Monocle’s Quality of Life Special is a highlight of the year for me and, I hope, for you. It’s an edition that throws open the windows to let in some summer sun, heads down to the sea to take stock of the year and leaves time to plot and plan for the months ahead. It’s also the issue that delivers our annual ranking of the best cities in the world to call home.

We launched this survey in 2007 because we didn’t believe that the existing research reflected the desires of the Monocle reader – yes, you. The statisticians working for other organisations were no doubt adept at assessing the state of the roads and the availability of private schools for expats’ children. But they were useless when it came to revealing whether a city was fun, made you feel at ease and delivered a high quality of life to all of its residents, not just those cloistered in one or two upscale neighbourhoods. Monocle readers – clever, engaged, passionate, entertaining to spend time with – deserved something better, something more dynamic.

This year we have focused on two elements as we continue to ensure that our ranking reflects both the needs of readers and the times that we live in. The first is joy – can you have a good night out in these cities? Are they places with cultural institutions and cared-for parks where people can come together and feel that they belong?

The second focus is ambition – are these cities that dream big? It’s easy for even great metropolises to lose momentum, to allow planning delays and financial constraints to halt their progress. If your city faces the challenges of delivering affordable housing, of tackling street crime, of delivering jobs, there is no time to waste.

I am aware that I might need to sport a bucket hat and dark glasses for the next few weeks because some of you will take umbrage at the exclusion of your own city or strongly disagree with where it ranks. Even members of our staff have occasionally been known to do battle for an outpost that they love – what about Mexico City, Chicago or Edinburgh?

So let’s get a few things clear about our intentions. This is not a ranking of gritty but sexy cities. And if your home town has a terribly high murder rate, then no – its cheap food scene will not be enough to win us over. We also want to be able to get around with ease so make sure that your city has good rail services and public transport, plus access to at least one great airport, before you get too riled. Besides, there’s always next year.

Beyond the survey, the notion of quality of life plays out across the coming pages in a lot of interesting ways. In Palma, we visit the new Terreno Barrio Hotel, where a team of creatives and an ambitious owner have conspired to make a property that rethinks the conventional tourism model to deliver a business that also takes care of locals. It’s a story that needs sharing. So too does our report on intergenerational living. How we make communities, diminish loneliness and rethink housing are all issues that every city needs to be contemplating – and fixing.

And on the joy front, read our exclusive report on the launch of Amble, a new vehicle that’s reimagining short-range mobility. Its “mini-mobility” play is super cute. Oh, and come to spend a day on the beach with us in our Ibizan Expo – from yoga sun salutations to sundowners, we have you covered.

As always, feel free to write to me at at@monocle.com. In the meantime, here’s to better cities, big ideas and downtime too.

See Monocle’s 2026 Quality of Life Survey rankings here.

The Italian tradition of la passeggiata is so much more than the mere act of walking. It is a custom so deeply ingrained in the nation’s psyche that, wherever you might find yourself in Italy, you will see smartly dressed residents strolling and mingling in the late afternoon or after dinner to grab a cooling gelato. People promenade – and there really is no rush. They’re there to see and be seen, swap news and gossip. It’s the journey, not the destination, that matters.

The tradition has found a foothold among the Spanish too, who partake in el paseo, while the Greeks have the peratzada. Monocle mingles with the crowds on three leisurely meanders as the day winds to an end but before the evening’s revelries begin.

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1.
‘El paseo’
San Sebastián, Spain

When Monocle asks those ambling along San Sebastián’s Ondarreta esplanade where they’re heading, the answer, more often than not, is “nowhere in particular”. They aren’t being evasive. They’re simply doing what Spaniards do best. “Dando el paseo” – taking a stroll – is a national pastime during which the destination doesn’t matter. Instead, the focus is entirely on the journey.

This city, known as Donostia in Basque, has more than one paseo a day. The first is in the morning, before the rising sun warms the pavements. This stroll is about kicking both body and mind into gear. With 26.6 per cent of residents over the age of 65, the city has one of Spain’s biggest senior populations. It joined the World Health Organization’s Age-Friendly Cities framework in 2010 but an active and inclusive lifestyle comes naturally here.

As well as the morning stroll, there’s its after-dinner cousin. Partly intended to aid digestion, this paseo can be a touch romantic too. But Spain’s main stroll happens between 19.00 and 21.00, before dinner. It’s healthy, social and, most importantly, cultural – an aimless meander that keeps the country connected and moving. In San Sebastián, there’s an unspoken consensus that you should look your best: think sophisticated señoras and smartly dressed señores with no Lycra or leisurewear in sight.

It’s a warm evening so we find walkers sticking to the cooler streets of the old town. Elegantly dressed, Karmele Kaperotxippi tells us that she’s “just passing through”. In head-to-toe pink, Maite Recalde says she’s on her way to buy a bikini but has taken the long route “to soak in the energy”. Jonathan Oloniluyi-Abel Rodrigo is likewise in no hurry, apart from when it comes to eating his ice cream before it melts.

Back on the ornate and curved esplanade of La Concha beach, we meet a mix of young couples, chatty amigas and dog walkers. Ana, Jorge and Gizmo have stepped out to “dar una vuelta” (take a walk).

There’s also a spirited side to walking along this beach, one of the busiest stretches of the Camino de Santiago: among the aimless amblers are those on pilgrimages. San Sebastián is one of the most beautiful stretches of the religious route. We meet Vivek Bhasin from Himachal Pradesh in India; he tells us that he regularly takes long walks across the globe. His last pilgrimage was 1,200km long. “It’s a reflective path and a way to savour time,” he says. Thankfully for him, this section of the Camino de Norte (Northern Way) is a little shorter at 803km.

Back in mid-20th century Paris, situationist thinkers such as Guy Debord romanticised the unplanned stroll as the dérive – the act of drifting. They created an art movement around observational walks – an early and sociopolitical take on mindfulness. In Spain, however, strolls aren’t so intellectually freighted. The paseo is a simple, universal pleasure in which one steps onto the street to reconnect with the world, strut a little, chat a lot and see and be seen.

As the sun sets and the evening rolls on, the footfall along San Sebastián’s streets begins to decrease. But the city’s wayfarers will no doubt be back tomorrow, ready for another day of wandering nowhere in particular.

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2.
‘La passeggiata’
Pietrasanta, Tuscany

Once the summer sun softens to a golden haze, the pedestrianised streets of tiny Pietrasanta become the stage for the urban choreography of la passeggiata – a pleasure stroll that requires no destination. Instead, it’s a leisurely civic ritual and a refreshingly analogue social network that continues to connect local life.

La passeggiata has deep roots across Italy, with promenaders in couples and small groups traversing the main piazzas and shop-filled streets of towns and cities – most commonly in the evening hours before dinner, when the day’s work or beach visit is over and bars begin serving aperitivi. The point is not to seek solitude but rather to participate in public life among fellow denizens. The ritual remains especially entrenched in small towns where the sense of community is still palpable.

In Pietrasanta, as in many seaside spots, the summer meander is an essential part of the day’s rhythm, elevated by the town’s singular character. Located by the mountains that yield the world-famous Carrara marble, the district has a long history of stone carving and the bronze casting of sculptures. These credentials have rendered Pietrasanta a magnet for artists – Isamu Noguchi, Fernando Botero and Igor Mitoraj all maintained studios here. The town’s public spaces are rich in art, from the train station’s Kan Yasuda sculpture and Botero’s church frescoes to the monumental works installed annually in the main piazza.

Alongside museums, such as the Igor Mitoraj foundation and the Museo dei Bozzetti, Pietrasanta’s compact criss-cross of streets is home to dozens of art galleries. “Even people from neighbouring towns like to come to Pietrasanta for a passeggiata because there’s so much art to look at as you walk,” says Sara Ferron Cima, c0-founder of Bloc Studios, which works with marble from nearby quarries. “Strolling through town is a chance to marvel at all the beauty around you,” says her husband, artist Paolo Ciregia, who points to the art but also to the proximity of the mountains, sea and forested hills.

The central area is lined with distinctive independent shops: La Stramberia’s Tuscan-made hats; Santa Riva’s dapper men’s selection; Thanks Dad, with its in-house clothing line. But it’s the enduring presence of artists and artisans that preserves the town’s rare authenticity. “This is a small working community of skilled craftspeople and artists,” says designer Marco Guazzini, who moved to the area after holidaying here for years. He is enjoying a beachside aperitivo. “You see faces you know when you walk around and that keeps the town human.”

“A passeggiata and an aperitivo – that’s how we end the day whenever we can,” says his tablemate, architect Andrea Leonardi, who usually has his son in tow, kicking a football through the town with the other kids.

Head down to Marina di Pietrasanta, the town’s seaside quarter, and you’ll find roads edged with marble yards and stone depots before reaching the row of vintage beach clubs that front the sand. Along the car-free promenade, locals on bicycles drift by while others are on foot – freshly changed from the beach and ready to take part in the languid spectacle.

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3.
‘Peratzada’
Chania, Crete

As Chania’s heat dissipates, its old harbour starts to fill up. Families, hotel guests, students and elderly couples emerge to begin their peratzada. Taken from the Greek word pernao, meaning “to pass by”, the peratzada is an amble that includes a few key stops along the way – for a coffee, beer, meze or, when the temperature starts to rise, vyssinada, a soft drink made with sour cherries, sugar and water, served ice-cold.

“There are many different stretches that I pick for my walk, depending on my mood,” says 33-year-old architect and photographer Nikos Kouklakis, who returned to the Cretan city from Vienna nine years ago to renovate his grandmother’s apartment in the old town, where he now lives. “But there’s something special about starting here [in the harbour], in the openness of the waterfront.”

This evening, the city’s layered past, which includes Venetian, Ottoman and Byzantine periods, appears briefly unified in the shimmering glow. Few Mediterranean promenades pack so much history into such a short distance: within 10 minutes, the walk passes the Ottoman mosque of Yali Tzami, with its distinctive domes, Venetian warehouses and shipyards, and small Byzantine churches. But far from being an open-air museum gazing wistfully at the past, it feels more like a lively urban stage. Cafés occupy old customs houses; Venetian mansions are now boutique hotels; and tavernas spill on to former dockyards. In Neoria, the long, arched shipyards where Venetian boats were once built and repaired, fishermen now moor their vessels beneath the stone arches.

Chania’s most beloved peratzada often begins on the waterfront. But for locals in the know, it disperses into a series of routes. “We enjoy meeting visitors and getting to know them,” says entrepreneur Nikos Tsepetis, owner of Ammos Hotel and Red Jane bakery. “But that doesn’t mean our volta [walkaround] doesn’t have a few twists and turns that only we know.”

One of the best-known detours climbs up to Rosa Nera, a 19th-century neoclassical mansion on Kasteli Hill. Now controversially occupied by squatters, it remains one of the city’s most accessible viewpoints. “My favourite walk after a ramble on the waterfront is climbing up the steps here,” says 35-year-old hotelier Zaira Apostolaki, the owner of Aisha Hotel, which opened in 2024 on the hill. “I love sitting at the makeshift café at sunset.” From Kasteli Hill, the walk often continues through the lanes behind the harbour. Around Mhairadika, a corner of the city named after the old knifemaking workshops that still line the street, people are sipping early evening drinks with a view of the towering Venetian walls. The city’s various routes then converge on Splantzia Square, in the old Turkish neighbourhood.

At the square’s centre stands the Church of Agios Nikolaos, a building dating back to the 14th century that features a slender Ottoman minaret rising beside the church’s bell tower. It’s a testament to the many influences that the city has absorbed. “My favourite time here is at dusk, when tables spill across the square beneath the plane trees,” says Alkida Metai, a fourth-year architecture student. The perfect end to an unhurried promenade.

The postcard, addressed to a department of British Steel in Llanwern, South Wales, is franked Torremolinos, Málaga, 25 November 1975. The picture side features four brightly coloured images of the Costa del Sol: a row of whitewashed houses; a sweeping bay under an azure sky; a crowded beach; and on the sand, beside a faded bullfighting poster, a donkey in a straw hat. The reverse reveals more of the story: “Having a lovely time. The weather is much better than expected. We’re having a lot of fun. There’s plenty of food, drink & entertainment. Unfortunately, Franco has died today & there’s no more entertainment until Sunday evening (no music even). Still, we’re not going to let that spoil it.”

Sue’s trip to the Costa del Sol intersected with the end of Spain’s autocratic rule that had lasted for almost four decades and the postcard in my hand is a tiny witness to that moment. In the years from 1959, Francisco Franco, Spain’s leader, opened up the economy and increased foreign trade, overseeing what has been referred to as the “Spanish miracle”. One aspect of rapid economic growth was the breakneck development of tourist resorts. Beginning with Benidorm, fishing villages were transformed into tourism factories, as high-rise developments mushroomed along the Mediterranean coast, bringing employment, wealth and squadrons of British holidaymakers in search of the sun. In 1975, the year Franco’s death silenced the music on Sue’s holiday, more than 30 million foreign visitors arrived in Spain.

To document these holidays, the production of full-colour Spanish tourist postcards underwent a similar surge, selling in vast numbers. At the time, to take your own photographs was an analogue hobby that required planning and commitment: as a collector, I have seen countless messages on postcards referring to the onerous business of sending rolls of film to be developed, or counting an exact number of photos taken. In a world yet to be flooded with digital images, the picture postcard was an ideal method of sending home a tangible token of a week in the sun. And if the picture on the card was idealised and generic (or showed the wrong hotel), the message on the other side could still be unique and personal. For most European holidaymakers, foreign travel in the 1950s and 1960s was new and exciting. There’s an argument that modern tourism was invented on the Costa Blanca: the Spanish taught themselves how to host masses of foreign visitors, who in turn learnt how to be on holiday.

As the global tourism industry has grown, so too has our visual inventory: every beach, every beauty spot, every meal is now documented. But those evanescent images rest on devices in pockets and servers on different continents; after a change in terms and conditions or new ownership of the platform, who knows how long they might last. When I’m sifting through a box of old postcards from the 1960s and 1970s, flipping between image and message, looking for anything to catch the eye, I’m aware that these small cardboard oblongs have weight both physically and metaphorically. They were built to survive and they still work: the pictures are clear, the messages fresh and immediate. They weren’t addressed to me but speak to me nonetheless. They comprise a vast, touching, fragmented archive of first-hand testimony of what it felt like to travel to the Costas and further afield in that first flush of affordable travel for the masses.

Hotels and tour operators were well aware that these cards represented important viral marketing. Postcards from southern Europe acted, certainly in the earlier part of the era, as personalised testimonials to the advantages of a holiday in the sun. With the brand-new hotel and pool and loungers and happy, tanned customers on the front of the card, the back was left for Tripadvisor-style endorsements. One reads: “Oranges are fresh and sweet. Flowers are grown in profusion here. Hotel has lovely sweet peas in bloom.” Some hotels would offer to send the cards for you, helpfully adding a rubber-stamped image of the hotel so that, even if the photograph was of a beach or donkey or flamenco dancer, the recipient would nevertheless be under no illusion as to which hotel the praise should be attached to.

In those early days, air travel itself was often a new experience, and the humblest package holidaymaker could feel like they were now part of the jet set. A postcard from Formentor, Mallorca, shows a row of women in bikinis sitting on a low wall by the harbour. Addressed to Liverpool, it announces: “You must visit this place, not very expensive, Grace Kelly staying in the next room to us, so we may stay longer.” And, for some, the glamour of the exotic is more explicitly eroticised: who knows what this faraway place in Spain, France, Italy or Greece might offer? Cheeky comments are commonplace, imagined objects of (fleeting) desire include waiters, local boys, local girls, other holidaymakers male or female, anyone in a bikini and, later, anyone out of a bikini.

By the 1960s, Italy and France were opening up too. Yes, Cannes, Nice and Monte Carlo had long been the playground of the moneyed, but now the Côte d’Azur was encouraging visitors. Postcards suggest that French tourism was more diverse, with smaller hotels, rentals and camping. Visitors to France could write home on exquisitely composed, beautifully produced photographic cards by publishers such as Yvon, Artaud Frères or Iris. “Isn’t it gorgeous living on fresh melon grapes, wine and cheese?” one from my collection muses.

Iris cards, printed using the mysterious Mexichrome process, were aware of their superior quality, exhorting: “Collectionnez les Cartes Postales!” Collect postcards! And the recipients did. Cards from Italy show lower-rise hotels, crammed in front of or stacked on top of cliffs; they seem to favour high wide-angle shots of beaches, sunbathers little more than dots – a glimpse of modern mass beach tourism but on a slightly less industrial scale. Looking through thousands of these cards, changes in tone emerge: the early wonder of the 1960s sours slightly by the late 1970s. The thrill of “fresh melon grapes wine and cheese” increasingly gives way to cheap alcohol and plenty of it. By August 1977, Brian’s holiday in Palma Nova, Mallorca, sounds plain brutal. “Ossie & I stoned out of our minds on Sunday night, he fell asleep on the pavement. Hotel is okay but the food is the worst I’ve ever had. Head waiter is a bit of a nark so it’s the swimming pool for him.” Yikes.

But innocence is always glimpsed in the rear-view mirror. As early as September 1958, a correspondent sent a black-and-white postcard, a panorama of Benidorm, to South Kensington, complaining that: “The place is now super developed, shops with plate glass doors & self-service groceries, milk bars, Americans & still patches of oil on the beach. Hordes of people, return fare from London & 14 days here for £44!!” The traditional visitor was losing his exclusive hold on the place: the masses were coming and, with them, changes.

A holiday is an attempt to step outside the calendar but, as Sue discovered in Torremolinos in 1975 – and as visitors to the Gulf found in February 2026 – even from your sunlounger the movements of the world are inescapable: political and international events can all too easily upset your idyll. Now, tourism itself is changing: leisure travel is a global industry and its impact is under scrutiny. In 2024, thousands of locals protested in the Canary Islands against overtourism. In Barcelona, protesters called for an end to the overuse by visitors of resources, public spaces and public services.

Time and the turning of the world will chase us all from our poolside reveries eventually. These holiday moments still urge us to snap countless pictures and squirrel them away. The intention might be the same – to capture and share a moment – but often our digital equivalents never see the light of day. More than 50 years have passed since these many millions of postcards were written, sent and received. Yet, by freezing to perfect stillness those beach scenes in Magaluf, flamenco poses, or donkeys in Lloret de Mar, by capturing in ink the fleeting thoughts and feelings of a particular sunburnt holidaymaker at a specific moment, these resilient little cards have, in a small way, held back the deluge and beaten time itself.

Coop MIL
Montréal

The oldest residents in Montréal’s Coop mil are a globe-trotting bunch. Monocle is lucky to catch 80-year-old Monique Rouxel, who spent half of the harsh Québec winter in Vietnam and Thailand, days before she embarks on a cycling tour of the Laurentian region. The Brittany-born former restaurateur retired after a career serving crêpes to hungry Montréalers (plus a few stints cooking aboard yachts in the Caribbean) that enabled her to transform a one-room village school into her dream retirement home. When grandchildren entered the equation, though, she found it hard to visit them as frequently as she wanted, as the journey to Montréal took three-and-a-half hours. Rouxel decided to move to the big city but much of the property she found there was prohibitively expensive. While she could afford extra-care housing, conversations with visiting friends who lived in such digs confirmed that she had no desire for the rigid pensioner’s life.

“Lunchtime is 12.00 sharp every day because that’s the business model,” she says. “You can count the walkers. The big, heated pool is a plus but I wanted something more dynamic.” Rouxel found what she was looking for in 2016 when friends recruited her to join a planned residential co-operative. The idea appealed to the self-described hippie who left France 50 years ago to join a commune in Québec. “Self-management creates stronger ties than just being neighbours with people who you only cross paths with in the lift,” she says.

Québec is the most co-op friendly province in Canada and Greater Montréal is home to more than 15,000 housing units of this kind. Building one from scratch, however, is no mean feat. Rouxel says that she spent about 500 hours in meetings and workshops to realise the 91-unit project, which opened two years ago in the Outremont area. Now, instead of gripping a walker, Rouxel mounts her bicycle for the 10-minute ride to her son’s house.

Rouxel’s 78-year-old neighbour, Denise Poirier, often walks to the Université de Montréal campus nextdoor, where she is auditing courses on neuroscience. For the retired Radio Canada presenter, now serving on the co-op’s communications committee, co-op life provided an affordable way to return to Montréal after several years of rural life. She revels in the intentionally intergenerational demographics. “Only living among older people isn’t stimulating,” she says. “Being around parents with kids yelling in the courtyard, a mother rocking her baby in the community room – that’s truly living.”

While Rouxel says that she burnt out after five years as co-op president, she is invigorated by phase two: a wing for those with limited mobility. The spirit is co-operative but her involvement is understandably selfish – when built, it’ll allow her to spend even more years happily cooped up in the co-op.

The Cambridge
Sydney

“A high-rise wasn’t on our agenda,” says Brian Pickering, while his wife, Robyn, makes tea in their apartment inside The Cambridge – a 29-storey tower in the leafy Sydney suburb of Epping. “We had lived in a house our whole lives but we’re not yearning to go back.” Last year they sold their home of 40 years and became two of the earliest residents of the tower, which developer Levande bills as a “vertical retirement village”. It offers apartments for retirees, as well a 132-room care facility for those requiring assistance. The brand has built its reputation on sprawling retirement communities but with The Cambridge, it’s looking skyward.

One in six Australians is 65 or older, a figure that the government expects to rise to almost a quarter of the population by 2066. Last year, following an inquiry into abuse at elderly homes nationwide, a new Aged Care Act was passed by the Australian parliament to increase scrutiny of such institutions. Though the sector receives ever more federal funding, in a country where housing demand perennially outstrips supply, the needs of the ageing population must compete with those of the market. If The Cambridge can prove that a dense vertical retirement village can work, it will provide a model to imitate across the country and possibly even the world.

In 2014, ahead of the opening of the new Sydney metro line, Epping was rezoned to allow high-rise buildings. This prompted the local Catholic diocese to rethink the land surrounding its church, which needed modern facilities, and its primary school, which was in disrepair. Meanwhile, the influx of new developments was driving congregants to leave. “They decided to build apartments for seniors so that ageing members of the church could downsize and stay within their parish community,” says Farhad Haidari of design firm Architectus, who led the project. It involved designing a new school, renovating the church and creating a residential tower shared by The Cambridge, with the separately operated care facility Epping Grand occupying the first four storeys.

Haidari decided to connect them within a shared multigenerational precinct. “We had done aged care and retirement living but on lower rises and larger sites, not in a tower,” he says. “That level of density was new for everyone.” As well as a parish hall, there’s an internal courtyard connecting the school, the church, Epping Grand and The Cambridge. Just off the courtyard, a multipurpose room that can be accessed by all has been built to encourage multigenerational mingling.

Typically, a retirement village’s amenities are scattered throughout but The Cambridge’s shared activity spaces are concentrated across a few floors. Level five is the clubhouse, which features a cinema, a lounge, a bar and an outdoor terrace. A balcony garden space nearby is home to a power-tool-packed shed and a lawn for dogs. There’s also an indoor pool, gym and hair salon, plus rooftop views.

“Having all of those communal areas is great,” says 71-year-old Cambridge resident Vince Hantos, who lives on the 25th floor with his wife, Cathryn, and their dogs, Jay and Freya. “We’re constantly meeting people.” The couple were surprised by how quickly they adapted to high-altitude living. “The verticality is effective because you encounter so many people in the lift or when you’re walking in and out,” says Vince. “It was a leap of faith for us and we have been amazed.”

Millennia Village
Seremban, Malaysia

Malaysia is undergoing a rapid demographic shift: by 2048, it is estimated that 14 per cent of its population will be aged 65 or older (up from 8 per cent today). And yet, unlike in many similarly ageing nations, retirement and nursing homes still carry a stigma in Southeast Asian cultures, where it’s traditional for the elderly to live with their younger relatives. While there’s growing demand for purpose-built senior housing and assisted-living residences, these too often fall short on delivering a feeling of community and connection.

“Designing for older people isn’t only about safety features – it’s also about joy,” says Diane Chia, the executive director of Millennia Village, which opened in Seremban, a city about 60km south of Kuala Lumpur, in 2023. The 13-hectare retirement village and lifestyle resort sets itself apart from conventional care homes by catering to visitors as well as residents.

Established by three members of the Chia family and siblings Peter and Susan Ho, the development was conceived as Malaysia’s first active senior-living resort. “The words ‘retirement home’ carry so much weight,” Chia tells Monocle. “They conjure images of people waiting, not living.” Activities (which are open to both residents and visitors) include jungle hikes, yoga, art classes, aqua aerobics and gardening, while the evenings benefit from a focus on socialising, with competitive mahjong sessions taking place in the lounge room and late-night karaoke getting people on their feet. Though people aged between 50 and 75 remain the property’s core demographic, short-term stays, corporate retreats and private events bring in younger visitors, as well as those from further afield.

“When you have different generations living and engaging together, the mood stays vibrant,” says Chia. “Our senior residents are constantly energised by younger guests and family visitors, and there’s something beautiful about that exchange going both ways.”

The village is immersed within the surrounding jungle. “When I first walked through this old granite quarry land, there was this raw, dramatic beauty and I thought that it could be extraordinary,” says chief architect Peter Ho, who used circular clan dwellings of the Hakka Tulou in China’s Fujian as a reference point for the design of the open-air central courtyard that functions as a social anchor. “Fresh air, greenery and birdsong aren’t luxuries,” he says. “They’re fundamental to human wellbeing, especially as we age. When you breathe clean air and move through natural spaces every day, it changes you.”

The village’s 344 guest rooms come in the form of loft-style serviced apartments and multi-room family suites. Materials are selected for both tactility and safety, from slip-resistant flooring to functional but warm lighting. For those who require regular help, plans for a 75-unit assisted-living residence are in the works, along with a plan to build an on-site medical clinic and traditional medicine centre in collaboration with a local hospital.

The result is a positive approach to senior living that’s not only attracting locals but also international guests who are looking for a holiday in a facility geared towards people of their age – or just a sunny post-retirement relocation. “The developers and management have decades of experience in building and operating hotels and it shows,” says German retiree Juergen, who is visiting with his wife, Marita. “We’re here for the third time now, each time a little longer than before, and we feel very comfortable. If we ever give up our house in Germany and move into a residence, it will be here.”
millenniavillage.com

As an idea, the city charter predates even the earliest national constitution. The first was probably the one that William the Conqueror endowed the City of London in 1067. It promises, in part, “Every son shall be his father’s heir after his father’s death and that I will not [let] that any man do wrong to you. God yield you.” It was an early attempt to make the social contract an actual contract – to formalise the arrangement under which the government promises to furnish law and order and the opportunity for citizens to prosper, in return for which citizens must undertake to observe the basics of common decency that make urban life possible. One doesn’t have to spend too long in some urban centres to notice that substantial numbers of people have forgotten that the privilege of living in a great city endows responsibilities as well as rights.

It’s high time, therefore, that the city charter enjoyed a comeback. The model I have employed here is the Charter of Privileges granted to the inhabitants of what is now Pennsylvania and its territories by Governor William Penn on 28 October 1701; the arbitrary capitalisations are a homage to the spirit of that age. The gravitas of our charter will be further enhanced if the reader imagines that it is cosigned, as Penn’s was, by at least one person called Phineas.

I.
Whereas it would obviously be Preferable if Cities would run themselves and Citizens would behave themselves, the Course of Human Affairs demonstrates that neither can be taken for granted; Accordingly, this Charter codifies the Rights and the Privileges attendant upon Life in this City.

II.
Because no People can be truly Happy if the Government or anyone else makes a thing of who or what they Believe, Worship, Wear, Read, Think, Say or Love, it shall be the first duty of the Government and the Citizens to leave everyone the heck alone so long as they keep the noise down.

III.
For the well governing of this city, an Assembly shall be regularly chosen from among the People, consisting of Citizens of Virtue, Wisdom and Ability or, failing that, broadly competent Administrators who will get the Bins collected and can be trusted not to loot the treasury – but don’t come running to the city Founders if you elect Yahoos and Dingbats who turn out to be Yahoos and Dingbats.

IV.
Whereas none of that will pay for itself, a Tax will be Levied in part from the Citizens, mostly from Operators of Overlarge Vehicles out of all Proportion to the City Avenues and the Reckless wielders of Umbrellas on crowded footpaths.

V.
Know ye that Cyclists and Cycling shall be encouraged with all of the City’s wherewithal. Know ye also that Cyclists who fail to halt their Velocipedes at red lights and ride on footpaths shall be Flogged with Knotted ropes.

VI.
Know ye, while we’re up this way, that Companies that hire Cycles out to the Public or retain Cyclists to deliver Comestibles, shall be held Accountable for the Behaviour of operators of their Machines.

VII.
Know ye that Rapscallions who apply daubs to public Statuary and railway stations shall be compelled to scrub surfaces clean while Townsfolk pelt them with Turnips.

VIII.
Know ye that Oafs and Oiks who berate fellow passengers on the city Omnibuses with discordant noise from Devices shall be made to get out and Walk.

IX.
Whereas life in a city is for living, Citizens shall be enjoined to do exactly that, rather than Filming or Photographing every Single thing that they Do. Your everyday Activities, while obviously important to You – and Good Luck with them – are not Remotely interesting to Anyone Else.

X.
Know ye that the right of the People to Assemble in support of whatever Bees beset their Bonnets will not be Abridged but try not to be a Jerk about it.

XI.
Know ye that Trees and Parks are an Inestimable public Good so we’ll plant loads of them.

XII.
Know ye that Building Permissions will be Denied to Designs devoid of Grace, Attractiveness and Generally Pleasing Aspect. Nobody wants to look at a box park.

XIII.
Notwithstanding other considerations, the Inhabitants of the City shall separately enjoy all other Liberties, Privileges and Benefits, granted jointly to them in this Charter, any Law, Usage or Custom of this Government heretofore made and practised, or any Law made and passed by this General Assembly, to the Contrary hereof, whatever… Not really sure what any of this means, to be honest, but Phineas said that it would wrap things up nicely.

You’re never far from a drinking fountain in Zürich but the infrastructure has taken generations of investment. There are more than 1,200 in the Swiss city, which means that there are almost 266 for every 100,000 residents. (Basel has 143 per 100,000.) Ranging from abstract installations to slick 21st-century models, their designs are diligently documented by the city’s authorities in a series of district-by-district fountain guides.

Beyond their aesthetic appeal, Zürich’s fountains play a vital role in the urban fabric, especially in the warmer months. Whether a place to cool off between daytime errands, perch while enjoying an evening drink with friends or cycle through on the way home after a long day of work (as residents often do with the Europuddle on Gustav-Gull-Platz), they are landmarks for residents to interact with.

A tour of Zürich’s fountains on a summer day will offer a wellspring of inspiration to urban planners who want to make a mark on their own cities as temperatures rise. Here, we present some of Zürich’s finest fountains. Enjoy.

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Further reading:
Monocle’s complete city guide to Zürich

As the padel craze sweeps the globe, tennis remains a smash hit in Thailand. In wealthy Bangkok neighbourhoods, courts rival swimming pools. One of the Thai capital’s seemliest new openings is The Lobb Club, which started out with a conversation between five friends on holiday in Mallorca. Enamoured with the Spanish island’s approach to socialising around racquet sports, this group of young entrepreneurs decided to create something similar at home, roping in two more friends.

The founders spent six months trying to find a plot of land near Sukhumvit Road, Bangkok’s main artery, before settling on Yan Nawa, a residential district in the south of the city. The up-and-coming area is near the central business district and home to an increasing number of high-rise property developments and international schools. This colourful take on a classic sports and social club, which opened in March, has transformed a former metals warehouse into two courts, five tennis simulators, a pickleball court and an ice bath. The Lobbar restaurant overlooks the on-court action and invites players to enjoy a post-match feast of Thai rice dishes, including pad kaphrao (stir-fried beef with a fried egg) and khao khai khon (creamy omelette). “We want to create a place in Bangkok to hang out and play sports,” says co-founder Ruchchapa “Pung” Jaochakarasiri, who intends to turn an empty building adjacent to the clubhouse into a wellness facility.

The 29-year-old architecture graduate heads to the club after her day job at a property developer. Most of the owners work full-time – the club draws on each of their skill sets, from branding to marketing. And it has paid off. A few months in and The Lobb Club has become a popular destination for workers aspiring to be the next Paradorn Srichaphan, Thailand’s most famous tennis pro. Booking a court is already competitive and there is talk of a second outpost as landowners with vacant plots vie for a slice of the action.

It’s 08.30 and slivers of sunlight shine through the pines of Madrid’s Real Club de Campo Villa. Its general manager, Juan Carlos Vera Pró, starts the day with a lap of the grounds in his Volvo. At about 250 hectares, the prestigious country club sprawls across rolling hills between a busy highway and the Manzanares river. The architecture, sport facilities and golfing greens cling to Madrid’s past but the club’s popularity – it currently has 35,000 members and a long waiting list – proves that it’s very much a part of the present. “We are always thinking of ways to improve our installations,” says Pró, who stops to show Monocle the busy driving range.

Appointed in 2019 by the incoming mayor, Pró swapped national parliament, where he had held a seat for 26 years, for the club’s copious sporting arenas. Here, there are 240 horses, an equestrian club, hockey, croquet and padel, as well as 34 tennis courts. Pró says that he spends a lot of time handing out trophies. “Last week I awarded more than 600 kids participation medals for a hockey tournament.”

Only five minutes’ drive from the city centre, these tranquil lawns are among the best places in the Spanish capital to disconnect from the daily grind. We are shown the site where a planned virtual training centre will help the club’s 14,000 golfers to improve their swing. To ensure that the putting schedule is fair, there’s a lottery-like system that was “developed to alleviate any squabbles around availability – and to prove that there’s no favouritism”, says Pró. It makes sense: some 6,000 members are expected to pass through the gates this coming weekend.

These days, the club provides escape from stress but its history reflects the complexities of Spain’s past political turmoil. In 1930 a group of well-to-do youngsters, including a duke and a count, were so disgruntled by price hikes at another country club that they founded this establishment on their own land. Some adjoining hectares from the crown were added too. A year later, following the declaration of the Second Spanish Republic, the land was ceded to the local government. When the Spanish civil war ended in 1939, it was turned into a private institution until 1984, when today’s public version of the club was launched, and – in a move that reflected the new open spirit of Spain – 6,000 new members were admitted.

Officially, Real Club de Campo Villa is owned by Madrid City Council, which has a 51 per cent stake, with the remainder split equally between the national heritage department and the Royal Spanish Equestrian Society. Annual memberships are priced at €950, though new admissions have been frozen for several years. Monocle is told that fresh places are only made available when there is a voluntary renouncement or a death.

An exception was made, however, for Rafael Nadal, who was recently made an honorary member after hosting a charity tournament at the club. Last year, Spain’s king bestowed a royal honour of sporting excellence, prompting a small but regal change to the club’s logo.

Meanwhile, at the Chalet de Arriba – Real Club de Campo’s event space, which is known colloquially as Club Social – the scent of jasmine perfumes the air and a perfectly framed view of Madrid’s skyline can be seen across the valley. Designed by architect Luis Gutiérrez Soto in 1931, the clubhouse possesses a frozen-in-time feel, lending it an embassy-like charm.

In the afternoons, tables fill with friendly games of bridge and canasta. Inside the adjoining café, people read newspapers, while others sip cortados sitting on leather chairs made by Spanish firm Casa & Jardin. Outside, on the driving range, the crack of an eight-iron sending the ball skywards is the only sound you can hear.

Waterfronts often serve as connection points in urban environments. When designed well, such spaces function as ecological buffers, economic engines and public spaces where communities can gather. But arriving at such a point requires vision, investment and ambition to reimagine precisely what a shoreline can be. Here, we examine three cities that have done exactly this: Sydney, reinvented through industrial infrastructure; New York, restored through environmental intervention; and Kobe, reshaped through civic and landscape design.

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1.
Sydney Fish Market
Sydney, Australia

It’s 06.30 and the operations centre at the new Sydney Fish Market is in full swing. At one terminal, a worker is washing mud crabs in a deep sink; at another, fish are being checked for freshness. An aquatic bounty sits on slabs of ice: tuna, snapper, barramundi, tiger prawns. Workers push the market’s signature blue crates through the wide lanes, deftly avoiding some tourists – even at this early hour, there is a tour group coming through, learning about how the market functions. It’s all part of a grand architectural plan. Unveiled in January, this is the largest fish market in the southern hemisphere.

“We have turned an introverted industry inside out,” says Fred Holt, partner and Australian director at architecture firm 3XN. The international outfit, headquartered in Denmark, designed the building in partnership with Australia’s BVN Architecture and landscape firm Aspect Studios. The trio has produced a design that serves the public and industry, with a blurred activity programme headlined by a market hall that accommodates fishmongers, speciality shops, cafés and restaurants.

In a similar vein, the behind-the-scenes operations of the market have been foregrounded: the cold storage rooms are set on ground level and visible to anyone driving or walking past. Visitors can also see the auction hall, though circulation flows have been smartly designed to separate the daily operations of the working fish market from the public. “We’re putting the back-of-house operations on display,” says Holt. “We’re making the theatrics and intense choreography of seafood trading part of the public experience.”

As if to prove the point, Holt welcomes Monocle to the auction hall early on a summer day, whose cloudless blue sky promises scorching heat. It’s surprisingly quiet: about 40 bidders sit at desks in the hall, which is lined with glass windows and cascading rows of seating that make it reminiscent of a university lecture theatre. Coffees in hand, they stare intently at computer screens at their terminals. The auction uses a Dutch system, involving a clock that ticks down until a winning bid is made. Occasionally the contenders groan loudly when they’re outbid, otherwise the only sounds are gentle murmurs.

Far from simply being innovative in terms of inviting the public into an industrial market, work has also been done to link the site to the city. The building is set on Blackwattle Bay in the inner-city suburb of Glebe, along a 15km foreshore walk that starts near the Sydney Opera House. Part of the brief was to connect the building with this walk through a waterfront promenade. “The building is shaped to respond to this request,” says Holt. “The ground level has sweeping stairs to draw people up but also provide a place for Sydneysiders to just enjoy the view.”

It’s a view that the city’s inhabitants are well acquainted with: the building is a replacement for the former fish market, which, since opening on an adjacent site in 1966, had been a fixture of Sydney’s economic, cultural and tourist map. The new structure builds on this storied legacy but while adding a layer of architectural significance – it has already been described as the city’s most outstanding harbourside structure since the Opera House. Appropriately, the fish market’s roof, which looks like a wave coated in fish scales, is well on its way to icon status too. The design was informed by practical requirements: it needed to be low-lying to avoid obstructing the nearby Moreton Bay fig trees.

An undulating form proved the best solution, allowing natural light and ventilation to flow through the space, while collecting rainwater for later reuse. It’s a savvy design that means the building gives back to its tenants. “The Sydney Fish Market is actually owned by the industry for people who actually support it,” says Gus Dannoun, the operations manager at the market, who has worked here for more than 40 years. “One half of the business is owned by the licensed commercial fishermen through a trust, and the other half is owned by the tenants and merchants who operate from this site. It’s a truly industry-owned operation.”

It’s a situation that Holt is perfectly happy to acknowledge, adding that his work has built on it. “The fish market is two things,” he tells Monocle, as he wraps up his tour of the building. “It’s an operating fish market but it’s also a Sydney institution.” By 09.00 the public spaces have filled up – there are people walking dogs, buying flowers and coffees, gathering around an oyster shucker to watch him work, and, of course, buying plenty of fish. “It’s Sydney’s living room,” adds Holt.

View Monocle’s complete city guide to Sydney.

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2.
East Side Coastal Resiliency
New York, USA

When the $1.45bn (€1.25bn) East Side Coastal Resiliency project is completed in 2027, the waterfront along lower Manhattan’s East River will look significantly different to the one that was destroyed by Hurricane Sandy in 2012. The ambitious 15-year project, named the Big U, is being built to a master plan by Bjarke Ingels Group and One Architecture and Urbanism. It is defined by a 16km stretch of park and public realm, featuring flood protections (such as a tidal gate chamber, floodwalls and elevated parkland) designed to safeguard New Yorkers from future storms and tidal floods, while also providing abundant public amenities.

“It’s an archipelago of parks forming an elevated, undulating new landscape – a ‘parkipelago’ if you will,” says Ingels. “Each island of green is devoted to a use and character decided by the community. Rather than separating the city from the waterfront, we’ve designed a public realm that invites people in.”

Its crown jewel is the 4km-long East River Park, which is being transformed into the Lower East Side’s most vibrant civic space. Those who visit the site this summer will hear the hum of construction at the park’s northern end. But they will also be able to visit the most recently opened section (pictured) south of the Williamsburg Bridge.

Elevated above the floodplain, it features lush planting, sports courts and spots for the community to gather in, fields, lawns, nature and water play areas, an amphitheatre and an extended esplanade for walking, running and cycling. “It protects, connects and inspires,” says Ingels. “Proof that the future of our cities can be both safe from floods and full of life.”

View Monocle’s complete city guide to New York.

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3.
Tottei Green Hill
Kobe, Japan

Fifty years ago, the Japanese port of Kobe had multiple inner-city piers lined with cargo ships. Times have changed: an earthquake in 1995 caused extensive damage to the waterfront and today’s larger container vessels now dock offshore. Architect Tomohiro Hata was tasked with transforming the tip of the centrally located No 2 Pier into a space for Kobe’s citizens. “Our first thought was an outdoor theatre where people could gather,” says Hata. Inspired by the Teatro Antico di Taormina, a third-century BC amphitheatre in Sicily, Hata set about creating a venue that made sense in a modern Japanese metropolis.

The city of 1.5 million is sandwiched between the Seto Inland Sea and Rokko mountains. “When you walk through Kobe, the dense concentration of high-rise buildings makes it difficult to understand the connection between the sea and the mountains,” says Hata. Once you reach the waterfront, however, the region’s dramatic topography reveals itself. The brief called for a large public space so Hata designed a grassy plaza before raising one corner by 11 metres, creating a hill that opens up to those panoramic views.

Hata’s idea to combine an outdoor theatre and a manmade hill demanded complex engineering. “To realise the hill, we used moisture-retaining lightweight soil and planted two varieties of bamboo grass of differing heights, capable of withstanding harsh seaside conditions.” The design allowed for rapid drainage of seawater even when exposed to large waves. For the theatre part, stepped platforms made from metal grates float above the planted slopes, allowing sunlight to reach the vegetation below while providing spaces for people to sit. The empty space within the hollow hill can be used for events in all weathers.

It’s an impressive reinvention of a piece of unwanted urban infrastructure – and Kobe has embraced it. Hata thinks that the idea could work elsewhere too. “People are drawn to waterfronts,” he says, “It suggests a universal quality that extends beyond the context of Kobe.”

During a recent flying-taxi demonstration between Manhattan and New York’s John F Kennedy International Airport, I glimpsed the potential future of this heavily hyped mode of transport: an electric aircraft taking of downtown, effortlessly crossing waterways, highways and urban blocks and reaching its destination in about seven minutes. For anyone who has sat in traffic, nervous about missing a flight, it will feel like liberation.

But this isn’t just a New York story. Dubai is preparing to launch air-taxi services too. In Japan, a demo flight offered the striking image of a flying machine sailing across the sky against the backdrop of Mount Fuji. South Korea and China have also held trial flights, with planned routes and early operational frameworks in place. The flying taxi no longer exists exclusively in sci-fi or a technology company’s promotional video. It is becoming a pressing question for cities. Can the sky become a part of civic infrastructure?

The answer to that question is complicated. If flying taxis only serve a few wealthy people, leaving everyone else on the ground, they’ll become a new form of urban privilege. Those below will continue to sit in traffic, while the rich pass silently over their heads. That’s not an improvement in a city’s overall quality of life. It’s inequality lifted into the sky.

Dubai is expected to be the first to launch an integrated commercial air-taxi network with California-based Joby Aviation, linking the airport, the marina, downtown and leisure districts. It’s a very Dubai move: make the future bookable and close to a hotel lobby. The project’s lesson is that the aircraft is just the most visible part. The harder work takes place below: regulation, creating airport links, dealing with noise, ensuring safety and gaining public trust.

The US is taking a broader, perhaps more useful route. Its Advanced Air Mobility (AAM) pilot programme is spread across multiple states, instead of focusing on a single launch city. New York and New Jersey provide the urban airport-and-heliport nous; Texas offers regional ambition; Florida and North Carolina bring cargo, medical response and local connectivity to the table, while Albuquerque is focusing on autonomous flight.

At Delta Air Lines’ centenary event last year, Joby’s aircraft sat quietly beside decades of commercial aviation history. It was an unusual but telling image: a small electric air taxi placed within the story of one of the US’s oldest carriers. Delta’s investment in Joby and its planned airport connections in cities such as New York and Los Angeles suggest that flying taxis are moving out of start-up renderings and into the infrastructure, passenger-experience and branding strategies of mainstream aviation.

China’s technology-fuelled metropolis Shenzhen offers a different kind of beginning. Ehang’s autonomous passenger aircraft are likely to appear first on short, controlled routes: scenic flights, local demonstrations, tourism loops; journeys that feel more like a cable-car in the sky than a taxi in the clouds. It might sound modest but that’s a useful trait in aviation. Before a city turns the sky into a street, it needs routes that are safe and limited.

Paris offers another useful lesson: patience. Its Olympic air-taxi dream with German aerospace company Volocopter was delayed by certification issues. That failure might be more instructive than another glossy video. After all, cities can announce the future quickly but aviation certifies it slowly.

Together, these examples suggest that the leading cities aren’t simply asking whether taxis can fly. They are asking whether a city can absorb these vehicles: into its airports, roads, regulations and insurance systems, as well as the public imagination. Mobility becomes useful when it stops being exciting. Nobody applauds a lift ride, a ferry crossing or an airport train. They matter because they are reliable and predictable. The flying taxi of the future should be the same: not a spectacle but a quiet function within the city’s transport system. In other words, they’ll truly take off when they come back down to earth.