with clips from that famous Adele concert on tap—an endless loop with no real beginning or end—I realized that my only real response to all that was exactly what I had planned for myself.

As our Uber drove towards the village of La Colle-sur-Loup, a thought crept in: Do real experiences still matter to us, or have we completely surrendered to the illusions fed to us by algorithms and marketing?

And then, as if someone had pulled me out of that mental spiral, the landscape began to change. In an instant, I was transported to the P-dimension (read: Provence). Greenery, pine trees, the scent of nature—like someone had sent me on a detox from modern life. To be honest, I also felt a moment of pure joy when I realized I was still my own sugar daddy (because, hey, the years are rolling in!).

My Booking.com find was now a reality: we were heading towards the village’s largest building, a former abbey. Compared to everything else I had seen before, this was a visual explosion. An imposing structure, a historical aura, and a medieval vibe made me feel like I had found my own little place under the sun. With a touch of ancient elegance and serene beauty, it was the perfect escape from the city. Looks like I’ve found my new rhythm.

At the entrance, I asked, “Do you need our passports?” Our host, Elodie, smiled, waved her hand dismissively, and said, “Oh, non!” And just like that, the formalities disappeared, and I slipped into pure zen mode.

This hotel, once known as Priory Canadel when it was still an abbey, traces its roots back to the 12th century. It was once home to monks from the Lérins Islands, later serving as a resting place for bishops on their church tours across the region. Now, it was my resting place. Perhaps now it makes more sense why my Instagram handle is Sveti Putnik.

The façade and details weren’t excessively polished during restoration; they retained their original charm and authenticity. And although I’m not “classically religious,” I still found myself thanking Saint Elizabeth in the 11th-century chapel—the first building I stepped into on this estate and the one dedicated to her.

The rooms were pure Provence—warm pastel tones and elegant furnishings creating a relaxed atmosphere. Sunlight poured through the windows, casting an incredible play of light—sometimes dim, other times almost blindingly bright. In short, these rooms had atmosphere. The bathrooms? Enormous. And as we like to say, they even have their own French balcony. Except, instead of an iron railing, there was a natural one—XXL cacti growing from the floor below, overlooking rolling green hills. That’s what showering in this hotel felt like

And of course—the pool! The perfect place to wash away stress. Every second spent in the water felt like I was absorbing the property’s Renaissance energy, like the most hydrating moisturizer ever.

Here, the cat is truly noble—and it lives in the café! I was thrilled to find out that LeChat Noble restaurant was inside the hotel.

Mornings here started with a perfect breakfast, made up of local specialties: honey, farm-fresh eggs, homemade jams, fresh bread, and croissants—all served with little stories about the products.

By nightfall, the restaurant transformed into an intimate dining space, filled with a sense of peace and the enjoyment of fine cuisine. The Noble team made me completely lose track of time (though perhaps that was thanks to the rosé, which seemed to have no end).

Once you finally learn the name of the village, it’s time to experience it. First on the list? Père Mozart, a small bistro “by the town hall.” Imagine everything you know about France, sprinkle in a bit of southern charm, and you’ll get this place.

In August, the village was nearly empty—but the bistro? Absolutely packed. No tables available? With my half-French, half-hand gestures, I explained that I needed to be part of this chaos of bliss.

Voilà!—a table materialized on the terrace within minutes. Wine with ice? YES. And suddenly, I realized—it wasn’t such a sin after all. A wave of relief washed over me. I think you can do whatever you want with wine, as long as it makes you happy. After all, that’s what wine is for.

The man who welcomed me was barefoot, walking across the stone pavement. Before long, I had kicked off my shoes too. That day, Mozart’s Dad wasn’t just a local gem—it was the place where my landscape therapy truly started to take effect.

When I found out there was a village nearby where Matisse, Picasso, and their crew created some of their masterpieces, I had to go. Saint-Paul was their “thinking hill” (and now, it’s a little bit mine too). This is definitely the IT village—the most famous lady in the region, but without the exhausting crowds and hoards of group tourists. The cruise ships may be close, but they’re safely at a distance. Sunlight, a soft breeze, and art galleries that practically lure you into conversations with the artists—that’s the essence of this magical place.

Normally, I love diving into the heart of villages like this, but this time, I craved a wider view. So, I chose Les Remparts restaurant. When you find yourself sitting on the Walls (remparts), overlooking both the azure sea and lush green mountains at the same time, I promise you—your breath will catch.

In life, there are always things to critique, and all of them can be forgiven. Here, I had nothing to forgive—everything was just right.

Strangely enough, I have to point out—wine here was cheaper than beer at that Munich mega-concert. Over there, lipstick might linger on the rim of a glass, but rarely does anyone actually wear it. What’s the point?

And so, that was the day I, it seems, was (re)born.

And yes, upon returning to reality, I dug my old French press out of storage.

This is not another vacation story, but a pilgrimage to the heart of nature, to the edge of the world. Pharrell and Sisi? Yes, they burned out too, and Madeira is a reminder of what it truly means to be alive. I’ll quote Thomas Mann: “Time cools, time clarifies; no one can remain unchanged after a few hours.”

Am I not going to make it?
These days, it seems we have become more aggressive than ever in chasing a predefined model of success. I just think a big reset is coming, and people are feeling even worse. Some are even competing to see who can push the hardest—it’s a dangerous sport—or they organize a festival to celebrate it (neither fun nor cool). But when I stop and think about it, I say: let them have it all, let them chase their “success.”

Won’t he make it?
I scroll through my feeds, and they say Pharrell has aged. Online, there’s a guessing game about whether time has finally caught up with him or if he just “went to too many parties,” which, again, everyone aggressively discusses. The synonym for our eternal youth has dark circles under his eyes. I search, I Google, and yes, he’s there. But he doesn’t actually look old. It seems like the creative director has burned out. I can only imagine how much his poor head hurts. No surprise, considering who his boss is.

Isn’t she supposed to succeed?
I watched the Netflix series The Empress, and one scene truly moved me—when Sisi kneels among her people, humbly bowing her head. Even now, I get chills thinking about it. And how did she heal from the burnout of a life role she never truly wanted? By hiking through Madeira and taking long walks by the ocean.

It only took a few hours on a budget flight for this story to start unfolding. And now I can tell you how I fell in love with hiking. Who would have thought?

At first, it seems daunting. There’s a viral clip—wind tossing a plane like a toy as it barely lands. This is the runway at Cristiano Ronaldo Madeira Airport (yes, the airport is named after the living football legend). Everyone sent me this video when I told them where I was going “for the fall.” If only they knew how much that phrase annoys me—that’s how we refer to a vacation. No wonder people are burning out en masse—no one is actually resting from the self-inflicted subculture of “walking on water.” It’s not easy. Honestly, I didn’t even feel the landing—I was staring at the strange land that finally appeared after a long flight. What a scene!

The main (and only) city is Funchal, and it’s an incredibly relaxed place. Entirely Portuguese in aesthetics, but with a modernist twist of the new world. Everything looks cool because it blends perfectly with the natural surroundings. There is contrast, but they haven’t (yet) reached Monaco levels of density. We can thank Columbus, the empress, various exiled rulers (and, I assume, creative directors who would be the next settlers) for this remoteness.

The first encounter with the city is enchanting. Believe me, this is not a cliché—I genuinely can’t think of a better word. So much greenery, blooming flowers, and scents in the middle of autumn. This literally doesn’t exist anywhere else in Europe. The ocean breeze, the sun, and shifting clouds that appear and disappear create an incredibly personal atmosphere. A play of light, like those Louis Vuitton runways that cost a fortune. Exactly like that, only more natural, and best of all—no one is suffering mentally. Quite the opposite!

Is there a better way to get to know a city than by sitting in a local café? I can smell a good café even on Google Maps, but we simply stumbled upon this one. No planned routes. Terra – Food Concept feels like the island version of fine dining, only here you can actually finish your meal, and every dish is decorated with flowers. Local wine replaces water, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Like Santorini, Madeira has a well-developed wine industry, and the volcanic soil gives the wine a unique aroma.

The city is lively but incredibly laid-back. No one is rushing anywhere. Color is everywhere—whether in the sky or at the market stalls. These real colors shimmer in every possible and impossible shade. Every euro was worth it, and when you add everything up—it’s cheaper than therapy and delivers better and faster “results.”

After a casual chat with the staff at this place, I immediately realized that a new discipline was on the horizon—hiking. Though it had never crossed my mind before, I understood that I was in a truly special place and that there was no other way to see its wonders. I told myself (and Stefan): Let’s go!

It felt like preparing for New Year’s Eve. I didn’t even need to check what I packed—I knew all my clothes were for different activities, mostly stylish ones. Fortunately, at least my sneakers were appropriate. No matter, I tied my scarf from memory—like I learned in the scouts—wore a linen shirt and shorts, and quickly made it to the first destination.

When someone first told me to go hiking, I thought it was a joke. Me, who never strays far from the beach and cocktail bars, now dressed for what looked more like a Sunday lunch? But fine, challenge accepted.

The São Lourenço trail was first—a landscape so breathtaking it’s compared to the Atacama Desert. In this case, you literally lose your breath—with all the uphill climbs, it feels like your lungs are 384,000 kilometers below you.

It’s fascinating how nature tests you—do you experience it as enjoyment, or does it feel like a mini military drill? The first part of the trail gently winds through red rocks with stunning ocean views, but as you go deeper, the terrain becomes more challenging. Sometimes it felt nearly impossible to continue, but with every step, I realized—just like in life—nothing is truly impossible if you give yourself the chance to overcome the first obstacles.

The question of the day became life-changing: do I really want this view (let alone the real experience), or is TikTok enough? After all, no app can give you the feeling of wind in your hair and the scent of salt. I became increasingly aware of the contrast between what was expected of me in daily life and the freedom nature offers—a freedom that allows you to reset, slow down, and put everything into perspective. Your choice.

And the view from the top? Worth every short breath! But honestly, a café halfway up would be great. And they had one—with alcohol and desserts. After replenishing my mental batteries, drenched in sweat, I jumped straight into the ocean. Water temperature? 24°C. Air temperature? 22°C. That day, Madeira had already earned its second name—The Island of Eternal Spring.

I rewarded myself with a boat ride back—because I wasn’t about to endure a return “flight to the moon.”

If you think São Lourenço tests endurance, wait until you see 25 Fontes. This time, it’s an extreme version of meditation. It starts off gently—trees, birds, an atmosphere like my yoga instructor Lika Grey creates when she “guides me on a journey” every Monday and Wednesday. But then you realize—no one is here to ground you. The trail leads through wild, lush forests, and the scenery looks straight out of a fairytale.

And these Fontes (read: waterfalls)? A spectacle. There are so many that you forget how exhausted you are. Small tip—don’t expect to stay dry. But does that even matter?

After all these trails, returning to Funchal felt like coming back from another world. People were sitting in cafés again, drinking local wine, laughing as if they had never heard the word deadline. And that’s when it hit me—success isn’t about chasing, burning out, and fighting for some corporate-prestige bonus on a distant stick. Maybe success lies in simplicity—in those small, everyday moments.

Maybe that’s the lesson Madeira was trying to show me all along. I just need to send this letter to the mentioned creative director. Spreading the love.

I deeply believe the empress herself would now shout—Success is dead, long live… Madeira!