It’s that time of year again when Athens belongs to its visitors.

Around August 15 every year, Athens transforms for a week into a city of ghosts. Greeks have left the city, many cafés, restaurants and shops have pulled down their shutters, traffic thins, and parking becomes easier than ever, even in busy neighbourhoods like Koukaki and Pangrati.

The only signs of life outside are the cats wandering the streets and the tourists walking around Plaka and the Acropolis, getting to experience Athens in a way that most locals rarely do: almost empty.

On August 15, Greeks celebrate one of the most important religious holidays of the year, the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, a day that brings millions of people back to their hometowns and islands to celebrate with family and friends. Villages across Greece are flooded with people of all ages: grandchildren returning to their grandparents, families reuniting, and villages that spend much of the year quiet suddenly coming alive again.

As long as I can remember, I have spent every August 15 in my parents’ hometown, Methana —except for one year, when work kept me away. It is my father’s name day (yes, in Greece we celebrate name days too!), and it was also my grandmother’s, so the day was always a big family celebration. Relatives from all over would gather at the local church for the morning service and later stop by my grandparents’ house for a treat, usually a dessert and meat cooked by my grandmother in the traditional wood-fired oven.

Until late in the afternoon, the whole village would transform into a social hub, with people visiting relatives from house to house, eating, drinking and talking loudly, bringing a kind of life to the village that it would not see again until the same day the following year.

By evening, the celebrations would move to the village square for the traditional panigyri, a village festival of music, dancing and food that would continue late into the night.

While the villages came alive, Athens would slowly fall silent. Large parts of the city, especially smaller neighbourhoods in the suburbs that tourists rarely visit, take on the feeling of deserted places. Apartment block after apartment block sits with its metal shutters shut, plants struggle without their usual watering under the hot summer sun, and an eerie silence settles over streets that are normally filled with noise and movement. Only the cicadas can be heard in the trees.

At times, it feels almost like a scene from an apocalyptic movie.

The scale of this year’s exodus is enormous. The weekend before August 15 alone, more than 129,000 passengers were expected to leave Attica’s three main ports —Piraeus, Rafina and Lavrio— on 147 scheduled ferry departures, according to reports. The figure did not include services to the Saronic Gulf.

And these are only the ferry travellers. Many leave by car, while others take KTEL buses to destinations across the country.

But the August exodus is no longer something every Greek household can participate in. Rising accommodation, ferry and food costs have made traditional island holidays increasingly expensive. Nearly half of Greeks were unable to afford a week’s holiday in 2025.

Some people now stay in Athens, take shorter trips, visit family nearby, or simply remain in the city. This means that even during the week when Athens traditionally empties, more Greeks are staying behind than they once might have. The tradition is changing, but even so, its traces are impossible to miss.

By the day after August 15, the city gradually becomes noisy and crowded again. By August 20, most Greeks have returned to base, and the city that was handed over to tourists for a week is reclaimed by its residents. Parking spots become scarce, businesses return to normal, and everyone is looking forward to next August.

That strange, almost empty Athens is temporary. It is a brief version of the city that appears once a year before disappearing again. And it makes me wonder: do days, weeks or even months like this exist everywhere in the world? Does every city have its own version of August 15?

_{All photographs by the author.}

Writing soundtrack:

To Glenti (Live) by Gintiki feat. Ioulia Karapataki

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I first visited Istanbul in the summer of 2015.

For a month, I backpacked alone across Turkey on my first major solo trip away from Greece. I had just bought my first DSLR, a Nikon D5200, and believed that travelling around the country would help me grow as both a photographer and a journalist. Turkey is only a one-hour flight from Athens, or an overnight bus ride away, so I didn’t think much of it.

Inevitably, the journey would begin and end in Istanbul. Knowing almost nothing about the city, I turned to Couchsurfing to find my first host. My now good friend, Neslihan, was the first person to respond to my request. At the time, she was living in the Acıbadem neighbourhood, and that is how I was introduced to Kadıköy, the “capital” of Istanbul’s Asian side.

I had no idea then that it would eventually become my favourite district in Istanbul, and a place I now consider home away from home.

Back then, all I knew was that Kadıköy lay on the eastern side of the Bosphorus, far from the famous landmarks I had come to see. Like most first-time visitors, I was chasing Istanbul’s better-known sights: the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, Galata Tower and the Grand Bazaar. Every morning I would take the dolmuş (shared minibus) from Acıbadem to the centre of Kadıköy, walk down to the ferry terminal and cross to the European side.

That was the Istanbul most visitors came to see.

Back in 2015, Kadıköy was still largely overlooked by foreign travellers. Its streets were quieter than those of Beyoğlu or Sultanahmet, yet to me it already felt like the city’s alternative cultural heart. Artists, writers, photographers, musicians, performers and digital nomads seemed to gravitate here, giving the neighbourhood an atmosphere that felt freer and more creative than anywhere else I had experienced in Istanbul.

Then, somewhere between the ferries, the cafés and the steep streets of Kadıköy, I began noticing the walls. Somehow, they captured everything I was beginning to love about this place.

On one corner, a mural of a giant surreal Noah’s Ark filled with stuffed bears, apartment buildings and strange-looking figures. Around another, a hovering spacecraft swallowing what appeared to be military vehicles, all in black and white. Then another mural. And another. Before long, I had stopped looking for them. They seemed to find me instead.

In 2012, with the support of the local municipality, the Mural Istanbul Festival began transforming the streets around the historic Yeldeğirmeni neighbourhood. In the years that followed, it expanded into other Kadıköy neighbourhoods, including Moda, Hasanpaşa and Rasimpaşa, redefining the district’s identity through public art. Although it officially ended in 2019, shortly before the Covid-19 pandemic brought everything to a halt, the festival hosted 39 artists from 17 countries across six continents, whose creations still define the streets of Kadıköy.

In almost every corner, usually above parking spaces where the exposed side walls of apartment buildings would otherwise leave behind nothing but dull grey concrete, large, colourful murals now dominate the streets, transforming them into enormous works of art that are impossible to ignore.

Today, many visitors come to Kadıköy not for Ottoman monuments or Byzantine churches, but in search of its murals. Street art tours have become a regular part of the neighbourhood’s tourism offering, while cafés, restaurants and independent shops continue to benefit from the steady flow of visitors the festival helped attract.

I recently got back from Istanbul, which reminded me once again why I love this city.

Since 2015, I’ve returned more times than I can count. Every visit has taken me back to Kadıköy, and every visit has revealed something new. Sometimes I stumbled upon a mural simply because I happened to be staying nearby. Other times, I deliberately went looking for one. More often than not, though, I discovered them after taking the wrong street, missing a turn or simply wandering without a destination.

I quickly realised that getting lost was the only sensible way to discover Kadıköy’s murals.

There are cities where you need a guidebook, and there are cities where you simply need to get lost. For me, Istanbul has always belonged to the latter. As a photographer, wandering through the neighbourhoods of a city has always been my favourite way to understand it.

It’s the only way I’ve ever found to truly get a sense of a place: talking to locals, walking streets most visitors never see, lingering in cafés and blending into everyday life. Few cities reward that curiosity more than Istanbul.

Some of the murals may eventually fade away, but even though the festival ended years ago, new ones continue to appear. Perhaps not at the same pace, but local artists still use their neighbourhood as a canvas. Amid the seagulls and the cats, colourful paintings continue to remind visitors that Kadıköy remains one of the city’s most vibrant neighbourhoods.

Today, whenever someone asks me where to begin in Istanbul, I always send them to Kadıköy. Not because it has the city’s most famous monuments, but because it tells a different story. One that reveals itself only if you’re willing to wander.

And while Kadıköy has, in recent years, gone from Istanbul’s “hidden gem” to the city’s coolest neighbourhood, it still holds the same magic and freedom that first made me fall in love with it.

_{All photographs by the author.}

Writing soundtrack:

Unutulacak Dünler by Gazapizm

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It was the night of December 3, 1926, when Agatha Christie, one of the world’s most celebrated crime writers, disappeared.

After a fight with her husband, who had requested a divorce, Christie left their Sunningdale home and drove off into the night. The following morning, her car was discovered abandoned near a chalk quarry in Newlands Corner, Surrey. Her empty car—containing her driver’s license and a coat— sparked a massive manhunt across several English counties involving thousands of police officers and volunteers.

She was found eleven days later, on December 15, at the Swan Hydropathic Hotel in Harrogate, Yorkshire (now known as the Old Swan Hotel), alive and physically unharmed. She had checked in under the name Teresa Neele, telling the hotel staff that she was a grieving mother who had arrived from South Africa.

Christie claimed she could not remember a single moment of the days that followed her disappearance. That memory gap gave rise to an enduring urban legend some 2,600 kilometres away.

Just a few steps from Istanbul’s bustling Istiklal Street, near the Galata Tower in Türkiye, stands one of the city’s most historic hotels. It opened its doors in 1895, when the city was still known as Constantinople and the country was ruled by sultans.

It is the Pera Palace Hotel, which later became known around the world as the place where Christie is believed to have written one of her most iconic novels, Murder on the Orient Express.

I have always been fascinated by the novel, its film and theatre adaptations, and the recent Turkish series set here. Although I had walked past the hotel dozens of times, I had never had the opportunity to step inside. About a month ago, I had the honour of touring its historic halls with the hotel’s marketing coordinator, Ezgi Pek, who guided me through every corner of this iconic establishment.

The Pera Palace Hotel was built to accommodate the wealthy passengers of the Orient Express, which traveled from Paris to Istanbul across half of Europe, making it the first luxury hotel in Türkiye. It has six floors and 115 guest rooms and suites. Guests moved between them in the country’s first electric elevator and only the second in Europe, which is still operating today.

“Would you like to try it?”, Ezgi asked, and I couldn’t resist.

Stepping inside the century-old elevator, crafted from mahogany and ornate cast iron in the Art Nouveau style, was undoubtedly one of the highlights of my visit.

The second highlight was the legend surrounding Agatha Christie. Room 411, better known as the Agatha Christie Room —where the writer have stayed during her visits in the city— is available for guests at a higher rate than the hotel’s standard rooms, with prices averaging around €400 per night, depending on the season. Inside, visitors can find a vintage typewriter on the desk, a private library, and furniture dating back to the early twentieth century.

Unfortunately, when I visited the hotel, the room was occupied and I didn’t have the chance to go inside.

According to legend, Christie wrote Murder on the Orient Express here. Even more intriguing, however, is another story linking Room 411 to her mysterious eleven-day disappearance.

After Christie’s death, Warner Bros. wanted to make a film about the disappearance. With little reliable information to work with, the company reportedly turned to the American psychic, Tamara Rand. During a séance, Rand claimed to have seen Christie hiding a key beneath the floorboards of the room. According to the story, Warner Bros. contacted the hotel, and a key was allegedly discovered exactly where the psychic had described.

Then a dispute arose between the studio and the hotel’s management over ownership of the key, and no agreement was ever reached. Rand reportedly insisted that the key be sent to her so she could continue her investigation. The dispute lasted many years, and when Rand died, the mystery was left unsolved.

Today, a replica of the key is displayed at the hotel —while the real one is secured in a safe— alongside photographs, newspaper clippings, and other memorabilia connected to the legend. As we walked past the glass display cases, I couldn’t help wondering where history ended and legend began.

But Christie is only one of the many figures whose story became intertwined with the history of Pera Palace.

I did, however, have the opportunity to step inside the Mustafa Kemal Atatürk room, which has been preserved exactly as it was during his stays at the hotel and now functions as a small museum.

Inside, alongside a lifelike statue of the founder of modern Türkiye and several of his personal belongings, is displayed the famous carpet that, according to the legend, foretold Atatürk’s death. It is believed to have been a gift from an Indian maharaja during his visit to the city in 1929. The carpet features an embroidered clock pointing roughly to 9:05 and eleven yellow chrysanthemums, which believers claim predicted the exact time and date of Atatürk’s death nine years later (9:05 AM on November 10, 1938).

The stories do not end here.

As we wandered through the hotel’s corridors, I admired its artwork, including portraits of former owners, among them the Greek businessman Prodromos Bodosakis-Athanasiades. As a Greek I wanted to learn more about him. According to the story, when he first visited the hotel in the early 1900s, his modest appearance failed to reflect his wealth, prompting the hotel staff to turn him away. Offended by the incident, he decided to take his revenge: he bought the hotel and dismissed the very employees who had refused him entry.

A few years later, following the Greco-Turkish War and the population exchange, Bodosakis left Istanbul and settled in Athens, where he became one of Greece’s greatest benefactors.

The stories that fill the hallways of this hotel are countless, as are the famous people who have walked its corridors. From Ernest Hemingway and Alfred Hitchcock to Greta Garbo and Queen Elizabeth II. It is a place where history and legend have become so intertwined that separating one from the other no longer seems to matter.

By the time I left, I realised that Pera Palace is impossible to understand in a single visit. Every corridor, every room and every object seems to carry another story. Some are documented, others have grown into legend. Perhaps that is what makes the hotel so captivating. Long after the last passengers stepped off the Orient Express, people are still arriving, not just to spend the night, but to become part of its story.

_{All photographs by the author.}

Writing soundtrack:

Pardon by Sezen Aksu

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There are some places that simply check every box.

History? Check.

Dramatic landscapes? Check.

Gastronomy? Check.

Sports? Check.

Luxury? Check.

Hollywood spectacle? Absolutely!

This summer, as anticipation builds for Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey —the story of Odysseus’s long journey home following the Trojan War— Messinia is poised to become one of the world’s most sought-after set-jetting destinations. Across this southwestern corner of the Peloponnese, visitors can trace landscapes tied both to Homer’s epic and to Nolan’s adaptation —from the crescent-shaped shores of Voidokilia Beach and the imposing walls of Methoni Castle to Nestor’s Cave, which is rumored to appear in the film as the home of the Cyclops Polyphemus.

According to Homer, Pylos is where Telemachus, the son of Odysseus, docked his ship in search of his missing father, leaving his mother, Penelope, back in Ithaca to contend with the suitors coveting his father’s throne.

As Homer recounts, when Telemachus arrived at Voidokilia looking for Nestor —his father’s brother-in-arms from the Trojan War— he was welcomed not with questions, but with a grand feast right on the beach. Only after the meal did he reveal his identity. He was then escorted to the king’s palace, where according to tradition, he was bathed in a stone tub that still survives on-site and anointed with olive oil by the Nestor’s youngest daughter, Polykasti.

In late April, I had the opportunity to visit Messinia and stay at one of Greece’s most luxurious resorts: Costa Navarino.

Located in the western Peloponnese, the destination spans several distinct areas, stretching from Navarino Dunes in the north down to Navarino Bay in the south. It is home to four premier hotel brands: The Westin Resort and The Romanos at Navarino Dunes, alongside the Mandarin Oriental and the W Costa Navarino, at Navarino Bay. The resort also boasts the largest golf complex in Greece, regularly hosting major international tournaments, as well as a branch of the prestigious Mouratoglou Tennis Academy.

Officially opened in 2010 in the historic region once ruled by Nestor, the King of Pylos, Costa Navarino sits at the heart of a region that is about to enjoy a moment in the global spotlight. The buzz comes ahead of the release of The Odyssey on July 17. Hollywood stars such as Matt Damon, Tom Holland, and Zendaya are rumored to have stayed at the resort during filming. In fact, social media lit up last year when Holland posted videos on his social media playing golf on Costa Navarino’s acclaimed courses.

The legendary hospitality Telemachus received mirrors the modern experience at Costa Navarino.

For starters, the grand entrance of The Romanos was intentionally designed to resemble the architectural majesty of Nestor’s Palace. Large square columns, reflecting pools on either side, and long flowing white drapes hanging from the ceiling immediately evoke a palatial atmosphere. Beyond them lies the magnificent Ionian Sea, where the sun sets over crystal-clear waters proudly awarded a Blue Flag by the Foundation for Environmental Education (FEE).

The resort also offers activities ranging from philosophy walks led by a professor of Ancient Greek Literature exploring the universal value of nostos (homecoming) beneath centuries-old olive trees to weaving and cooking workshops led by local women, while even the spa treatments draw inspiration from local myth and ingredients.

Furthermore, the culinary experience here is such that one will remember for a long time.

Alongside the breezy beachfront atmosphere of Barbouni at The Romanos and the refined Italian flavors of Da Luigi, this season welcomes the arrival of the highly acclaimed chef Alex Tsiotinis, who brings his bold flavors to the coast. His restaurant, —Paráfrasi by CTC an extension of his Michelin-starred CTC Urban Gastronomy in the heart of Athens— brilliantly reimagines familiar favorites, from Messinia’s famous lalagia with cheese (traditional rings of dough fried in olive oil) to crispy cod and a vibrant beetroot salad.

Yet the ultimate highlight remains Nestor’s Feast, a dining experience inspired by the ancient hospitality once extended to Telemachus, now meticulously curated by the visionary executive chef of W Costa Navarino, Nikos Billis.

A long table stretched across the sand, illuminated by candles and decorated with olive branches carefully placed along a white tablecloth, while the deep orange hues of the setting sun over Navarino Bay painted the scene.

After months of research, Billis created a menu based on local ingredients that would have been available during Nestor’s time. Tomatoes and potatoes —both introduced to Greece centuries later— were absent from the recipes. The same applied to spices such as pepper, which arrived in the country via the Ottomans and refugees from Asia Minor in the 19^th century*. Instead, Billis relied on local herbs, legumes, wild greens, meat, and seafood prepared in ways that harkened back in time.

The result was remarkable. Though deceptively simple and stripped of ingredients we now take for granted, the dishes carried deep, profound flavors.

It was also a reminder of what makes Messinia particularly compelling at this moment. During our night there, a brief drizzle fell from the sky before the clouds cleared once again, revealing the stars above us like thousands of tiny lights making the night even more memorable.

The region may soon attract a new generation of travelers eager to follow in the footsteps of Christopher Nolan’s cast and crew. But long before cameras arrived, these shores were already the setting for one of humanity’s greatest stories.

That story —of journeys, hospitality, homecoming, and discovery— still lingers here. It can be found in the stone alleys of village settlements, the aromas drifting from family kitchens, the sweeping views of the Ioanian Sea from mountain trails, and the warmth of the people you meet along the way.

Today, it is simply being told to a wider audience.

_{*Basic ingredients like the tomato and the potato were completely absent from the local cuisine during this period. The tomato was introduced to Greece in 1818, while the potato arrived in 1828, brought in by Greece’s first governor, Ioannis Kapodistrias, after the War of Independence.}

_{All photographs by the author.}

Writing soundtrack:

Kalokairi by Danae

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Delos is slowly sinking.

Ok, it won’t disappear beneath the sea anytime soon. But according to Greek scientist Kostas Synolakis, Professor of Natural Disasters, the tiny island at the heart of the Cyclades is sinking into the Aegean at a rate of roughly one centimetre per year, more than any other island.

By analysing data from the last 600 years, Synolakis concluded that natural phenomena are gradually altering the landscape of Delos, placing the island at risk of eventually disappearing underwater. While rising sea levels linked to climate change play a role, tectonic subsidence further accelerates the process. Pessimistic models suggest that by 2100, approximately 50 centimetres of land could be submerged, while other projections estimate that figure could reach as much as 90 centimetres. Along stretches of coastline where the sea lies today, houses and shops once stood in antiquity before slowly being claimed by the water.

The news brought to mind my first and only visit to Delos several years ago.

When I travelled to Mykonos for the third or fourth time in my life, I finally had the opportunity to visit this unique neighbouring island, the most sacred island of ancient Greece. Located just half an hour away by ferry from Greece’s infamous party island, Delos feels worlds apart.

Far from the buzzing streets of Athens and the crowded alleys of most Greek islands, Delos today is an open-air museum and the only island dedicated entirely to the Greek gods. It is a place so mystical that you can feel it the moment you step ashore.

This tiny island —just 3.4 square kilometres in size and one of the smallest in the Cyclades— was once considered by the ancient Greeks to be the most significant and sacred island of them all. So sacred, in fact, that for much of its history neither births nor burials were permitted here. According to mythology, Delos was the birthplace of twin gods Apollo and Artemis. It was here that light entered the world, as Apollo was the god of the sun and Artemis the goddess of the moon.

According to archaeologist Panayiotis Chatzidakis, who studied the island for many years, around 90 BC this small dot in the eastern Mediterranean was home to approximately 30,000 people. Today, only a handful of archaeologists and guards remain.

Pilgrims from across the known world gathered on Delos to worship the gods, and many eventually chose to settle there. Their arrival transformed the island into a thriving commercial centre and one of the most cosmopolitan communities of the ancient world.

Although Athenians and Romans formed the majority of the population, residents also came from across the Mediterranean. People from mainland Greece, Cyprus, Troy, Pontus, Cappadocia, Egypt, Syria, Arabia and many other regions lived side by side.

Delos was not without its contradictions. During its peak under Roman rule, the island became one of the Mediterranean’s busiest slave markets, and part of its prosperity was built on the trade of enslaved people. Like many thriving cities of antiquity, its wealth came at a human cost.

Yet Delos also stood out for its cultural and religious diversity. All of these communities built their own temples and worshipped their own gods.

“Greeks were the exact opposite of the fanatic followers of other monotheistic religions,” Chatzidakis once wrote about Delos. “They were always willing to accept that their neighbour’s god was a god as well, often one of their own gods under a different name.”

Among the Greek temples stand the remains of sanctuaries dedicated to the Egyptian gods Horus, Isis, Anubis, and Serapis, as well as the Phoenician goddess Atargatis and her husband Hadad. People who settled on the island adopted aspects of the Greek way of life, learned the language, worked and socialised together, and sent their children to the same schools. Boys trained together in the same palestra.

It may have been one of the first places in human history where people from across the known world lived together in relative harmony. Delos may have been the ancient world’s first multicultural community, giving the example of how people can coexist despite all their differences.

On Delos, East and West coexisted.

Perhaps that is one reason why the island continues to feel so relevant today. At a time when questions of migration, identity, and coexistence dominate political discussions across Europe and the Mediterranean, Delos serves as a reminder that cultural exchange is hardly a modern phenomenon. More than two thousand years ago, people from different backgrounds, languages, and religions managed to build a shared community on a small island in the middle of the Aegean Sea.

The first to attempt an archaeological excavation on Delos was Pasch van Krienen, an officer in the Russian army, during the reign of Empress Catherine the Great in 1772, when the Cyclades were under Russian occupation. Many of the discoveries were transported to Saint Petersburg, where they remain on display at the famous Hermitage Museum. Many more archaeologists and research teams from around the world followed in the centuries after.

In 1990, Delos was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The island cannot be visited independently without permission, and fishing is prohibited in the surrounding waters. Ferries depart daily from Mykonos, carrying visitors eager to walk through the ruins of one of antiquity’s most remarkable cities, or explore its small but important museum.

You are free to remain on the island for as long as you like, but you must leave on the final ferry before sunset.

The view from the top of Mount Kynthos, the island’s highest point, is spectacular. The entire Aegean opens before your eyes. Where the sea meets the horizon, sunlight dances across crystal-clear waters.

French essayist Roland Barthes captured something of Delos’ unique atmosphere in his journal En Grèce, published in 1944, after visiting the island:

“This orderly succession of light and more solid horizons symbolizes, for me, the marriage of earth and water, which is nowhere more sumptuous than here; the island is the centre of a solar conflagration; the sun insists, it thickens the blood; it enters through the eyes, the ears, it is heard, it is an oppressive silence; then it is diluted, lightened, drawn up; it attaches to each wave a sword of flames.”

As you leave Delos, it feels as though you have taken a deep dive into history, carrying with you lessons about society, coexistence, and the fragility of civilizations. It is remarkable to think that on this small patch of rock in the middle of the Aegean, people from across the known world once lived side by side.

Today, the pilgrims, merchants, and sailors are long gone. The island stands largely empty, visited only by archaeologists, guards, curious travellers, and a few cats that roam among the ruins.

And as Delos slowly sinks beneath the sea, its story feels more relevant than ever.

_{All photographs by the author.}

Writing soundtrack:

Ah Thalassa by Marina Satti

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For years, I have travelled across Greece, Turkey, and beyond in search of stories that first matter to me, in the hope that they might also matter to my editors and readers around the world.

As a journalist and photographer, I learned from a young age how to tell stories through both images and reported features. Over the years, my work has taken me deep into archaeological sites where ancient histories still shape everyday life. It has led me to remote islands, restaurant kitchens, border villages, luxurious resorts, and crowded city streets. Along the way, I have photographed, interviewed, listened, and tried to make sense of the people and places I encounter. More often than not, journalism has taken me in places that I would never have visited otherwise, and for that I feel incredibly fortunate.

Those journeys have shaped the way I see the world and the way I approach my work. They have taught me that every place carries layers of stories waiting to be uncovered, and that the most revealing details are often found far from the obvious narrative.

Yet there has always been something left out.

A photograph can capture a moment, but not always the conversations that led to it. A reported article has its own structure, purpose, and limitations. As a result, many of the observations, encounters, and small details that stay with me long after a trip or assignment never quite find a home.

There are also stories that don’t fit neatly anywhere. Stories that are too personal for a newspaper feature, too detailed for a magazine assignment, or simply waiting for the right moment.

Over the years, I’ve accumulated notebooks filled with observations, unfinished drafts, forgotten photographs, and ideas that never quite made it to publication. Some remain tucked away in desk drawers. Others sit in neglected folders on my computer, patiently waiting for their turn to resurface.

That is why I created Unframed.

This is a space for the stories behind the stories, as well as the ones that never found the right place to begin with. Here, I’ll share the moments that fall between assignments, the encounters that linger in memory, and the observations that continue to occupy my thought long after I’ve returned home.

The posts will range from personal essays and photographic dispatches to travel notes and reflections on food, culture, and history, mostly from the Eastern Mediterranean, where much of my work is rooted. But travel is a tricky thing, and you never quite know where the next adventure will begin.

I’m always looking for new ways to tell stories, and lately I’ve been experimenting with video as well. So from time to time, you’ll likely find some of that here too.

As a photographer, I’m constantly aware of what sits inside the frame. As a journalist, I’m equally interested in what sits outside it.

The context.

The history.

The contradictions.

The conversations that happen after the interview ends.

The details that transform a destination into a story and a headline into something more human.

That’s what you’ll find here.

Whether you’ve followed my work for years or have only just arrived, thank you for being here, and for your support. For the moment, all posts will remain free. As Unframed grows, some content may eventually move behind a paywall, but for now I’m simply excited to share this next chapter with you.

Writing soundtrack:

Vima Vima by Haris Alexiou

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