The Journal

The New European Summer

An editorial illustration introducing Globelogue's three-part series exploring how climate change is reshaping the European travel experience.

Editorial illustration created by Globelogue using AI, based on publicly available weather data. The visual is illustrative and not an official meteorological product.

Have we started photographing places — or just repeating on a photopoint?

There was a moment in Hallstatt on my field trip for my university thesis when I realized something felt… strangely familiar.

Not in the comforting, nostalgic way — but in a way that made the place feel almost pre-seen. As if I had already been there, not physically, but visually. I knew where to stand. I knew what the photo should look like. And, more unsettlingly, so did everyone else.

I remember standing in Milan, looking at the Duomo — or at least, I thought I was.

In reality, I was already thinking about the next stop. You know that quiet urgency, right? That invisible travel checklist running somewhere in the background. Must see. Must capture. Must move on.

And that’s when something shifts — almost unnoticed. Travel begins to feel less like presence, and more like completion.

When Travel Becomes Something Else

There’s something slightly uncomfortable about realizing you’ve been part of the problem you’re now trying to understand.

I used to travel differently. Faster. With a quiet urgency to see more, fit more in, make it all “worth it.” And for a long time, I didn’t question what that pace was doing — not to me, and definitely not to the places I was moving through.

What changed wasn’t a single trip. It was a gradual shift — shaped by learning, by paying attention, and by starting to ask different questions.

Amateur skiing, climate reality, and why lessons matter more than ever

I’ll start with a confession: I’m not a pro skier. I ski because I love the mountains, the rhythm of moving downhill, and that very specific mix of fear and freedom that only winter sports can give you. But every year, it becomes clearer: skiing in Europe is changing — fast.

Not because people ski less. Quite the opposite.

Whenever I think of a truly positive, deeply memorable sauna experience, one name always comes to mind: Vincenzo — and the Finnish sauna at Falkensteiner Hotel & Spa Carinzia, tucked into the mountains of Nassfeld.

There’s something quietly magical about stepping into a warm, wood-scented sauna after a long day of travelling. Maybe it's the contrast — cool mountain air outside, that gentle, calm inside — or maybe it's how the whole world slows down for a moment. Over the years I’ve learned that a good sauna session isn’t just about sweating. It’s a ritual of hygiene, respect, and a little self-care — especially when you’re sharing the heat with strangers.

I often joke that Hana, my little Shiba Inu, is the real traveller in the family. She’s endlessly curious, fearless around new smells, and seems to understand the concept of adventure far better than I do. When we travel, she gets to explore on her own terms — whether it’s a mountain trail in Austria or a sunny terrace in Italy.

There’s something about Austria that always grounds me.

The rhythm of the mountains, the stillness of alpine lakes, the feeling that nature here still speaks louder than we do.

Maybe that’s why I keep returning — not just as a traveller, but as someone who wants to understand how a country so famous for its beauty manages to keep its calm.

Because most of the time, Austria does it beautifully. Villages stay tidy, trails are well-marked, public transport runs like a quiet promise. It’s a place that seems to have found balance — between visitors and locals, nature and comfort, order and warmth.

I’ve always been one of those travelers who almost remembers everything. Toothbrush? Check. Camera battery? Usually. Charger cable? …let’s not talk about it. I said almost.

When brutality meets reality

I visited the World Press Photo Exhibition 2025 in October here in Budapest, and as always, it hit hard. Year after year, this exhibition captures the cruelness of existing wars — and this time, it felt even more raw, more unbearable. Faces of people who lost everything. Cities turned into dust. Children’s eyes staring straight into yours, silently asking: what are we doing to the world?

It starts with that photo we’ve all seen — maybe even taken ourselves. A sea of people in front of St. Mark’s Basilica. The caldera view in Santorini framed by phones. Crowds shuffling up to the Eiffel Tower or Dubrovnik’s city walls under the midday sun. Crazy lines waiting to see the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.

It’s slowly, but surely, coming together — what I really want Globelogue to be.The name itself says a lot: globe + dialogue. Because that’s what I’d like to have here — an open conversation about how we can make travel more sustainable, so we can keep exploring this planet for many more years to come.

The calendar insists summer is nearly over, but I’ve always believed those final golden days are something special. When the air cools just enough to take the edge off the heat, when the school bells threaten to ring again, yet the afternoons still stretch out lazily—it feels like borrowed time.

There’s something special about those very last days of summer—the ones that slip through your fingers if you don’t hold onto them. This year, instead of rushing back to school and work with a sigh, we decided to stretch the season just a little further. A slow journey, close enough to reach by car, yet far enough to feel like an escape. And that’s how we found ourselves at Petram Resort & Residences in Istria.

There’s something magical about traveling with a dog. The suitcase is barely zipped, and those watchful eyes already know: adventure is coming. I often joke that packing for Hana is almost the same as packing for my teenager—just swap the headphones for squeaky toys and the snacks for chew sticks.

But here’s the truth: traveling with dogs does take a little extra preparation. Not complicated—just thoughtful. And trust me, the tail wags at the end of the day are worth every added step.

After a morning of warm hospitality in Folgaria and an adrenaline-laced drive down winding mountain roads, we rolled into Milano late morning. This wasn’t going to be the kind of trip where we tick off every landmark in a guidebook. I’d been to Lombardy’s capital before, and this time we were here for something different — a teen- and dog-friendly Milan day, done our way.

We left Zermatt in the late afternoon, the Matterhorn slowly fading in the rearview mirror, and pointed the car toward Monaco. The road wound down through mountain passes, golden light spilling across the valleys. By the time the sun disappeared, we knew we wouldn’t make the coast that night. That’s when my “emergency accommodation mode” switched on — the one where I abandon hotel stars, sort by Recommendations, and see what hidden treasures appear.

That’s how we found Hemanaire — a name that instantly stood out. Nestled near the village of Cremolino, in the rolling vineyards of Piedmont, it promised not just a place to sleep, but an experience in slow, intentional living.

At Kodolányi János University, as part of our Tourism Communication course, we visited Vienna to explore the city’s Christmas atmosphere and create media materials around it.

But of course, here on my blog, I have to start with the feeling — that familiar little spark that enchants me every single year…

We visited on a Thursday, hoping to experience Vienna before the weekend rush — a small but intentional way of not adding to the already overwhelming peak-time footfall. Travelling outside the busiest hours or days is one of those quiet sustainability choices that don’t feel restrictive at all; if anything, they let you enjoy a place in a softer, more authentic rhythm. For me, it’s about moving through a city in a way that feels respectful — giving space to locals, easing the pressure on public areas, and allowing the festive atmosphere to breathe a little.

There’s a tiny moment in Vienna — you know the one — when the Christmas lights switch on above your head and suddenly the whole city seems to exhale into winter mode. Even if Christmas is still weeks away, the inner city is already alive: horse-drawn carriages clip-clopping through Kärntner Strasse, crowds flowing in a gentle current, and that unmistakable sense that the festive season has quietly begun.

Even without snowflakes, Vienna finds a way to sweep you off your feet.

There are few places in the world where speed meets scenery quite like Monza. Nestled at the foot of the Alps in Lombardy, the legendary Autodromo Nazionale di Monza sits inside the lush Parco di Monza — a royal park that turns into a roaring stage every September. In 2025, I finally experienced it for myself.

There are tastes that stay with you, not because they are easy, but because they are layered and complex. Chinotto is one of them. Dark and mysterious in its glass, it looks like cola but gives you something entirely different the moment it touches your tongue: a rush of citrus bitterness, herbal whispers, a sweetness that arrives late, almost shy.

Some of the best travel memories happen by accident. Folgaria, a small alpine town in Italy’s Trento province, was never on our itinerary. We were driving from 3 Zinnen toward Milan when the map — and my instinct for finding interesting, non-standard stays — nudged us toward it. That’s how we ended up at John Luxury Suites, a name that appeared only because I changed how I searched on Booking.com.

Sometimes, when looking for accommodation, it’s fun to break the pattern. Instead of sorting by hotel stars, I switch the filter to Recommendations. It opens the door to places that aren’t always in the obvious top spots but have something special to offer. That’s exactly how we found John — hidden in plain sight, just waiting for the right traveler to notice.

I woke up to the kind of view that makes you forget to breathe for a moment — the Matterhorn, standing proud and impossibly perfect, framed right outside our hotel window. My coffee steamed gently in my hand, but I hardly noticed. It’s not every day you wake up to the mountain from the Toblerone bar logo, and I wasn’t about to rush it.