There’s something about the passing of another year that gets our readers thinking about change. “Am I,” they wonder, “in the right career? Could I find a better spot to run my enterprise from? Should I upend my life and switch cities or nations?” For some, the moment passes and home comforts override the desire to switch things up. But for many, this is the moment to move. This issue is designed to show what’s possible and how to make the leap.

Our February edition begins with the topic of migration. Across the Western world, public sentiment around the issue has hardened, with politicians ushering in tighter controls, promising voters that numbers will fall. The pace of arrivals has made some people uncomfortable, especially if they are in communities that are economically challenged and see little benefit from welcoming new people.

Our opening pages include an interview with Spain’s minister for migration, Elma Saiz, who explains why her country is following a different path. To keep the economy growing (it expanded 2.9 per cent last year) and offset the effects of an ageing population, Spain needs to pull in at least 250,000 new migrants every year, according to government figures. Even though most of these are Latin Americans, making assimilation easier, migration is now the number-one concern for Spanish voters. Can the country continue with this policy?

We also get a perspective on the growing passport collections of high-net-worth individuals who want to avoid paying taxes. As someone who only has a single passport, I have always been jealous of my colleagues, even my partner, who have a spare national identity tucked away in a drawer. I’d like to be a person who has the right to live in Europe and waltz through passport control. Yet our report makes you wonder whether it is acceptable if your allegiance is to your accountant and not to your nation. In the meantime, you can find out why an African passport has become a desirable addition to the line-up.

There are many more takes to discover on making a move. There’s a great report on Riyadh’s Diplomatic Quarter, where we meet the ambassadors living in this compact, walkable neighbourhood. Diplomats are used to being sent on a new mission every four years and the story lends a fascinating insight into how they manage to leap from culture to culture and seize the opportunity.

We also look at logistics (we’ll show you how to fly a dead whale halfway around the world) and the benefits of taking on an HQ move (you’ll get a sneak preview of Bonhams’ fresh New York base). There are even neighbourhoods to move to, a Caribbean city attracting global talent and the stories of people who have switched careers.

The desire to find opportunities over the horizon is natural. Monocle has thrived because it has been able to dispatch staff to bureaux around the world and attract global talent. But that doesn’t diminish the debate about migration. What’s essential is that the issue is discussed, facts are brought to the fore and fair decisions are made. Though, in the meantime, if anyone knows how I might get another passport, do let me know. You can contact me at at@monocle.com or any of our team (we list all of our email addresses on the masthead).

Of the many issues roiling our politics, migration appears to be the most important, at least to voters. In large Western countries, most of which have high inward migration, opposition to it is upending the political status quo, resulting in the rapid rise of right-wing populist parties whose raison d’être is to severely limit the numbers of people coming in. Even in smaller nations without large immigrant populations and more of a tradition of emigration than immigration, such as Hungary and Poland, the issue has come to dominate politics.

Whether they are on the right or left, political parties feel that they must take a position. In places such as the UK, France and Germany, historically centre-left parties have largely followed their traditional working-class voters to the right, aping the policies and rhetoric of the insurgent populists. This has created an environment in which it feels as though the only stance to take on immigration is to be against it. And yet, this same bipartisan position is being taken in a world that is more mobile than ever – with people able (and desirous) to travel across borders in record numbers. Adding to the cognitive dissonance is the reality that humans are by nature migratory and migration has defined our history; indeed, countries such as the US, now the leading voice of international anti-immigration, were formed by it.

It would not be radical to suggest that the subject is not as straightforward as it is made out to be. Beyond the headlines of out-of-control irregular migration and voter dissatisfaction, millions of people successfully emigrate every year and many governments welcome them with open arms.

Throughout Monocle’s February edition, we explore this hottest of hot-button issues. Here, we survey who is moving and why, and list 10 countries that are courting immigrants in specific professions (it might surprise you). Then we look at the wealthier people (many from rich countries) who are acquiring citizenships (many of poor countries) using financial means and their reasons for doing so. Finally, we travel to Madrid to meet Spain’s migration minister and discuss why her government is setting high targets for the number of people who it wants to attract.

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Putting down roots
It’s not all about money.

Public perceptions of migration can be warped by the extremes: overcrowded boats of refugees at one end of the spectrum and billionaires’ doomsday redoubts at the other. In most cases, however, people move for more prosaic reasons. “The number-one criterion is family reunification,” says Jean-Christophe Dumont, the head of the international migration division at the OECD’s Directorate for Employment, Labour and Social Affairs. “It accounts for 40 per cent of migration to OECD countries and about 70 per cent of regular migration to the US.”

The second-largest category of entry for migrants is work. As the demands of the labour market have changed, so has the profile of people who relocate for a job. With advanced economies increasingly requiring a skilled workforce, the level of education among migrants has risen. “About a third of migrants to OECD countries now have tertiary education,” says Dumont. “This reflects rising levels of education worldwide but also the fact that migration is costly. People who have the skills and means to make the move tend to be better educated.”

A corollary has been women making up a higher share of those moving countries than ever. “In the 1970s and 1980s, labour migration was mostly about supplementing the workforce in industrial sectors, such as the automobile and metal industries, which mostly employed men,” says Dumont. “Now the demand is greater in industries where women are more prevalent, such as the healthcare and service sectors. We are also finding that tertiary-educated women from low-income countries are using migration to improve their prospects, which might be limited at home.” In some countries with selective systems, the share of those with tertiary education is higher in migrants than among the native population.

Decisions over whether or not to move for work are often more complex than a matter of simply chasing the highest salary. “It’s not so much the wage that makes the difference but the longer-term opportunities for career development,” says Dumont. “If I’m thinking of migrating for work, the prospects for my children in the new country are also important.”

Remote working – an insignificant blip

A new type of labour-related migration is also becoming increasingly common: people working remotely in one country for companies or clients based in another. Until recently, working remotely on a permanent or semi-permanent basis was mainly the preserve of self-styled “digital nomads”, a subculture dominated by those in the technology sector. The coronavirus pandemic changed this, causing the rapid expansion of out-of-office working across white-collar industries. Many are taking advantage of their new geographic freedom to move to a different country without losing their jobs.

This has created a new set of challenges for immigration policymakers. “Some countries are simply clarifying rules around tourist visas to make it clear whether visitors are able to work remotely,” says Kate Hooper, a senior analyst at the Migration Policy Institute, a Washington-based think tank. “Others have introduced dedicated digital-nomad visas but these tend to be more of a marketing tool and uptake has been low. Most people still choose to simply work while on a tourist visa. It’s easier, quicker and often cheaper.”

Portugal rolled out a highly publicised bespoke digital-nomad visa in 2022 and Spain followed suit in 2023. These schemes, however, have not made a particularly noticeable difference: the Iberian nations have been issuing about 20,000 digital-nomad visas a year, compared to about 1.5 million other kinds of tourist and short-stay visas.

Hooper says that the growth of remote working has resulted in migration-related policy issues that go far beyond visa definitions. “Where will people be taxed – are they establishing a legal presence in another country?” she asks. “If you’re signing contracts in a new country, are you exposing your company to local labour and employment laws? How portable are pensions? Remote work is the future but there are different systems that need to be updated to keep up with that trend. A lot of employers are shy about exposing themselves to risks in these grey areas.”

How migration protects wealth

High-net-worth individuals (HNWIS) face yet further considerations when it comes to migration. The main issue is whether they should live in the same place as their money. “Our industry is called investment migration but most of our clients don’t physically relocate,” says Dominic Volek, the group head of private clients at consultancy Henley & Partners. Nonetheless, more and more HNWIS are seeking to cultivate a strategic presence in various far-flung locations.

“We talk about ‘geopolitical arbitrage’: it’s about hedging against risks at home while capitalising on opportunities offered by other countries,” says Volek. “An American family we work with might attain residence in Costa Rica, citizenship in Europe, a Caribbean passport, a UAE Golden Visa and permanent residence in New Zealand. All of this means that they’re properly hedged against who knows what might happen in all of these jurisdictions. Since the Russia-Ukraine war, we’ve even been having discussions with families in Europe about conscription. We launched a citizenship programme in Nauru last year. The first family we worked with who received a Nauru passport was German. And why would these people want citizenship of a tiny South Pacific island without moving there? To avoid their child getting pulled into a war.”

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Ten countries that want you
Looking to start afresh somewhere new? Many nations are offering work visas to those with specific skills.

1.
Fishmongers
Sweden
It might have many lakes and a vast Baltic coastline but Sweden is lacking fishmongers. A 2023 government report into at-risk sectors suggests that knowing your way around a rainbow trout could now gain you a work permit.

2.
Musicians
Germany
Germany’s artist visa allows musicians, including DJs, to apply for long-term residency. The only requirements are that the applicant must be based in Berlin, can provide a detailed CV and has a clear financial plan for the years ahead.

3.
Ambulance drivers
Denmark
Denmark’s immigration policies received much attention last year for limiting inward numbers. The country’s latest list for in-demand skilled workers features 57 professions, including ambulance driver.

4.
Film-makers
Japan
Japan offers a special visa for film-makers, painters and poets to work in the country for between six months and three years. But any aspiring Kurosawas should know that competition is fierce – only about 300 applicants are accepted each year.

5.
Chimney sweeps
Austria
In Vienna, every home’s chimney must be inspected by a Rauchfangkehrer once a year. These chimney sweeps’ responsibilities extend to assessing boilers and hot-water tanks. Any skilled German-speaking sweep can apply for a work visa.

6.
Arborists
Australia
According to the Australian government’s most recent review of labour shortages, the nation is lacking skilled arborists. Tweaks to the country’s relatively restrictive immigration laws mean that employers can now use the “skills in demand” visa to hire much-needed tree experts.

7.
Architects
Vietnam
A new Vietnamese state decree has made hiring foreign engineers and architects a priority. The new talent visa affords architects special entry, along with investors, university researchers and public sports figures. It comes as the country embarks on several large infrastructure projects.

8.
Bakers
Canada
Bakers looking for more dough should consider heading to Canada. The country has launched an international campaign to attract bread makers, confectioners and pastry chefs. Provinces that are in particular need include Ontario, British Columbia and Alberta. Time to lay down some flour.

9.
Thai chefs
New Zealand
Thai cuisine is now global – and one country that can’t get enough of massaman curry is New Zealand, where the government has set up a special visa just for chefs migrating from Thailand. Once their application has been approved, they are welcome to stay for four years. Grub’s up.

10.
Radiographers
South Africa
South Africa has suffered an acute brain drain of medical professionals, many of whom emigrate to the UK. The inclusion of radiographers on the country’s list of critically understaffed jobs means that any qualified applicant will gain 100 points towards their SA General Work Visa.

Read next: How holding multiple passports is shaping a new global citizenship reality

During the first two decades of this century, many people in the West came to take easy mobility for granted. The 2020s have pulled the rug from under their feet. First, the coronavirus pandemic demonstrated how quickly nations can close their doors. In Europe, 17 countries that are party to the Schengen Agreement reintroduced internal border controls. Australian citizens were banned from leaving the country for 19 months unless they could demonstrate that they had strong ties to somewhere else. The following year, as a result of Brexit, UK citizens lost the right to live and work in 27 countries. Since then, the Ukraine war, the unpredictable actions of the second Trump administration and other destabilising developments have driven record numbers of Westerners to seek alternative papers.

Part of financial literacy is understanding the value of having a balanced portfolio: in other words, don’t put all of your eggs in one basket. If freedom of movement and asset protection are important to you, having only one citizenship is as reckless as storing your entire net worth in a single place. By holding multiple, you diversify your exposure to geopolitical risk. There are several ways of acquiring citizenship and about 75 per cent of countries now permit the holding of multiple passports (up from about 30 per cent in 1990).

Most people acquire their citizenship by descent and every country offers this pathway. However, this kind is often conditional – though there are generally provisions in place to prevent statelessness. About 17 per cent of countries, mainly in the Americas, also offer it through birth. A less common method, though one that is growing more popular across the globe, is citizenship by investment or donation, which falls under the umbrella term of “investment migration”.

Currently, there are 15 countries operating official programmes that grant citizenship to foreigners in exchange for a set donation or investment: Turkey, Cambodia, El Salvador, São Tomé and Príncipe, Sierra Leone, Nauru, Vanuatu, Dominica, Antigua and Barbuda, Grenada, Saint Lucia, St Kitts and Nevis, Egypt, Jordan and Pakistan. The required amounts range from $18,000 (€15,500) for Pakistan to $1m (€850,000) for El Salvador. Processing times for such programmes range from a few months to a year.

Many more countries grant citizenship by “merit”: they don’t define a specific donation or investment amount for eligibility but instead evaluate applications individually, looking for what they deem to be exceptional contributions to the nation. Austria, for example, has a longstanding practice of granting this kind of citizenship to those who invest several million euros in its economy. Unlike with residency-based naturalisation, integration and physical presence largely don’t play a role; applicants, however, must undergo more extensive government background checks.

Citizenship by investment or donation is more popular than ever. Sierra Leone and São Tomé and Príncipe started programmes in 2025. Other countries have similar legislation in the works so expect to see more entering the market this year. Governments in the Global South are waking up to the tremendous potential of investment migration. The benefits are clear: selling citizenship drives foreign direct investment, costs a country very little, allows it to control what kind of development takes place via eligibility requirements and, perhaps most importantly, gains it lifetime goodwill ambassadors around the world.

There are more applicants than ever and the demographics of who is applying have changed significantly in recent years. Historically, citizenship by investment and donation appealed primarily to successful entrepreneurs from the Global South who wanted a Western passport to expand their visa-free travel options. Between 2020 and 2025, Western citizens went from being a tiny fraction of global citizenship applications to the majority, according to reports from several sources. Demand continues to grow rapidly. North Americans and Europeans are now the most common clients for international firms that advise on investment migration (including my own, Peck & Nascimben Global).

Two of the most popular programmes for these clients are those of Sierra Leone and São Tomé and Príncipe. Western interest in African citizenship might be surprising but citizens of wealthy countries aren’t looking for another passport for travel – instead, they’re seeking investment access and hoping to benefit from the rise of the Global South. The African Union, for example, is the fastest-growing economic bloc in the world.

Most of these passport applicants don’t plan to live in Africa, though they value having the option to do so if the need arises. Meanwhile, some would like to acquire residency in another nation using their neutral African passport to avoid being affected by any strained relations in the future between the country where they live and their Western country of citizenship.

São Tomé and Príncipe is also a member of the Community of Portuguese Language Countries. Treaties ratified by its member states grant Santomeans the ability to take up residency in other Lusophone countries, such as Brazil and Portugal, as well as the right to consular protection from Portuguese diplomatic missions abroad. Santomeans living in Brazil are also eligible for expedited naturalisation there. Sound appealing?

Investment migration will continue to grow as countries introduce programmes and more people seek to take advantage of them. Over the next few decades, having multiple citizenships will become commonplace – a huge societal shift that will fundamentally alter the notions of nationhood and citizenship.

Read next:
Migration beyond the headlines: Why people move
Spain’s open-border policies have helped its economy flourish – but there might be a catch

On a winter weekday in Madrid, Spain’s minister for inclusion, social security and migration is pushing back against clichés about her country. “It isn’t just sun and beaches,” says Elma Saiz at the ministry’s headquarters in the north of the capital. Above her head hangs a large photo of a cat; on another wall, near the requisite ministerial flags, is a painting of a man asleep on a park bench. While the setting might be unremarkable, Spain’s recent economic performance has been anything but.

Many Eurozone countries have limped into the new year with sluggish growth. Spain, however, has cemented its position as one of the continent’s fastest-growing economies, with GDP rising by 2.9 per cent in 2025. The figure is expected to remain above 2 per cent for the next few years – numbers that the likes of the UK, France and Germany can only dream of. The reasons for the upswing are many and varied, and include thriving sectors such as services and tourism. Much of it, however, is down to internal demand generated by a strengthening jobs market and a decision by the government to make it easier for foreigners to settle in the country. “One of the important influencing factors in this growth is our migration policies,” says Saiz.

A reform of the nation’s reglamento de extranjería (foreigner law) that came into force last May could benefit as many as 900,000 new residents over three years, through an expanded visa system and a mechanism called the arraigo, which allows people to apply for residency through three routes: “family, employment and training”, according to the minister. Saiz – a member of the leftist Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party (PSOE), which governs in a minority coalition with the left-wing Sumar party – talks about migration as “a right” and “a question of values, human rights and ethical responsibility”. But there’s also a cannier element of realpolitik at play.

Like other southern European nations such as Italy and Greece, Spain has a rapidly ageing population and needs new workers to prop up the pensions system through socialsecurity contributions. Saiz, who has been in her role since late 2023, speaks of a “demographic winter” and says that the country needs 250,000 new workers a year from now until 2050 to maintain the welfare state. The government is working hard to attract them. In 2024, Spain admitted 368,000 new permanent migrants (including many from Latin America, who make up two-thirds of new legal residents via the arraigo), putting it in the top five of oecd countries in terms of numbers (the US tops the list). “Spain took a decision to be an open and prosperous country, not a closed and poor one,” says Saiz.

In 2025 the number of foreigners in the country’s workforce reached a historic high of more than three million – about 14 per cent of the in-work population – but, of course, not all entrants to the labour market are from overseas. Saiz is keen to talk about the government’s other achievements, such as helping more women into work, as well as increasing participation among under-thirties and over-fifties. And yet, though the economy is doing well, many Spaniards, like their European counterparts, believe that their leaders are out of step with the people on the subject. According to Spanish research institute, Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas, immigration is Spain’s principal concern. It’s set to be a key issue in the next general election, which is scheduled for 2027.

Saiz says that these sentiments are generated by “disinformation and hoaxes” rather than analysis of the facts. “It’s curious that when you ask about people’s worries about migration, you’ll find that levels are at their highest – but when you ask whether they’re affected directly, that concern collapses,” she says. Yet there have been integration issues as Spain has become more diverse. Last summer, a mob took to the streets of Torre-Pacheco in Murcia in search of people of North African origin, after a pensioner was attacked in the town. It had been whipped up in part by a video on social media falsely attributed to the assault. One of the ministry’s jobs is to monitor online hate through a racism and xenophobia observatory known by the acronym Oberaxe.

Talk of disinformation allows Saiz to pivot to a subject that she clearly feels more comfortable discussing: what she refers to as the “forced narratives” generated by the two main opposition parties, the right-wing People’s Party (PP) and far-right Vox, which is led by firebrand Santiago Abascal. “What’s damaging is having a political opposition that doesn’t have a project for the country,” she says. Saiz cites the parliamentary right’s votes against labour-market reform, increasing the minimum wage and raising pensions – what she says amounts to “anti-politics”. She is equally scornful of the PP’s decision to oppose a bill – introduced to parliament after receiving more than 600,000 signatures from the public – that aimed to grant large-scale legalisation to immigrants living in Spain who fall outside the arraigo parameters. Due to such opposition, the bill, which had the support of the Catholic Church, has fizzled out in parliament.

Still, a progressive government thwarted by a right wing bent on what Saiz calls “electoral calculations” is only a partial picture. Beyond the country’s rosy image and macroeconomic figures, significant structural challenges remain, meaning that jobs are being created but not for everyone. Despite record numbers of people in the formal economy – and very few empty positions, among the lowest in Europe – the situation for young people in the country remains precarious. One in four Spanish youths under the age of 25 is unemployed, considerably more than the EU average. Saiz rebuts this point by citing the significant progress that has been made in the past few years – as recently as 2015, youth unemployment stood at 49 per cent. There have also been improvements in everything from school dropout rates to scholarships.

She wants to make another thing very clear. “Someone from overseas doesn’t come and take a job from a Spanish national – nor do they take a house or public healthcare.” So do migrants work different jobs to the Spanish youth who find it hard to find an income? Instead, she would rather focus on education gains and the fact that young people today “are much better prepared than they were a few years ago”.

Despite Spain standing out as a progressive country with a government that is attempting to implement a pro-migration agenda, there remains a danger of selfinflicted damage. Its prime minister, Pedro Sánchez, might be heading his third government and have survived impropriety investigations into his wife and brother, but the PSOE has recently been engulfed in a double-headed scandal that has led some to question whether he can see out his full term. A corruption case over kickbacks has implicated the country’s former transport minister José Luis Ábalos and the PSOE’s now ex-secretary Santos Cerdán in what’s known as the Caso Koldo.

“Let whoever needs to pay, pay,” says Saiz, who would sooner cite the ongoing Montoro corruption case involving the PP’s former finance minister, as well as a scandal in 2018 that led to the same party’s former treasurer Luis Bárcenas receiving a 33-year prison sentence for fraud and money laundering.

But there is a fresher problem facing the psoe: a series of sexual harassment allegations made against party members in several Spanish regions. “It disgusts me to hear what we have learnt,” says Saiz, when pressed. “No woman, wherever she is, should have to live through situations like these.”

As for the possibility of early elections, the minister will hear nothing of the sort, responding with that deft political trick of answering a slightly different question to the one being asked. “We have a lot to do and, in Spain, terms of office last for four years,” she says. And then she is on her feet, bidding farewell with a kiss on each cheek, off to her next meeting.

In the West, both regular and irregular migration tends to be treated as a political threat. But if it’s managed wisely, the transnational movement of people need not be a risk and can, in fact, be a security asset.

The EU’s “Choose Europe for Science” initiative is targeted at foreign researchers, offering them grants, fellowships and relocation support to settle in the bloc. It’s aimed at the kind of human capital that underpins economic security, public health and defence-related research. When governments make talent flows transparent, meritocratic and beneficial, the political texture of migration shifts from threat to advantage.

Singapore also shows how clear pathways for skilled workers can bolster economic security while avoiding cultural anxieties. Its investment in digital infrastructure and industry partnerships invites talent and capital to set up permanent roots there. Meanwhile, Australia’s Pacific Engagement Visa creates legal, predictable routes for people from Pacific Island states facing climate risks.

Such programmes are small but they replace irregular movements with orderly migration that strengthens political ties and builds goodwill. These models all share clarity, conditionality and purpose. When migration systems are well designed and offer protection, legal mobility and visible returns for the host society, they undercut the chaotic narratives that far-right parties exploit. They also make migration an instrument of national security by adding skills to critical sectors and stabilising cities and regions.

Community meetings can easily devolve into neighbourhood cranks ranting about potholes. But when the setting is the interior courtyard of a lovingly restored 16th-century building with a well-dressed crowd sipping sangria, the tone can never be anything but congenial. That, at least, is what Monocle discovers upon arrival at a regular gathering of the Colonial Town Owners and Residents Association in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic (DR).

Holding court during an evening celebrating the year’s wins is Raquel Casares, who founded the association in 2021. A Madrileña by upbringing, Casares is the in-country representative for an international charity. She has led the way for a wave of foreigners to relocate to Santo Domingo, especially its 500-year-old historic quarter. Newcomers are drawn by a Caribbean climate and quality of life, warm Latin American culture, dynamic economy, thriving creative sector and sense of security that is rare for the region.

When Casares first arrived two decades ago, Santo Domingo’s old town was a bohemian enclave – full of artists, poets and cheap spots for a late-night cerveza or a spin on the dance floor. Though the Ciudad Colonial is the oldest European settlement in the Americas, dating from 1496, and has been a Unesco World Heritage Site since 1990, the walled city and its stunning coral limestone buildings had been somewhat overlooked. Tourists flocked to the all-inclusive resorts in Punta Cana, while upwardly mobile Dominicans were more enamoured with Miami-style high-rises as the city, today a metropolitan area of four million people, sprawled away from the historic centre where the Ozama river flows into the Caribbean Sea.

The district stopped flying under the radar 12 years ago when the country’s Ministry of Tourism conducted an international design competition for an old-town master plan and the Inter-American Development Bank began financing an urban infrastructure scheme to upgrade streets with proper drainage and hand-laid paving stones. These improvements have raised property values but also prompted concerns about overtourism.

For now, Santo Domingo has avoided the fate of old towns elsewhere in the region, such as Cartagena in Colombia, that are little more than historical theme parks. The quarter is still home to 7,500 residents. Casares is raising a family and proudly handles her daily needs on foot – there are still useful local businesses such as grocers, tailors, bookstores and pharmacies – but sends her sons to school outside the neighbourhood. A lack of child-friendliness – no playgrounds in the parks, for example – was part of her motivation to start the association, something that she says was not looked at askance despite her foreign passport. Instead, she galvanised a community that was eager to speak with a unified voice and convey similar concerns to City Hall under the slogan “people live here”.

Despite the challenges, Casares is more enthusiastic than ever about her adopted home. “It’s the best moment for the old town in 20 years,” says Casares. For anyone looking for a 16th-century fixer-upper, there are still a few left, plus a handful of modernist apartment buildings on Conde, the main drag, but savvy property firms are making moves. The latest marquee opening came in 2024 when IHG Hotels & Resorts unveiled the Kimpton Las Mercedes, bringing in Mallorquin hospitality specialist Marta Amengual as general manager. The boutique hotel is the work of Moneo Brock, a Madrid-based firm that has been active in Santo Domingo for more than a decade. It won the Ministry of Tourism’s master-plan competition, though the company’s co-founder Belén Moneo ruefully notes that the winning designs were never implemented.

Moneo Brock’s handiwork is prominent, however, at Casa Velázquez, an upscale residential building that is a showcase for restoring the colonial town’s building stock. Co-owner Claudio Suarez stumbled into the project when he was looking for a retail space in 2009 to open a shoe shop. What he found was an abandoned 1926 façade with three 16th-century buildings next to it. Against local perceived wisdom, his Dutch business partner insisted that they buy the heritage properties. “For Dominicans it was too risky but he showed me that history retains its value,” says Suarez. The renovations took 12 years largely because of permitting delays. Planning officials had never seen something as ambitious as reconfiguring a group of heritage buildings into a set of spacious, family-sized apartments with ground-floor shops and restaurants.

The headaches with Casa Velázquez nearly cost Suarez his marriage, he says. Today, neighbours hail from Belgium, Colombia, Germany, Mexico, the Netherlands, Peru and the US, and his persistence has opened the door to smart renovations. “The government has made a lot of improvements. To come here and do something now you will not go through what we went through,” he tells Monocle before heading off to meet his wife for dinner at the Italian restaurant on the ground floor.

Another Casa Velázquez tenant is Casarré, the city’s hippest dining room. Swiss-Dominican chef and restaurateur Olivier Bur relocated from Zürich in 2023 after years of culinary research on native plants and seafood across the Dominican Republic and neighbouring Haiti (the nations share the island of Hispaniola, which is the second largest island in the Caribbean). He has distilled his findings into a multicourse dinner for which every ingredient, plate, cup and utensil is locally made. “I’m not a fan of tasting menus personally but we have so many ingredients that nobody knows, not even locals, so we would need one hour to explain everything to you,” he says during afternoon prep. Bur settled in the Ciudad Colonial in part because of a strong creative community that still values craftsmanship.

In between showrooms for noted Dominican fashion designer Jenny Polanco and edgy new contemporary art shows at the gothic-style Los Remedios chapel, the sights and sounds of busy hands making things lurk behind nearly every door, from amber and larimar jewellery from Joarla and hand-rolled cigars at Caoba to an entire ceramics workshop housed in the courtyard of Casa Alfarera. Many products bear the label of Manos Dominicanas, a national initiative to promote Dominican crafts, including the well-curated gift shop at Centro Cultural Taíno Casa del Cordón, the latest addition to the old town’s rich stock of museums and cultural centres, and concessions at Las Américas airport.

A sack of heirloom limes dropped off that morning sits by the door at Casarré. Too many for that night’s dinner, says Bur, so the extras are destined for the upscale Piantini neighbourhood across town where haute gastronomy with Dominican ingredients first took off. Ahead of the citrus delivery, Monocle makes a call at Ajualä. With its thatched roof, secluded garden and clean lines, the restaurant’s tropical modernism could slot easily into São Paulo’s Jardins neighbourhood.

Originally from Venezuela, Ajualä’s owner and chef, Saverio Stassi, has cooked in seven different countries. When he arrived in Santo Domingo in 2003, he estimates that there were 50 restaurants, 10 of which were of decent quality. Today there are more than 80 on Piantini’s main avenue alone. “It’s a city of opportunity that respects foreigners,” says Stassi. “You can live well here without the million dollars you would need in Malagá or San Sebastián – I’m 10 minutes from the beach and half an hour from the mountains.”

Pending traffic. The city’s transportation network leaves much to be desired, with a limited metro (the only subway in the Caribbean) running a total length of 48.5km and no rapid bus transit of which to speak. Taxis are plentiful but gridlock can be gruelling. Despite its seaside setting, the lack of a clean beach within city limits is also a drawback, though the mayor, Carolina Mejía, is touting improvements with the Malecón Deportivo, a corniche for the sporty set opening later this year as a legacy of the city’s host role during the 2026 Central American and Caribbean Games.

Juan Manuel Gaitán, a Colombian ad executive who has completed stints in Buenos Aires and Melbourne, was recruited by Ogilvy to serve as the agency’s chief creative officer in the DR. The Santo Domingo traffic was a grind and road trips to the interior were hampered by poor nighttime illumination, so he turned the crumbling infrastructure into creative inspiration for client Chevrolet. The campaign Night Signals installed billboards that function as car ads during the day but double as road-safety signs after dark. The clever concept won two awards at last year’s Cannes Lions, which was vindication for Gaitán and his Colombian actress wife that they had made the right choice when moving to Santo Domingo and starting a family here. “I’ve always wanted to live on an island,” he says. “The nature and the sea inspire my creativity.”

For residents across the city, from denizens of the high-rise precincts to old-town dwellers, security is not a major concern. Stassi relates how the morning before he meets Monocle at his restaurant, he accidentally left the keys in his motorcycle while playing tennis. It was still there when he got back – not something to recommend but encouraging, nonetheless. Ciudad Colonial residents feel similarly as they take an evening stroll or head for a night of salsa, bachata and merengue. The Dominican Republic’s tourism police, Politur, are widely respected and effective. In 2024, the homicide rate dropped for a third consecutive year and the DR now ranks as the second-safest country in Latin America – all achieved while holding free and fair elections and without installing a “cool dictator” like El Salvador’s Nayib Bukele.

This momentum is drawing Dominican talent back to the island, such as interiors and travel photographer Victor Stonem, who returned from Barcelona in 2021 and recently published a photo book of interiors from across the old town. It’s also keeping ambitious locals from leaving, such as Omar Garcia, better known by his nom d’artiste, Angurria. Together with his partner, Venus Patricia Díaz, they run a cultural production agency that works with Unesco to promote the creative economy in the DR and organise art and entertainment festival Caye, which takes over a plaza outside the old town walls. The last edition attracted 13,000 attendees; its first edition generated RD$3.8m (€50,300) in economic activity.

Díaz, a former shortstop who works on mural commissions for Major League Baseball – the sport being one of the country’s leading soft-power exports – understands the appeal of moving abroad but with solid air connections from Las Américas airport to Miami, New York and Madrid, he finds that Santo Domingo suits him just fine. “The sport and entertainment industries are looking to the Dominican Republic as both a market and source of cultural raw material,” he says. “The sky is the limit here.”

Straddling a peninsula at the tip of the African continent, Cape Town is famous for its beaches and dramatic landscapes, even though much of the city is flat and far from the ocean. In 1908 the Long Street Baths, a beautiful Edwardian swimming pool, was opened in the South African legislative capital’s CBD to provide respite for residents during the summer. Since then, a further 36 public pools have been built, many of them since the end of apartheid in the early 1990s, in neighbourhoods once designated “black” or “coloured”. It is the residents of these areas who are most likely to be without easy access to the coast.

“Our beaches are world-class and we’re very proud of them,” says Francine Higham, the member of the city’s mayoral committee in charge of community services and health. “Public pools serve a different purpose. They’re embedded in communities: places you can walk to, visit after school or pop into on the weekend.” Severe drought (Cape Town almost ran out of water in 2017) and the coronavirus pandemic meant that the city’s government reduced investment in recreational facilities.

With those challenges behind it, Cape Town, under the leadership of its young, driven and popular mayor, Geordin Hill-Lewis, has invested R40m (€2m) in upgrading its public pools. This summer all but one of the city’s 37 community pools are operational, the highest number in 15 years. “In many areas, particularly those facing daily challenges of poverty and crime, these spaces provide structure, opportunity and hope,” says Higham. Monocle visited three (Sea Point, Muizenberg and Newlands) at the beginning of the school holidays to take the temperature of this refurbishment programme poolside.

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Sea Point

It’s 17.30 on the first Sunday of the holidays and the sun is leaning towards Robben Island. Many young people are grouped around the edges of the vast oceanfront pool. A chant cuts across the gentle murmur of the swimmers: “Go! Go! Go!” At the end of the three-metre-high diving board a teenage boy peers down nervously at the water. Eventually, a lifeguard leads him sheepishly off the board and back down the ladder. Seconds later, it’s back to business as usual, with acrobatic men and boys performing flick-flacks and swallow dives from the five-metre-high platform.

One of the most impressive divers is Keano Cedras, who lives in Athlone, 20km away. He has been coming to Sea Point since he was a babe-in-arms. Indeed, the swimming pool is home to his family’s business: Cedras’s grandparents have rented out umbrellas here for more than 30 years and now he and his brother, Reece, perform the same service, charging R40 (€2) a day. “It’s a good job,” he says. “You enjoy yourself while you work. Sea Point is my second home.”

The coastal resort of Sea Point was established in 1880 by British colonists inspired by Victorian bathing spots back home. On a rocky stretch of coastline with few places to swim, the current facility, which still pumps water directly from the Atlantic Ocean to fill its pools, was opened in 1959 at the height of apartheid. In the beginning, its azure waters and pristine lawns were accessible only to white people but this restriction fell with the end of the segregationist policy. These days it’s common for long queues to form outside its art deco entrance long before the pool’s 07.00 opening time.

Sitting nearby are Shakeelah Saayman, Ashif Abdulkader Gaylanie, “El Chapo” Williams and Sadiq Stemmet. The friends have travelled from Manenberg, a small suburb with a big gang problem: you’re three times more likely to be murdered there than elsewhere in South Africa. “We come here every weekend,” says Saayman. “The pool is much better than the beach. If we go to the beach, I can’t leave my baby sister to swim alone. It’s safer here.”

On a sweltering Sunday afternoon, Sea Point echoes to the sounds of Capetonians enjoying the first of the summer’s consistent heat. During cooler times of the year, this is a popular training spot for open-water swimmers – many of whom make up the Friends of the Sea Point Pavilion (FSPP), a charity that runs swimming programmes for local residents. The FSPP, which is funded by the rental income collected from food vendors on the complex’s forecourt, recently spent R2m (€100,000) to refurbish Sea Point’s original 1950s entrance.

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Muizenberg

On the opposite side of the Cape Peninsula is Muizenberg Swimming Pool. Also founded as a Victorian seaside resort, Muizenberg is flanked by wealthy suburbs such as Lakeside to the north and the Cape Flats, an expanse of townships and poorer suburbs, to the east. Macchiato-sipping, 4×4-driving surfers lounge alongside families who have come on public transport with packed lunches. Muizenberg’s pavilion, which has been repainted as part of the mayor’s refurbishment programme, is designed to look like a ship, while the landscaping, palm trees and contorted water slides give the place a Caribbean atmosphere.

Its spruce-up has brought a bigger crowd than usual this summer. Khaaliq Khan is an 18-year-old graduate from Lavender Hill, a low-income suburb 5km away. He is here on an end-of-year excursion with his madrasa, an Islamic religious school. Khan and his mates started queuing to get in at 06.30 and, 10 hours later, show no signs of flagging.

“We are just waiting for 17.00 – that is our time,” he says, with a devilish smile. “I’m not sure if the lifeguards know but that’s when we’re all going to jump in the pool.” Lounging in the shade nearby, unaware of the impending splash mob, are sisters Evelyn and Beauty Zimba, and Evelyn’s four-year-old daughter. “I’ve been coming here my whole life,” says Beauty, who lives in Capricorn Park. “It’s good to see it looking cleaner.”

While it should hopefully be all fun and games for the swimmers at Muizenberg today, Aziz Rayners – one of 557 lifeguards on duty across Cape Town’s pools this summer – is on constant alert. “This is my second season,” says the lean 20-year-old computer-science student, sporting retro round sunglasses and a sparse goatee beneath his wide-brimmed red hat. “It’s a good holiday job but it’s also a big responsibility – last year I prevented a few drownings. They look like they’re swimming but then their eyes go big and they start panicking. Even the person next to them won’t know that they’re drowning.”

Reassured by Rayners’ vigilance, Monocle takes a dip. On this sultry afternoon, as the sound of children laughing wafts along on the gentle sea breeze, it’s difficult not to see Muizenberg as emblematic of a brighter future for Cape Town, a city still riven with divisions that, while no longer enforced by the government, are nonetheless evident in many areas. This swimming pool might represent the idealised rainbow nation. As part of the citywide R413m (€21m) seafront upgrade, Muizenberg will see R228m (€12m) invested in its parking areas, seawalls, coastal paths and beach huts. A brighter future indeed.

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Newlands

Nestled in Cape Town’s southern suburbs, not far from the cricket stadium that shares its name, Newlands pool used to be South Africa’s home of competitive swimming. Today regional heats and Olympic training take place at the University of the Western Cape. Newlands’ grandstand is off-limits and the diving board has been removed but the crowds flooding into the pavilion on the first day of the summer season are enjoying a complex that has had a winter makeover. Many of the pool’s pumps have been replaced, while the changing rooms have been retiled and painted. Newlands’ location in a richer part of town brings a wealthier clientele but there’s still an unrestrained atmosphere that only sun and a large body of water can bring.

Back for the first time in 10 years is Taariq Adams, who works on cruise ships in the US but has returned to South Africa with his wife and children for the summer. “Newlands has a park and a pool; the children can play and I can swim,” he says. “We’ve had an awesome time and the tariffs are so cheap.” Despite a higher social bracket, a family of four pays little more than R24 (€1.25) for a day pass to Newlands, similar to the rate at other Cape Town public pools, all of which are subsidised by city hall.

Beyond the jovial din is the sound of thrashing as a lone serious swimmer ploughs back and forth across the deep end. He scythes through the water in a metronomic freestyle, before breaking into an explosive butterfly, revealing dark Speedos emblazoned with the South African flag. “While Newlands was closed, I’ve been training in the gym or the sea,” says mechanical engineer Louis Gouws, as he rests on the edge of the pool. “But this is much better. It’s outside, it’s 50 metres long and I can look at Table Mountain every time I breathe. I’ll be here a few times a week for the rest of the summer.” Lucky him.

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THE NORTH: Hakodate
Newcomers are helping a historic port city to reach its full potential with a fresh injection of ideas and enthusiasm.

At the southern tip of Hokkaido, Japan’s northernmost main island, Hakodate has long welcomed visitors from near and far. In 1859, as the country worked to end its long period of isolation, it became one of its first ports to open to international trade, alongside Yokohama and Nagasaki. Hakodate’s cobblestone streets and picturesque hills are now home to a blend of Western and Japanese influences.

In this compact city of about 230,000 people, that heritage, as well as a growing range of culinary delights, has been a boon for tourism. More than six million visitors arrived in 2024, with more than a few making a pilgrimage to see locations featured in hit anime film Detective Conan: The Million-Dollar Pentagram, based on Gosho Aoyama’s manga and released that year.

When Monocle alights at Hakodate Station on a winter morning, the streets are abuzz with tourists and day-trippers braving the cold market in search of king crabs, ducking into local chain Lucky Pierrot for a burger or seeking souvenirs from the red-brick warehouses that once housed wool, tea, seafood, flour or rice. But venture out to Motomachi, Omachi and the surrounding Western District and you’ll encounter a growing community of entrepreneurs and businesses bringing fresh life to historic buildings.

Down by the water in Irifune-cho, we meet Épuis & Co’s creative director, Joseph Kim-Suzuki, and his wife, Yuino, who serves as the business’s chief designer. The couple have been turning a century-old warehouse into a mixed-use gallery, studio and flower shop. A graduate of London’s Central Saint Martins College of Art and a costume designer by trade, Joseph has worked in the West End and with the Seoul-based Korean National Ballet. Yet Hakodate has offered him opportunities of a different kind.

“Working in London, one of the art hubs of the world, there are so many inputs that you can get ‘analysis paralysis’ at times,” he says. “But here, in this small town, I can magnify all of the life experiences that I gained at those renowned companies in my own creative output.” Renovating the warehouse has been a labour of love for the couple. “It’s a bit like carbon,” says Joseph. “Where some people just see a rock, others see the potential for a diamond.”

Almost everyone who Monocle meets mentions this sense of opportunity. Yuino is particularly heartened by the tendency of newcomers to see the port city’s best qualities with fresh eyes. “The Japanese can be humble about their hometown and that’s particularly true in Hakodate,” she says. “Those who move to the Western District are so passionate about this place. People bring ideas and inspiration with them, and we locals have been reminded of the architecture here that’s worth cherishing.”

Property agent Hiroyuki Gamo played a key role in locating the property. Born and raised in Hakodate, Gamo left the city in his twenties, before returning just over a decade ago to take over his family business. Building on the work of older generations, who endeavoured to protect historic buildings from bubble-era redevelopment, he is now dedicated to revitalising the Western District, which was home to the one-time foreign settlement. “I believe that Hakodate has some of the best historic buildings in the country,” he says. “Some people can feel quite intimidated by them so my aim is to make them more accessible.” This work extends beyond just selling and leasing properties. “Our company has renovated near-century-old buildings for uses ranging from hotels to restaurants and offices.”

Another company that sees plenty of potential in the city’s architecture is Japanese developer Staple, which specialises in projects that are rooted in their neighbourhoods. Welcoming a single group of guests every day, its Portside Inn Hakodate in the old town offers an intimate way to experience a heritage-listed building that was erected in 1885 as a ferryman’s shop. The hotel’s manager, Takuma Hayano, is originally from Chiba prefecture and moved north in 2024. “The community quickly made me feel that I belong here and I have since come to think of it like my furusato (hometown),” says the bright-eyed 26-year-old. “Many choose to live in the northern part of Hakodate for convenience when it comes to travel and amenities,” he says. “But the people who are here also share a love for its beauty and the desire to create something of their own.”

Working on projects including the revival of a summertime Bon dance festival, Hayano collaborated with another recent arrival: Yokohama-born designer Taku Fujii. Just around the corner from the inn, Fujii created a design studio and café in a former sushi restaurant along the route of the Number 5 tram. “My work means that I can be based almost anywhere,” says Fujii, who left Tokyo at the height of the coronavirus pandemic. Hakodate provided a quiet, close-to-nature setting for raising a young family. Hot springs, campsites and ski fields are all within easy driving distance, while the nearby airport and Shinkansen provide reliable links to Tokyo when the urge or need to return arises.

“Hakodate makes it easy to take on new challenges,” says Fujii. “In Tokyo, the rent is so high. I would be too busy working to try things out.” His wife, Noriko, a Hakodate local, nods. “There’s no shortage of empty buildings here,” she adds. “So if you can think creatively, the opportunities are endless.”

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THE SOUTH: Aoshima
Surf’s up in this compact coastal town in Miyazaki prefecture – and so are the numbers of visitors and new openings.

Back in the mid-1990s, Keishi Watanabe was a twenty-something living in Osaka when he spotted US professional surfer Kelly Slater on a late-night Kansai TV broadcast. The setting was a small town by the name of Aoshima, about a 20-minute drive south of Miyazaki city. Watanabe decided to pack his bags and join the wave of surfers descending on Aoshima.

Three decades later, the allure of Aoshima’s beach culture remains as powerful as ever. Taking the palm-treelined route from Miyazaki Bougainvillea Airport, Monocle surveys the town’s low-rise strip of shops bathed in warm sunshine amid mild year-end temperatures. Beachside joggers dash past tourists on their way to Aoshima-jinja, an island shrine reputed to answer prayers for marriage, while local residents can be heard discussing the upcoming baseball camps that draw hundreds of thousands to the region every spring.

Land prices have been on the rise in the town of just 3,000 people, increasing by a prefecture-wide high of 5.5 per cent in 2024. A swath of waterfront land is currently under development for the expansion of a beachside precinct by Not A Hotel, a Tokyo-based company that creates one-of-a-kind holiday accommodation. Another property, Aoshima Grand Hotel, was recently acquired by a capital fund with renewal plans in the works.

Watanabe’s Surf City Miyazaki is a key port of call for many arrivals. He co-founded the surfing and fitness club a decade ago in a Taisho-era house on the Aoshima beachfront. Even early on a Wednesday morning, it’s a hive of activity. There’s an exercise class in session, while instructors unload boards from the storeroom and locals savour a post-surf coffee. The club has about 300 paid-up members with unlimited access to some 150 monthly classes, including surfing, stand-up paddleboarding, yoga and running.

“Remote working and dual-base lifestyles mean that many members can travel here from Miyazaki city or further afield,” says Watanabe, who also hosts a radio programme and is documenting Aoshima’s surf history. “Rather than training at an ordinary gym, they come to enjoy the outdoors and relax.” He tells Monocle that life here feels far more natural than in a big city. “I don’t overdo things any more. I can live comfortably, surf and meet some wonderful people.”

It’s an outlook that is shared by second-generation professional surfer Taishi Kawabata of surf shop Killer Surf Miyazaki. “They say that Miyazaki gets the most sunshine in Japan,” he says, squinting a little in the glare. “When I look around, there’s no one looking depressed or down.”

The following morning, the car parks at Kisakihama beach are filling quickly as the pre-dawn crowd rolls in. Perched on the boot of his 1983 Nissan Sunny California is 48-year-old Rintaro Higashiyama, who moved from Tokyo during the coronavirus pandemic. “I needed something to do when I wasn’t surfing so I began collecting driftwood and carving it into birds,” he says with a laugh. “Sales went so well that I decided to open my own record café and shop.”

Higashiyama says that one big advantage of life in Aoshima is that the cost of living is far lower than it is in the Japanese capital. He has started a family here. “At nursery, the children run around barefoot and eat brown rice for lunch,” he says. “Miyazaki has some amazing organic farms too.”

The region has also proved to be fertile ground for Ryosuke Ohue, the founder of Aoshima-based taco shop Sanbarco. Regional ingredients are the centrepiece of the seasonal line-ups of tacos, tostadas and fish and chips that have made it a must-visit destination since opening in 2022. “It’s truly a treasure trove of produce,” says Ohue. “Even after a decade here, I’m still delving deep into Aoshima’s potential.”

The town has struck a chord with others seeking a better work-life balance, such as Connecticut-born Sean Ryan. “In my early thirties, I reached a point where I was done with drinking and partying,” he says. “The surf brought me here but I have since been able to find such a fulfilling way of life.”

“You won’t find any of your typical office workers here,” agrees craftsman Noriaki Anan, who shifted his business selling hammocks from neighbouring Oita prefecture. “There’s no ‘on’ and ‘off’. Instead, every day feels like a holiday.” It’s an outlook shared by Nao Takashima, who can be found serving chicken nanban (Western-inspired fried chicken) and seafood bowls at local izakaya Onisen. “There’s always time for a surf between shifts,” says the Osaka native. “I keep an eye on the trees outside. If the wind is right, I pedal down the road to the beach.”

One cheerful local property professional explains it in the most succinct terms. “In some ways, we’re not so good at doing business here,” she says. “People don’t always view things through the lens of profit and loss.” Indeed, Aoshima is the kind of place that shows that there is, in fact, more to life – an idea that draws people from all walks of life. The swell is on the rise and the line-up uncrowded, so she picks up her longboard and dashes into the shore break. “Let me know when you move here. We’ll go for a surf.”

When the Natural History Museum Abu Dhabi (NHMAD) agreed to take on a 25-metre blue whale that had washed up on the Canadian coastline, it set in motion one of the most ambitious international relocations that any museum has attempted. NHMAD opened in November 2025 and for project manager Judith McAlester (pictured), who has stewarded the project since its earliest sketches, the timing of the whale’s journey was uncanny. “For me, the whale is particularly special,” she says.

McAlester is a blue-whale fanatic (she keeps a small figurine of one on her desk) and is unfailingly enthusiastic. “I joined this project when it was just drawings and plans. I feel like myself and the whale have been on the same journey.” The female whale was killed after a suspected ship strike and discovered in June 2021 on Nova Scotia’s remote Crystal Crescent beach. She was transferred to the region’s marine protection agency, before the case was taken up by Research Casting International (RCI), a Canadian family firm that specialises in fossil preparation and the salvage of large marine mammals. RCI approached one of the NHMAD’s early consultants, Professor Phil Manning (now the museum’s director of science), with an unusual question: would Abu Dhabi like a blue whale? “A dream come true for any museum,” says McAlester.

Meanwhile, the museum building was rising at speed. RCI cautioned that preparing a whale of this size normally takes five or six years. Abu Dhabi had a little more than two. There was also a pressing architectural dilemma. “The skull of the whale is so huge that it’s bigger than the opening of any of our doors,” says McAlester. “We had to get the whale into the building before we put up the final wall.”

RCI treated the bones in giant tanks to extract the oil that might otherwise seep out for decades. At the same time, 16 specially designed crates were built, one devoted to the immense skull. Under normal circumstances, such a specimen travels by sea but the three month voyage did not fit the museum’s construction schedule. It would need to go by air. “We reckon she is probably the only whale that has ever flown halfway across the world,” says McAlester.

Even then, the plan nearly fell apart. Flying a protected specimen requires permits from every country where the aircraft lands. The team secured approval to drive the crates across the US border and fly from there, until customs officials revoked clearance the day before departure. Now the only option was a refuelling stop in Azerbaijan, one of the few countries that allows such protected cargo to remain airside. “For that entire 36-hour journey I was awake, watching,” says McAlester. “I watched the whale fly over Ireland, where I’m from, over Europe and land in Azerbaijan. Until she got on that last flight, everybody was holding their breath.”

When the whale landed in Abu Dhabi, McAlester was waiting on the tarmac. The crates were moved to temporary storage where everything was unwrapped, registered and photographed “bone by bone by bone”, says McAlester. Then came the installation. A complex metal mounting structure went up first, resembling a second spine. While some bones were reproduced – sections that were beyond recovery – most are original, restored and positioned based on calculations prepared long before the whale arrived.

Now suspended in the museum’s soaring ‘Our World’ gallery, the whale has become both anchor and emblem for the institution. When McAlester brings visitors to see it, she stands beneath the vast skeleton with pride. For her, the project represents the ideal combination of science, logistics and purpose. “It was the biggest challenge,” she says. “But also the highlight of my career.”
nhmad.ae

Traffic slows almost imperceptibly as the checkpoints come into view. Riyadh, a city that normally lurches forward on eight lanes of asphalt, pauses here. Armed guards check papers, barriers lift and the engine noise drops a register. Inside the Diplomatic Quarter – the DQ, as residents call it – the Saudi capital briefly exhales. Palm trees line the roads like honour guards. Satellite dishes peek above embassy roofs. Somewhere beyond the low-rise buildings, construction cranes continue to nibble at the skyline, a reminder that even this enclave is not immune to the kingdom’s permanent state of becoming. But compared to the rest of the city – abrasive, congested, relentless – the DQ feels almost improbable: clean pavements, a walkable trail, a wadi thick with greenery, cafés that you can reach on foot.

It is tempting to call the DQ an oasis. Many residents do. But oases can also be illusions – places that promise respite without offering a full picture of the terrain beyond. That tension runs through daily life here. The DQ was conceived in the 1980s as a secure, purpose-built neighbourhood for foreign missions after embassies relocated from Jeddah to Riyadh. You cannot buy property here – both locals and expats rent on one- or five-year leases, a detail that subtly shapes the psychology of the place. No one truly puts down roots. Everyone is, in some sense, passing through. For diplomats, transience is in the job description and, as several tell Monocle, embedded in the DQ’s design. It was built, says one ambassador, “to make diplomacy easier”.

In a region shaped by flux, the DQ offers something rare: proximity. Ministries are minutes away. Colleagues are neighbours. Relationships form not only in meeting rooms but on evening walks, over coffee or on tennis courts. In Saudi Arabia, where trust precedes transaction, this matters. And nowhere is it more apparent than at the Finnish ambassador’s residence. Anu-Eerika Viljanen greets us in a pink-tinged Marimekko dress as two black-and-white cats weave between her ankles. The house, designed by architect Jukka Sirén, is an essay in Nordic restraint: birchwood ceilings, Finnish granite and a water feature that doubles as a subtle assertion of identity.

There is, of course, a sauna, which Viljanen’s husband uses every morning – a relic from when the residence was built in 1986. Strong coffee is served at 10.00, accompanied by sweets that feel defiantly out of place in the desert heat. Edgar, the Filipino butler, has been here for three decades; he has served seven ambassadors. He chuckles when we ask him what he has seen. “A lot of things.”

Viljanen arrived in Riyadh without a formal briefing on Saudi dos and don’ts. “You’re expected to learn,” she says. “Nobody can really know what Saudi Arabia is like today unless they come.” What makes a good ambassador, she suggests, is curiosity sharpened by experience. On paper, the contrast between Finland and Saudi Arabia could hardly be starker. The former consistently ranks among the world’s most gender-equal societies, with women long embedded at every level of political and economic power. It is also a country with a famously liberal drinking culture. Saudi Arabia, by contrast, is undergoing a highly visible and carefully managed social transformation.

Viljanen is acutely aware of how locals read her presence. She is one of fewer than 10 female ambassadors who are based in the DQ, a cohort that includes all four Nordic representatives. “This is actually the first time that I have ever thought about my gender,” she says. “In Finland, it’s not an issue. Here, it becomes something that people notice.” She doesn’t see that as a disadvantage. “Being a woman means that I can access both worlds,” she adds.

Finland’s relationship with Saudi Arabia is anchored by trade but increasingly entangled in geopolitics – peace mediation, Ukraine, Gaza. Much of the work, explains Viljanen, consists of building relationships rather than going through formal processes. “Here, everything is based on personal connections,” she says. “Without trust, nothing moves.” The diplomatic rhythm is markedly different here. “In Europe, you can get results without knowing people. In Saudi Arabia, friendship and trust come first.”

Differences in outlook are most apparent when it comes to how conflicts are perceived. The war in Ukraine, says Viljanen, is an existential issue for European countries in a way that is not always fully understood in the Gulf. At the same time, she says, European capitals have struggled to grasp the depth of feeling in this region over Gaza. “Countries are very concentrated on their own crises,” she says. “That makes it difficult to have the same conversations.” Her role, she explains, is to convey those realities in both directions – to Riyadh and back to Helsinki – even when the messages are uncomfortable. Those relationships are cultivated not only in the meeting rooms of ministries but on the pavement. “It’s like a village,” adds Viljanen, gesturing towards the trail outside. “You meet people all the time. That makes diplomacy easier.”

The Japanese ambassador to Saudi Arabia, Yasunari Morino, is one of those figures regularly encountered mid-stride. He plays tennis most evenings, runs at night and golfs with fellow envoys. His residence, designed more than 40 years ago by Kenzo Tange, feels remarkably contemporary. Double doors open onto a soaring lobby; purple carpets are laid beneath circular motifs representing the rising sun. Squares repeat throughout the interior, a quiet geometry of order and balance. A chef arrived from Japan with Morino in 2024; the residence includes a traditional tearoom and a tempura counter.

It’s a home but also a stage for cultural diplomacy – a place where business events and community festivals reinforce ties between Tokyo and Riyadh. “It doesn’t decay in terms of beauty,” says Morino of the building. The same could be said of the 70-year bilateral relationship, which now extends well beyond oil into tourism, culture and technology. “Many Saudis already love Japanese culture,” he says. “That makes engagement much easier.”

At the Canadian ambassador’s residence, the mood is different but no less revealing. It is raining – a rarity that lifts spirits across the capital. White clouds hang low as Ottawa’s man in Riyadh, Jean-Philippe Linteau, reflects on his posting. He is Canada’s first ambassador since diplomatic ties were abruptly downgraded between the countries in 2018 after a public dispute over human-rights criticism.

For five years there was no Canadian envoy here. “Between 2018 and 2023, Saudi Arabia changed faster than almost any country,” says Linteau. “When we came back, we had to catch up quickly.” Relations have normalised but perceptions lag behind reality. “People come and say, ‘It’s not what I expected,’” he says.

Linteau’s role increasingly resembles that of a translator as much as a diplomat, explaining the speed and scale of Saudi Arabia’s transformation to a sceptical audience at home, while conveying foreign concerns to his Saudi counterparts, who are navigating a more assertive global role. The residence includes a basement “in true Canadian style”, where alcohol is stored for official events and receptions. A white fluffy cat called Leo patrols the living room. From the windows, the DQ’s greenery looks almost temperate. Linteau calls the quarter “a village within a megalopolis”. His commute, he says, is unbeatable.

Not everyone here carries a diplomatic passport. Arts and culture executive Miguel Blanco-Carrasco lives in a ground-floor flat opposite the British embassy. He moved to the DQ in 2019. “It elevated my experience of the city,” he says. Blanco-Carrasco has worked on some of Saudi Arabia’s most ambitious cultural projects, including Noor Riyadh, and his home reflects that immersion. Walls are crowded with artwork collected through years of collaboration; even the shared entrance is decorated with vintage Egyptian film posters.

His wife, Maria, moved from Casablanca in late 2025. She runs a jewellery business and admits that she arrived feeling nervous. “I didn’t know what to expect,” she says. “I thought that it would be closed off.” Instead, she found a warmth that she hadn’t anticipated. “Here, people invite you into their homes. They share their networks. It’s priceless.” For Miguel, the DQ’s appeal is physical as much as social. The wadi is just 150 metres away. Within minutes, you move from neat landscaping to palm grove to near-wilderness. “It feels like a university campus,” he says. “You can walk everywhere. That’s a luxury in Riyadh.”

The DQ’s cultural life is increasingly outward-facing. At AlMashtal, a community space for art, design and ideas, creatives mingle with diplomats and policymakers. Princess Noura Al Saud, the space’s founder, drops in. Conversations drift from exhibitions to urban infrastructure. Food is another soft connector. The Lighthouse, which arrived from Dubai, has quickly established itself as a social anchor. Part restaurant, part café and part ideas hub, it draws a steady mix of diplomats and Saudi professionals. Breakfast meetings drift into long lunches. More than one of the ambassadors that Monocle speaks to mentions it unprompted.

A short walk away is Parkers in the DQ’s Little Riyadh zone. When we visit, it’s packed. Saudis crowd around tables bearing club sandwiches, coffee and cake. From the terrace, we see a curving walking trail, joggers winding through the greenery and a fort in the distance. Nearby, the home of artist and gallerist Neama Al Sudairi feels expansive and personal. She has lived in the DQ for two years and speaks candidly about its contradictions. “Everyone wants to be here,” she says. “It’s safe, walkable, family-friendly.” She walks her dogs, meets friends at cafés and spends long hours at Core, the quarter’s members-only health club. But she is clear-eyed about the limits. You cannot own here, while changes to homes require permission and are often reversed. “It’s temporary,” she says. The DQ is not Riyadh as most residents experience it. Instead, it’s a carefully managed exception.

That management extends to leisure. Attaché, a former equestrian club turned nightlife complex, hums after dark. There’s a shisha lounge, an international restaurant, a DJ-led dance floor in the old stables and a pool club. Diplomats, royalty and long-term residents gather under soft lighting. It is lively, polished and discreet. For fitness, Core offers an annual membership that can cost SAR60,000 (€13,600) and includes access to tennis courts, studios and an outdoor running track. Inside, expats and Saudis move side by side – lifting, stretching, negotiating a new normal of shared space.

The government’s Royal Commission for Riyadh City now speaks the language of 15-minute neighbourhoods and elements of the DQ are being replicated elsewhere. Yet the quarter remains sui generis: a diplomatic experiment that accidentally became one of the city’s most liveable districts. But the DQ’s calm depends on exclusion as much as inclusion. Checkpoints are not metaphors. This is a negotiated space. Its greenery, cafés and trails highlight what much of Riyadh still lacks. Perhaps that is its key diplomatic function. The DQ is a buffer – between nations, between perceptions and lived experiences, between a Saudi Arabia rushing forward and a world that is still catching up. Life here is defined by movement: ambassadors rotating posts, designers arriving with new projects, families planning their next chapter. Nobody stays forever. As dusk falls, the call to prayer drifts across the wadi. Lights flicker behind embassy walls. Beyond the checkpoints, the traffic surges.