Chasing sunrises, slow trains, and really good coffee.

Six years, thirty-eight countries, one very battered notebook.

I started Wanderlark in a Lisbon hostel with wet hair and no plan. Since then it's grown into a slow-travel journal read by almost a hundred thousand people who'd rather linger than tick boxes.

I write about the small stuff — the bakery around the corner, the bus that never came, the stranger who insisted we join their dinner. If it's soft, slow, and a little bit magic, it lives here.