Krvavec is a mountain in the Kamnik–Savinja Alps, but to me, it’s much more than just a spot on the map. It’s the place where, at the age of five, I first put on skis – a moment that marked the beginning of my love for the mountains. Over the years, Krvavec has become a special place to me, filled with childhood memories, laughter, and early victories on the snow.

Today, it’s where I go when I need peace or simply want to escape the everyday rush. When I hike up to Zvoh, the highest point of the ski resort, and sit quietly watching the sunset, I feel a deep sense of awe toward nature. In those moments, I realize just how small we are compared to the greatness of the mountains – and at the same time, how full each moment can be if we just allow ourselves to experience it.

Throughout my schoolyears I really didnt have a constant place outside my schools and my home residence. Growing up on the outskirts of town a moderate amount of my free time was spend on public buses. Even though it was a short air distance, the journey would last for what i thought was forever, especially in rush hour. But over the years I*ve grown accustomed to it, even loving it. My time on buses was appropriated as my own personal time out, a time spend people watching, listening to my favourite music on repeat and just enjoying my free time. The specific station has a special meaning for me.

Its the one station I*ve always changed buses, always came to and from my school, my job and our faculty. it represends the start and the end of my so called work filled day. It*s the first sense of responsibitlity I get in the morning and the last one I get to leave behind, and can just focus on myself.

If presented this, or rather a better way, I would like to imagine people would also hold their main bus stations in a higher regard.

This isnt really a place, its barely even a space, serving its completely transitory purpose.  But I would like to imagine it*s not transitory in just  the literal term, but also in a sence of transfering experiences, personalities and day to day activities. It becomes a place of transitioning on a deeper personal level.

The Trnovo housing blocks are a residential neighbourhood in Ljubljana, located very close to where I live. I have observed and experienced this spatial environment throughout my life, and now, reflecting on it as an architecture student, I find it fascinating how my relationship with the place has evolved over the years.

As a child, I played on the playground beneath the buildings. In primary school, I spent time on the elevated ground floor above the garages. During high school, the same spaces served as informal gathering spots before concerts—places for drinking, smoking, and socializing. Today, I return not to use the space, but to observe it: to admire its spatial logic, materiality, and the subtle ways it has shaped my perception of architecture and public space.

For the last five years, this building and these views have been the accompanying element of my studies. Endless hours of study, stressful presentations, stretching deadlines and long classes, this building held it all. Very iften, when the days stretched a bit too long and sunset would come, there would come a moment in which, no matter the situation, I would stop a moment and enjoy the colourful skies visible all around. As the end of my studies here approached, one more long night of work was necessary, and the sky lit in colours one more time, to give one more break before the end.

This staircase outside my dormitory at CUHK is truly my place. While my home is full of family and my room has my roommates, this staircase belongs solely to me. I live on the third floor, and the laundry room is on the fifth, so I often take the stairs. It’s a quiet spot overlooking both the sea and the hills( that's something rare in Hong Kong’s dense urban landscape). I often pause here between chores or daily routines, thinking about life while watching the sky shift from day to night. In a university full of shared spaces and bustling people, this staircase, with its rare sea view and open sky, is quietly mine.

The Perico Feeling and the Strength of Belonging

The Perico feeling is more than a love for a football club—it is a deep-rooted identity, a powerful connection that binds people across generations. To be a Perico is to be part of a family that extends beyond blood, reaching into neighborhoods, cities, and hearts. The strength of this sentiment lies in its unity; it lives in grandparents telling stories of historic matches, parents passing on scarves, and children growing up with pride in blue and white.

In the stadium or far away, the Perico community stands strong. It is resilience, hope, and unconditional support. This feeling creates bonds that last a lifetime, reminding us that football is not just a game—it’s about belonging.

When it comes to talking about places in Barcelona that bring back good memories, the Maremagnum area definitely has to be mentioned. Back in my childhood, I used to spend exceptional afternoons there with my family, visiting the aquarium or the shopping mall. And I say "exceptional" because, at that age, going anywhere beyond my neighborhood already felt like a great family trip — even more so if it involved a unique place like a mall.

As I got older and was able to explore the city on my own, I started going there more often with friends. We would enjoy the large open spaces around the shopping center, playing football or just relaxing on one of the terraces.

In all of those memories, the best part was always the sea. Being located right at the port and with a drawbridge at the main entrance, the whole area felt like a little island to me.

Finally ,even today, every time I pass by Maremagnum, i remember those moments , feelings and persons that made that place special for me.

Palamós is a town on the Costa Brava, in the province of Girona. My grandparents and part of my family live there. We go almost every weekend and also spend a lot of time there in the summer. It’s a meeting point for all of us, both in winter and summer. I like it because it’s by the sea, and I love the sea. We usually have dinner at the port, where there are many restaurants and a nice atmosphere. Afterwards, we almost always get an ice cream and take a walk along the port or the promenade. It’s a place I really like, where I feel good and enjoy time with my family.

While walking -like many other days- along the Paseo Las Canteras with one of my friends, we stopped and realized how much that promenade had impacted our perception in cities in general. We started using it as a unit of measure; to point out how far something is we would say things like "Half a Paseo Las Canteras". THe calmness of the promenade beside the beach, walking without any cars interfering, long conversations that ended with a quick swim. El Paseo las Canteras is a place that shapes any person that gets to walk it as a routine. 

It’s a coastal village called Llançà, which is very special to me because I spent part of my teenage years and youth there during the summers. For that reason alone, it already has an important place in my heart.

One thing that makes Llançà unique is its location. The village is protected by the Pyrenees mountains. These mountains end in Cadaqués and create a kind of natural barrier. This makes Llançà a bit harder to reach.

Because of this, Llançà doesn’t get many tourists. In winter, you can still feel the true village atmosphere, with people who live there all year. Even in summer, when more visitors come, that local feeling stays.

This is a spot in my hometown, Radovljica, located under the A1/A2 highway. It’s a completely self-built and self-funded skatepark, created by the people and the local community. Whether you go there to skate or just to hang out, there’s always someone you know — someone you’ve either seen recently or haven’t seen in a long time.

The experience of this place peaked during the coronavirus lockdown, when everything else was shut down and the streets were empty. It became a refuge for the community — a space where we could gather without the public judging us for being together. At that time, it was the only place that felt alive, and it has never been as full before or since.

Every time I go there now, I remember the lockdown and how much fun we had — even if it didn’t follow the rules or social norms of the time.

This is Algodonales, a small village in the south of Spain where my parents are from. I go there often, and it always feels peaceful and familiar. The village is quiet, with not many houses, and most of the people who live there are older. Life moves slowly, and people know and help each other. The white houses, narrow streets, and mountains around it make it very beautiful. For me, Algodonales is important because it connects me to my family and my roots. It’s a place full of memories and stories. Even though it is small, it means a lot to me and to the people who live there.