There’s a strange thing that happens at this point in the year: time seems to speed up. Summer – at least, in the northern hemisphere – passes at a languorous pace, then autumn pokes its russet-leafed nose in but, when November hits, the toboggan of time suddenly starts careening through the days with gusto, as you hold on for dear life. And then bang! It’s a new year.

Well, this December-January double dose of Monocle is designed to guide you through it all – from planning Christmas, securing gifts (may we suggest a subscription to our magazine?) and plotting your 2026 travels (Japan, here we come) to, hopefully sitting by a roaring fire, contemplating what the year ahead has in store (turn to our perspicacious Forecast pages to find out). But, for all of us, Monocle included, this is also a moment to take stock and ask: what did we achieve in 2025? Regular Monocle readers and subscribers to our daily newsletters might feel that they already know what we have been up to but I’ll flag a few highlights anyway.

In the past 12 months, we have opened a new bureau and café-cum-shop in Paris that has underlined our commitment to taking care of people. Our books team has delivered two new additions to our Handbook series (one on Greece and, just landing, another on Switzerland), as well as the wonderful Designers on Sofas book (fun, quirky, beautiful – what we all need more of in our lives). We also produced a great Companion paperback for the Venice Architecture Biennale. Our events team has bounced around the globe this year but the pinnacle was our Quality of Life Conference in Barcelona – the city shone and our readers once again proved why they are such amazing people. Also out on the road, the team from Monocle Radio turned up everywhere from Abu Dhabi to New York. We continued to invent with print, bringing out the premiere issue of our Design Directory. Plus, we launched a new digital experience, including a sparkling website.

In an industry focused on creativity and finding freshways to deliver stories, I am often asked, “What’s new at Monocle?” I usually need to ask people how long they’ve got before commencing my reply. But I am pleased to add that many are fully aware of Monocle’s ambition and successes – it’s why we have such supportive partners and why this magazine has such a healthy weight. While you catch your breath, let me gently suggest a few stories in the issue that deserve your attention.

In our Concierge pages, we head off for a tour of classic Paris bistros, savouring a feast of seasonal dishes (somehow leaving space for dessert). Our Expo takes you to an island where Swedish and Finnish statespeople meet to discuss their shared concerns; we eavesdrop on the latest get-together. In our design pages, we survey an archive that charts the history of outdoor brands, including the founding days of The North Face and Patagonia. We also look at why Beirutis are allowing themselves to feel more confident about the future.

So I hope that you enjoy this issue and the chute it offers through Christmas and into 2026. And thank you for all your support, ideas and feedback across this year. Here’s wishing you a happy Christmas and the very best 2026. As always, you can contact me at at@monocle.com or check the masthead if you would like to get in touch with any of our editors (we publish all of our addresses).

It’s a crisp autumn morning on Hanaholmen as military officers, politicians and think-tank members sip coffee beside the icy Baltic waters. All are either Finnish or Swedish and are performing a ritual that has taken place here every few months for the past 50 years. This small island, a few minutes by boat from downtown Helsinki, is home to the Swedish-Finnish Cultural Centre, a literal (and littoral) manifestation of the two Nordic countries’ rock-solid ties.

Monocle is here to attend the Hanating defence and security policy forum, an annual event that aims to further sync already close defence ties. Inside, sheltered from the chilly winds behind floor-to-ceiling windows, attendees – who include both countries’ defence ministers – are discussing drone warfare, hybrid threats and the state of Nordic defence co-operation. Outside, on a terrace lined with stone sculptures and fringed by tall pine trees, the air feels lighter, as does the conversation. “I took a dip in the sea last night, followed by a sauna – that’s how you do it, right?” we overhear a Swedish diplomat ask a Finnish counterpart.

Hanaholmen has always been a place where serious discussion takes place in a calm environment. “It’s not just a building,” says Charly Salonius-Pasternak, the CEO of geopolitics consultancy Nordic West Office and a longtime visitor. “It represents the bilateral relationship. It’s a place where ministers, researchers and bankers meet, but it’s also somewhere you can go and dip your toes in the water. It’s not an embassy or a government office. It’s a neutral third space with rich cultural layers.”

Founded in 1975 on a verdant island in the Gulf of Finland, Hanaholmen was created as a gesture of reconciliation and trust. Sweden had forgiven a substantial chunk of Finland’s postwar debt and Helsinki’s way of saying thank you was to invest its goodwill in something lasting – a shared space for dialogue and co-operation. The result is extremely Nordic: a low-slung, honey-toned complex of modernist glass-and-concrete buildings designed by Finnish architect Veikko Malmio. It’s a notable example of 1970s design from the region that still looks contemporary.

Sitting in an orange Yrjö Kukkapuro Junior 417 chair, Hanaholmen’s CEO for more than 20 years, Gunvor Kronman, reflects on the centre’s mission. “Hanaholmen was founded 50 years ago to make sure that the relationship between Finland and Sweden continues to grow,” she says. “It covers all parts of society. We were called a cultural centre for practical reasons during the Cold War but our mandate has always been broad. It includes everything from defence and security to economic development.”

Over the years, this mandate has been expanded further. Kronman describes Hanaholmen as “semi-official, semi-private”, an organisation that can discuss things that are too sensitive for statespeople to speak about publicly but too important to overlook. “We can take initiatives that governments can’t,” she says. “If we fail, it’s our failure. If we succeed, it’s our partner’s success.” Among its programmes are the Hanaholmen Initiative, a crisis-preparedness scheme launched during the coronavirus pandemic; Tandem Leadership, a year-long training network for emerging decision-makers; and Tandem Forest Values, a research collaboration on sustainable forestry. “We believe in personal relationships,” says Kronman. “When people know each other, there’s trust. Trust is the Nordic gold.”

This is built not only through conversation but also setting. Hanaholmen’s interiors exemplify Nordic simplicity: pale wood and clean lines, with furniture and fittings designed by Finnish and Swedish icons. The island houses more than 300 unique artworks, its own gallery and a sculpture park. “Each artist spends time here and picks their location,” says Kronman. “It takes about a year from idea to installation. We don’t want to rush the process.” A recent renovation, completed in 2017 by Helsinki-based design studio KOKO3, honoured the building’s 1970s identity while updating it for 21st-century use. “Moving from the centre of Helsinki to Hanaholmen feels like entering into a different rhythm,” says Jukka Halminen, a partner at KOKO3. “It’s similar to a Finnish sauna ritual: you slow down, breathe and calm down. We wanted the design to support that feeling.”

KOKO3 used natural materials such as brass, oak and stone to keep the original texture of the place, while adding touches from classic Swedish design house Svenskt Tenn to brighten and warm the interiors. The result is neither nostalgic nor sleekly new; it feels lived-in, timeless and quietly Nordic. “We wanted to keep the dialogue between Finland and Sweden visible in the design choices,” says Halminen. “It’s about balance: heritage with lightness, seriousness with joy.” You can feel the same balance at Plats, the island’s restaurant. Hanaholmen’s in-house fisherman, Christer Hackman, catches perch and pike, forages mushrooms and berries, and supplies the kitchen with wild herbs. The menu marries Finnish ingredients with classic Swedish dishes, served in dining rooms that glow with light timber and the burning logs of fitted fireplaces. “Food is an essential part of Hanaholmen,” says Kronman. “It creates a different atmosphere. Sharing a meal changes the tone of a political discussion.”

For those not lucky enough to be a Nordic diplomat, Hanaholmen is also a hotel. The swimming pool and glass sauna, which looks out to sea, are among the most popular in the Finnish capital. “We might be small [66 rooms] but we’re a significant meeting place,” the hotel’s director, Kai Mattsson, says as he shows Monocle around the building’s top-floor suite. “Every weekday there’s something happening. It can be 200 delegates one day and a honeymooning couple the next.” Mattsson describes the hotel as both an engine and enabler. “The commercial side helps to finance the cultural side but it’s also part of the experience,” he says. “People come here for seminars and to discover the art, the design, the nature. It’s not your typical conference hotel.”

Hanaholmen’s blend of architecture, art and natural beauty reflects the belief that soft power becomes tangible through space. “No matter how tough the subject, we try to maintain integrity and decency in conversation,” says Kronman. “That’s how we contribute to an open, democratic society.” At the Hanating forum, that spirit is writ large. Finland’s defence minister, Antti Häkkänen, and his Swedish counterpart, Pål Jonson, are engaged in discussions that mingle military strategy with cultural diplomacy. “Hard defence must be strong,” Häkkänen tells Monocle. “But the political landscape – how voters and politicians perceive the world – that’s soft power and it’s very important. Institutions such as Hanaholmen keep our societies aligned over issues such as Russia and European security.” His Swedish colleague adds, with a grin, “I mostly work with guns, bombs and hard military power but I still value the cultural exchange that Hanaholmen represents.”

Perhaps no one captures this exchange better than Sweden’s hirsute ambassador to Finland, Peter Ericson. “It’s a tremendous asset for the relationship,” he says, referencing the staff and resources at Hanaholmen’s disposal. “I call it a symbiotic relationship: Hanaholmen is the elephant and we at the embassy are the little bird sitting on its back.” He gestures towards the centre’s lobby, which displays photographs of distinguished visitors, including monarchs, ministers and artists. “It’s independent,” he says. “It isn’t part of official diplomacy. Sweden and Finland supervise it together but it is its own foundation. And it has this formula: bring people from both sides, house them, feed them and give them the space to work together. Fifty years ago, it was mostly a cultural exchange; today, it involves anything from defence and civil preparedness to youth issues or the environment. That’s its strength.”

The seasoned diplomat struggles to think of a similar institution anywhere else in the world. “Hanaholmen is unique,” he says. “An embassy symbolises a country. Hanaholmen symbolises the relationship itself.” This distinction might explain its lasting significance. In a world that is increasingly driven by summits, video calls and transactional diplomacy, it represents something older and subtler – the gradual building of trust through shared experience and conversation. At Hanaholmen, diplomacy isn’t performed but practised. “We believe in identifying the right people who should know each other,” says Kronman. “From that, many good things will come.”

This approach resonates beyond Finland and Sweden. The centre has hosted a range of figures, including the Nordic royal families, prime ministers and popular actors such as Mikael Persbrandt. Fifty years after Hanaholmen was opened by the Swedish king, Carl XVI Gustaf, and Finland’s then-president, Urho Kekkonen, the Nordic region, once viewed as a quiet corner of Europe, now finds itself on the front line of geopolitical change. After decades of neutrality, Finland and Sweden are now NATO members. Defence committees from their respective parliaments meet here regularly; they are doing so on the day that Monocle visits. Amid discussions on deterrence and hybrid warfare, soft power is still the centre’s guiding light. “Hard power is obvious – Ukraine reminds us of that,” says Ericson. “But soft power is what keeps our societies attractive and resilient. We don’t have to deceive people to be liked. We just have to be our best selves.”

Digital diplomacy and rotating presidencies can’t replace the continuity that is offered by a physical site. Hanaholmen’s architecture, art and cuisine aren’t just decorative – they’re part of the dialogue. As the afternoon light dims over the Baltic, the conversation on the terrace shifts from air defence to pan-fried Arctic char. It feels both ordinary and extraordinary – the kind of quiet, human-level contact that supports deep Nordic co-operation.

With 15 houses debuting fresh looks under newly appointed creative directors, 2025 was supposed to be fashion’s big moment of change. The industry has collectively decided to put clunky sneakers, all-beige looks and streetwear behind it.

So what does that mean for how we’ll be dressing in the year ahead? “When I think about the new season, I picture a post-luxury world, a return to elegance and interesting colours,” says Hirofumi Kurino, co-founder and senior adviser of Japanese retailer United Arrows. After surveying catwalks, showrooms and exhibitions in Florence, London, Milan and Paris in late 2025, he began to see a subtle shift. There might not be a single new look defining the season (though Jonathan Anderson’s deconstructed Dior Bar jacket is a strong contender) but there’s a new set of priorities: fewer logos and more creative, human-centric designs.

Japanese designer Satoshi Kuwata’s Milan-based label Setchu is a brand to watch in 2026. “Satoshi trained on Savile Row and never uses the word ‘trend’,” says Kurino. “I have a coat by him and it can be folded flat. You can see how deeply he thinks about structure and technique.” Other Japanese designers are also having a global impact, including Auralee, known for its masterful command of colour, and Satoshi Kondo of Homme Plissé Issey Miyake. Updating your look for the new year could be as simple as tying a bright-green sweater over a camel coat or layering a yellow trench coat over a T-shirt in a similar hue.

One name who will be setting the agenda next year is London-based Grace Wales Bonner, who was recently appointed as Hermès’s new menswear creative director. For her eponymous label, which turned 10 this year, she offers Crombie coats, elegant short suits and polo shirts inspired by UK sartorial traditions for spring/summer 2026.

“We have been overproducing and overconsuming for so long,” says Kurino. “Designers are now rethinking the system and not just selling products for the sake of selling.” Kurino’s words capture a collective fatigue with aggressive commercialisation and the endless search for novelty. Seasons change but simply knowing that you’re wearing what you like – as well as caring about where and how it’s made – has always been the greatest luxury.

Natalie Theodosi is Monocle’s fashion director.

“Did you see?” asks a friend when we arrive in Beirut. “There are now lanes on the airport highway and the traffic lights are working.” Driving into the Lebanese capital certainly feels different from when Monocle was last here. Back then, the road from the airport was flanked by billboards featuring stern-faced Hezbollah fighters. Today, in their place, cheerful banners declare a “new era for Lebanon”. Downtown, where the streets now echo to the sounds of construction rather than destruction, the ornate Ottoman façade of the Grand Serail, the Lebanese prime minister’s official residence, is one of many buildings shrouded in scaffolding.

“The population is looking for a new paradigm,” says Lebanon’s culture minister, Ghassan Salamé, surrounded by piles of books in his ministry office. “They are fed up with being told to be resilient, to smile.” Whatever it was that has finally moved the dial, there’s a sense that Beirut is beginning to show signs of a long-awaited recovery. This summer, the city’s beaches were packed but, more importantly, its pharmacies are fully stocked and electricity now sometimes stays on through the night. In April the country’s new finance minister signed a $250m (€215m) agreement with the World Bank to support renewable energy and grid resilience.

Lebanon could hardly have ended 2024 at a lower ebb. After months of heavy bombardment by Israel, the south of the country was flattened and swaths of Beirut’s suburbs lay in smoking ruin. Then, in early 2025, something unusual happened. After more than two years without a government, former army chief Joseph Aoun was appointed president. Though criticised for still being a serving commander, Aoun pushed through his choice of prime minister – Nawaf Salam, a veteran jurist and former president of the International Court of Justice – a few days after his election.

Things then began to move at great speed. Salam set about building a cabinet of politically unaffiliated ministers. Gone were the offspring of warlords and, in their place, the new prime minister appointed politicians with experience, talent and a seemingly genuine desire to improve the lot of their compatriots. Used to such governments taking months to form, Lebanese citizens at home and abroad were dumbfounded – in a good way. A 2025 Gallup poll recorded a 46-point increase (up to 62 per cent from 16) in public approval for the government, one of the largest such swings ever recorded in polling history.

Salamé is a returnee to government. The culture minister previously served in the same post between 2000 and 2003, during the heady post-civil-war days when Rafic Hariri’s reconstruction plans seemed to herald a brighter future. After two decades of serving high-level UN global missions, he’s back at the ministry’s helm. Looking ruefully around his office in the newly reopened Lebanese National Library, Salamé is fully aware of the colossal nature of the government’s challenge.

“Our problem is money; the public finances have gone bankrupt,” he says. “So, we’re being asked to do everything with no budget.” He and his colleagues face a breakneck climb on a fraying rope (the next general election is scheduled for May 2026) but he points out that what they have already achieved is extraordinary. “We have done more in six months than previous governments did in six years,” he says, his voice nearly breaking. “If people start to see real implementation, they’ll be more willing to trust us.”

The new government’s good fortune wasn’t down to blind luck. Last year the geopolitical landscape in the Levant shifted significantly. Israel’s attack on Lebanon destroyed key parts of the country but also eroded the military might of Hezbollah and the grip that it had held over the country’s politics for decades. Meanwhile, the fall of Bashar al-Assad in neighbouring Syria eliminated a land route for supplying Hezbollah with Iranian weaponry and a new government was installed next door. Hundreds of thousands of Syrian refugees returned home as a result, easing pressure on Lebanon’s politics, economy and healthcare system. For once, it felt as though geo political forces were working in Lebanon’s favour.

Still, it would be naive to be too optimistic. While Beirut is getting its buzz back, the south of the country remains heavily bomb-damaged, with parts of it still occupied by Israel. Hezbollah meanwhile, is resisting the new government’s calls to disarm, prompting fears of conflict to come. Still, after years in which the country’s judiciary has seemed inert, the government has confirmed more than 500 new judges since coming into office.

In another positive sign, a budget was produced on time, allowing two major financial reform laws to be passed, reopening negotiations for an IMF deal. Most importantly for public confidence, ministers have started discussing how much and how soon Lebanese depositors will see financial compensation for the 2019 banking crash, in which the savings of many middle-class families were wiped out. Salamé and his colleagues hope to have some answers by January. “We have lost a lot of young talent to other countries,” he says. “They are watching now to see what we do.”

Crisis after crisis forced Lebanon’s youth to leave in search of opportunity and security. In 2021 there was a 450 per cent surge in emigration. Encouragingly, they have slowly begun trickling back. When the August 2020 port explosion took place, 34-year-old endocrinologist Ralph el Khoury and his colleagues at central Beirut’s Hotel Dieu Hospital had already been working on reduced salaries for months.

That day they treated hundreds of wounded patients for free. Traumatised, El Khoury had reached his limit. “The explosion was the trigger for me,” he tells Monocle. “I felt that the state had really failed us. I was afraid of spending my life in a country that was failing.” Many of his closest friends had already left and El Khoury knew that a stint in France could be a big boost to his career. So he moved to Paris, where he spent five years working on his specialism while learning how to augment healthcare using digital technologies such as AI.

In the French capital, El Khoury formed a close-knit group with other Lebanese expats. They would spend long nights wondering whether they would ever return home. But early this year the mood began to change. “For the first time in a long while, we could actually identify with the people in the government,” he says.

By August he felt the pull home, wanting to put his new skills to use. “It’s a big risk,” he says. “But I want to be here to rebuild my country, not just watch other people do it.” In the past year, hospitals have begun to receive regular medicine and equipment supplies, while the government has started planning the restructuring of healthcare to make it more accessible.

Lebanese architect Carole Azzi has also taken the leap homeward. The 38-year-old left for France a decade ago, thinking that she would only be away a year or two. Now that she’s back in the country of her birth, she is keen to use her expertise in cultural preservation to help Lebanon rebuild. “We’re not even starting from zero,” she says. “We’re hoping to reach zero and then build from there.”

Azzi is now involved in government rebuilding projects and hopes to teach a fresh generation of Lebanese architecture students. She says that she sees a new toughness in her young compatriots. “They are better than we were at that age,” she says. “They have had to be very inventive because those who couldn’t leave had to reinvent themselves here.”

A distinctive characteristic of Beirut is the way that a hot neighbourhood can suddenly be ordained. In autumn 2025, there was a new cool kid in town: Saifi Village. With its salmon-pink façades, 24-hour electricity and Spanish moss tumbling from arched window frames, Saifi has long been considered an oasis in the centre of downtown. Once the preserve of yoga mums, it is now buzzing from dawn until dusk.

Pastel-hued restaurant Malibou sits on the corner of Mkhallissiye Street without a table to spare. “We’ve been busy since we opened in September 2024 but this summer we were packed every day,” says its manager, Hassan Abu Rashed. A quarter of all employment in Lebanon is in the hospitality sector. When purchasing power evaporated, so did the wages. In July the president signed off on a 56 per cent increase in the minimum wage across the private sector. Rashed’s pay packets are back to pre-2019 levels and customers are tipping generously.

Gulf Arabs have got the message that Beirut is again the place to be. The lifting of UAE travel warnings earlier this year was a huge boon for Lebanese tourism. Beirut-Rafic Hariri International Airport saw a million visitors in June and July – up 15 per cent on the previous year’s summer season – igniting hopes that the country’s tourism industry, which made up 19 per cent of its GDP before the 2019 crash, is back. The city was packed all summer, with crowds spilling out onto the streets, grasping cocktails and dancing to the strains of Fairuz and Umm Kulthum. It felt like old times.

While the city has quietened down since the peak season, the spirit of those buoyant months has endured. Plane-loads of Middle Eastern tourists are descending on Beirut every weekend in search of delicious food and good times. Even short-term stability begets long-term investment. A highway intended to circumvent the dreaded traffic jams that swell on the seaside motorway north of the city every rush hour is finally under way.

The government also hopes to open tender on an airport near Tripoli in early 2026. Intended to complement Rafic Hariri, which is the only operational commercial airport in Lebanon, it will be well placed for the country’s most popular beach resorts. MEA, the national carrier, is launching a low-cost arm to ferry visitors to and from both of them.

Rasha Halabi Assaf barely kept her Saifi Village-based boutique, Label Queen, going through the crisis. She has now opened two more businesses in the neighbourhood. Her café, Roff, serves high-end coffee to the cool crowd. Since starting it in January, Assaf says that it has practically marketed itself. “This year was a big change,” she says. “Brands are launching; hotels are opening. People are optimistic and investing again.” However, she says that the government needs to step in and support local entrepreneurs in the wake of the crisis.

Fellow business owners feel that the private sector is carrying the entire load of the economy, while facing heavy taxes for little return and high costs on imported goods. As a result, they are prioritising low-risk cash investment in retail and hospitality. “If anything happens, the losses are easier to absorb,” she says. “The banking system is there but we don’t trust it yet.”

In 2019, Lebanon’s youth took to the streets to demand change from its leaders. Now they’re coming back to make it themselves. Ghassan Haddad left the country 20 years ago after graduating from high school and worked as a consultant in Europe and the Gulf. When he was first asked to return to serve as chief of staff for the new tourism minister, Laura Lahoud, he was reluctant. But his family convinced him not to pass up the opportunity to be part of Lebanon’s next chapter. Lahoud says that her favourite part of her job is working with younger people such as Haddad. “They’re faster at everything, with a fresh outlook,” she says. “I learn a lot from them.”

Unfortunately, not everyone is so keen. Like many of his peers, Haddad is having to push hard to change mindsets that are still stuck in the past. Modern digital skills have yet to permeate the top of government (aides still write phone messages down on scraps of paper) and increasing efficiency will mean a complete overhaul. “People tell me, ‘That’s not how we do things here,’” says Haddad. “I say, ‘That’s exactly the point.’ The people want change but they don’t want reform.”

It takes a huge leap of faith to give up on the status quo in return for an unknown benefit at some point in the future. That’s what this government is asking of a public that has had little reason to trust its leaders in decades. It’s a sentiment that Haddad shares with many of his youthful colleagues. They often gather in the evening to share their ideas, after a long day spent working to bring their country’s infrastructure up to speed.

In the lobby of Bourj Hammoud’s Cinema Royal, young women drink beer as they wait for a free public screening of 1994 film Once Upon a Time in Beirut, put on by the culture ministry. “How was today?” one asks her friend. “Long, like every day at the moment,” she says. Then she smiles and adds, “But it’ll be worth it.”

This summer there were many such screenings and museum nights. For a few weeks, Beirut lived up to its mid-century moniker as the Paris of the Middle East. Lahoud’s next aim is to project middle-class Beirut’s success to other corners of the country. Her ministry has launched a tourism app intended to direct visitors to less frequented areas.

In common with many of her new colleagues, she never worked in politics before this and knows that it will take time to build trust. None of the current cabinet ministers plans to run in the next election, so they can focus on making meaningful, if difficult, decisions, she says. “We have tremendous natural wealth but our greatest wealth is our people,” she says, looking out from her balcony at the city below. “They find a way to continue.”

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Back to Beirut
A rundown of the key events in Lebanon’s complex history.

1.
Place des Martyrs, downtown Beirut in the 1960s. Before the civil war, the city was known as the Paris of the Middle East.

2.
The Lebanese Civil War, which lasted from 1975 to 1990, led to about 150,000 deaths and the emigration of a million people from Lebanon. The war devastated swaths of the capital.

3.
Crowds in the city celebrate the 1989 Taif Agreement that paved the way for peace. The agreement formalised power sharing between Lebanon’s 18 registered religious groups.

4.
Rafic Hariri served as Lebanon’s prime minister between 1992 and 1998 and then again between 2000 and 2004. In 2005 he was assassinated in Beirut by a suicide van bomb. Hariri’s death triggered further political upheaval.

5.
Riad Salameh was the governor of the Bank of Lebanon from 1993 to 2023. Initially feted for his monetary policy, after the country’s banking crisis in 2019 he was accused of siphoning off millions of depositors’ savings. In 2024 he was charged with money laundering, embezzlement and illicit enrichment.

6.
The 2020 Beirut port explosion was caused by the ignition of 2,750 tonnes of ammonium nitrate that was being stored in a waterside warehouse. The explosion caused at least 218 deaths, thousands of casualties and billions of dollars’ worth of damage.

7.
The new Lebanese government poses outside the Baabda Presidential Palace in February 2025. President Joseph Aoun and Prime Minister Nawaf Salam stand in the centre.

This spring, Monocle commissioned what turned out to be the final piece of writing by Joseph S Nye, the political scientist who coined the term “soft power” and died in May at the age of 88. Nye’s death came as his idea – to consider a country in terms of its culture, ideals and subtle influence, not just its economy and military – was under attack. But as he argued (and as Monocle has believed since our first survey on the subject in 2010), soft power’s influence is even more important in a multipolar world.

With that in mind, here are some countries that have notably risen or fallen in the soft-power stakes this year.

Mexico
Michelin has launched its first dedicated Mexico restaurant guide but the nation’s cuisine is only an appetiser. In 2024 it welcomed 45 million international tourists, making it the sixth most-visited country in the world. Claudia Sheinbaum, its first female president, helps to project an image of confidence and coolness. Most of those entering the ballot for tickets to next summer’s Fifa World Cup (jointly held in Mexico, the US and Canada) will surely be hoping to attend a match in this fun, football-mad country.

Italy
Italy will welcome the world in 2026 as Milan-Cortina hosts the Winter Olympic Games in February. The country has sometimes fallen short when it comes to everyday necessities (ensuring that everything runs smoothly) but can take heart from its ever-improving annual events, such as Salone del Mobile. Yields on Italian bonds are at about the same level as France’s and that confidence can be seen as visitors glide along freshly laid roads between Milan and the Alpine ski resorts. The Lombard capital is becoming a lure for the wealthy due to its tax breaks. In 2025 it became Europe’s “third-richest” city in terms of millionaires and billionaires.

France
The sight of a mechanical lift hoisting a gang of power-tool-wielding burglars up to the Louvre’s Gallery of Apollo in broad daylight marked the end of a difficult year for France. Successive prime ministers have failed to unite parliament over a workable budget and even reliable stalwarts such as LVMH and Kering have had difficult years. The country’s charms remain irresistible in fashion, art and culture but many will be hoping that 2025 was a blip rather than a taste of further chaos to come.

Canada
Was this finally the year that Canada stepped out from under the sizeable shadow of its southern neighbour? Donald Trump’s threats to annex the country sparked anger among Canadians and the gloves came off. The mobilisation of famous actors and sportspeople to deliver a riposte to US policy reminded the world of the country’s enviable comedic and sporting talent, while a homegrown campaign to buy locally made goods highlighted the quality of its domestic products.

Japan
When Sanae Takaichi welcomed Trump to Tokyo in October, Japan’s first female prime minister offered a masterclass in her country’s culture of hosting and gift giving. The US president was presented with six “Trump”-embossed golden golf balls, as well as a putter used by Shinzo Abe. Takaichi can be optimistic about the year ahead. After decades of deflation, the yen is gaining momentum, while retail sales are up and unemployment down. Shohei Ohtani is hitting home runs and the country’s unique attractions continue to drive a tourism boom that saw more than 36 million foreigners visit in 2024.

Puerto Rico
An honourable mention goes to the unincorporated US territory whose tiny size belies its huge cultural influence. After years of being a net exporter of people, immigration increased in 2024, with 15,000 more moving to Puerto Rico than leaving. Many are US citizens attracted by tax incentives, great weather and enviable culture. Nobody embodies that culture more than Bad Bunny. In 2026 the rapper will be the first Latin male artist to perform solo at the Super Bowl.

On 14 September 1814, in the dawn’s early light, US troops stationed at Fort McHenry in Baltimore harbour hoisted their nation’s flag. They did this every morning, as the bugler sounded reveille. At this particular sunrise, though, their routine chore had greater resonance.

For the previous 24 hours, Fort McHenry had been clobbered by the rockets and mortars of a Royal Navy fleet that had sailed up Chesapeake Bay. But it had stood and the flag was the US soldiers’ way of letting the British sailors know. Another witness, Maryland lawyer Francis Scott Key, was moved to verse. His poem and Fort McHenry’s flag would both become known as the star-spangled banner. Americans might therefore have reason to take their flag more seriously than most. And they do.

In October of this year, when the US president, Donald Trump, was due in the UK for a state visit, the 66 star-spangled banners that were to be unfurled on the Mall in London and at Windsor Castle were rejected by the US embassy, which was unhappy with the precise shade of red amid the white and blue. New flags were commissioned at a cost of £52,800 (€60,000).

It might seem like a strange time to make the case that there’s something to be learnt from the US’s affection for its flag. To be clear, we’re talking about the easygoing pride expressed in banners hung from small town porches, not the slobbering flag-fondling regularly perpetrated by the kind of ostentatious patriots more likely to make any decent citizen want to burn a flag than salute it. In 2025, the banner of one of the UK’s constituent nations – the red-on-white St George’s Cross of England – became the subject of a culture war version of Capture the Flag.

In towns across England, St George’s Crosses were hung and spray-painted by that variety of conservative nationalist who would rather conduct this sort of performance than do anything to materially improve their society. The UK’s centre-left government was compelled to contortions, as its senior ministers all but claimed that their home decor was exclusively comprised of the St George’s Cross and Union Flag and that they enjoyed nothing more than sitting down with the family to stare at either or both.

Neither of these is quite the way to go about it. In peacetime, at least, a flag should not be flown in any spirit of vengeance or triumph. Nor should a flag be worshipped or protected. And it should never be compulsory to wave one. A flag should be flown freely; an expression of happiness with and gratitude for the best of the country that it represents. Nevertheless, even the most secular societies contrive to impute something approaching sanctity to these patterned pieces of cloth.

In November 2021, there was moderate uproar when the French president, Emmanuel Macron, switched the blue of Le Tricolore to a somewhat darker shade. People who recalled that the lighter blue was the preference of Europhile former president Valéry Giscard d’Estaing – who changed it in the 1970s to match the EU flag – wondered if his successor was signalling a rift with Brussels or attempting subliminal outreach to nostalgists and nationalists. The response from Macron’s office was “nonsense”; the president stated that he merely preferred the navy blue and its connections to French history.

Flags are not set in stone (they wouldn’t flap, for one thing). Their designs change: the original star-spangled banner had only 15 silver stars on its blue canton. And the meaning that we impose upon them evolves and/or is in the eye of the beholder – or, indeed, burner.

Syria is the most recent country to run up a new standard, or at least to revive an old one. The fall of the Assad regime was marked by hauling down the red, white and black-striped Ba’athist banner with two green stars and replacing it with a variation on the green, white and black-striped flag with three red stars, which heralded Syria’s first flush of independence in the 1930s. It was an important moment, symbolising a fresh start and a return to principles. But, as with anything vexillological, it was essentially a cosmetic gesture. Any flag, like any nation, is an eternal work in progress.

1.
Le Square Trousseau
The neighbourhood favourite

In the 12th arrondissement, near Aligre market, Le Square Trousseau feels at once breezily modern but in ways pleasantly unchanged since its opening in 1907. There’s a belle époque elegance to the bevelled glass, marble mosaics and Thonet chairs, while the menu features classics such as escalope de veau à la crème, steak tartare and crêpes Suzette, plus twists such as the toothsome miso-sesame salmon.

Overseen by Mickael and Laurence Jarno and chef Didier Coly, the restaurant’s reliability runs from the genial staff to the opening times: 08.00 to midnight every day. It’s also a place for all ages, where warmer days see children drawing in chalk (provided) on the pavement outside. The charming, hand-drawn pooch logo on the menu hints at a playful side that belies the effort that goes into the service here.

“I have now been in the kitchen for 40 years,” says Coly. “I started at age 16 as an apprentice in Corrèze and have been working with Le Square’s team for more than 15 years.” Coly’s recipe for success is simple. “It’s a very pretty, authentic bistro,” he says. “[We offer] homemade cuisine with a touch of modernity.”
1 Rue Antoine Vollon

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2.
Chez Georges
The cheerful host

A few steps from Place des Victoires, Chez Georges is the kind of bistro that reminds you why Paris will always be Paris. Run by the charming Jean-Gabriel de Bueil – a veteran of the city’s dining scene and a true guardian of bourgeois cuisine – this address is now his sole focus, and it shows.

The tone is set by the violet-ink menu, leather banquettes, white tablecloths, a pewter bar and large mirrors. The menu celebrates the great tradition of French home cooking, albeit at a standard seldom achieved by amateur cooks. Expect goose rillettes, parsley ham, veal liver with bacon, grilled sole and the beloved pavé du mail – peppery steak with a cognac-laced cream, plus fries.

The puddings are pure nostalgia: vanilla millefeuille, tarte Tatin with thick cream, profiteroles dripping in warm chocolate and a proper rum baba (there are many pale comparisons in Paris). The wine list leans towards burgundy and beaujolais, including De Bueil’s own Chénas Rouge Caillou. Unpretentious, warm and joyfully noisy, Chez Georges is a bastion in a changing city. It’s a type of restaurant of which few remain but those that do remind you of what it means to be Parisian.
1 Rue du Mail

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3.
La Poule au Pot
The nostalgic one

“Everything is guided by sharing,” chef Jean-François Piège tells Monocle, while welcoming us in under the burgundy awning of his beloved bistro. “The dish is placed in the middle, and everyone helps themselves – and then goes back for more.” At La Poule au Pot, sharing plates aren’t a new thing, nor presented as such. Instead, it’s an idea as old as the restaurant, which dates from 1935 and sits in the neighbourhood of Les Halles, long known, thanks to its market, as the city’s “belly”.

Piège took ownership of the restaurant with his wife, Élodie, in 2018 and the pair have sought to update rather than rewrite the rules of a remarkable institution that’s had only three owners in more than 90 years of service. The decor, which includes a zinc counter, mosaic floors and even the original wallpaper – plus unmistakable pink tablecloths and a painstakingly sourced collection of about 2,500 pieces of silverware – is almost as delicious as the food.

“The luxury here doesn’t lie in the drapes or the materials but in the time that we take to cook well and to bring pleasure to those who sit at our table,” says Piège with palpable pride before our French onion soup is served. “I like to say that I didn’t choose La Poule au Pot – it chose me. Élodie and I immediately knew that it was the perfect stage to express my deep love for French cuisine.”
9 Rue Vauvilliers

Three Parisian bistros have shared beautiful festive recipes for you to make at home. Tap here to read them all and start noting the ingredients.

Read next: Monocle’s full city guide to Paris

The regeneration of Toronto’s former industrial harbour is a lesson in sustainable development that many portside cities can learn from. Following decades of planning, the waterfront is in the midst of a major renovation. Jutting into Lake Ontario on the east side of the city, a bleak, 240‑hectare area that was previously home to refineries, coal facilities and shipping infrastructure will soon feature a park, an art trail and modern, affordable housing for 15,000 people.

At the centre of this project is the “renaturalisation” of the Don Valley River, the mouth of which was given an unnatural 90‑degree bend in the late 19th and early 20th centuries to accommodate an industrial port district. This intervention created a risk of catastrophic flooding during major storms until a bid for Toronto to host the 2008 Summer Olympics finally nudged authorities from all levels of government to form a plan to make it accessible and liveable for Torontonians.

“The project doesn’t just unlock the land, it reimagines this whole quadrant too,” says Chris Glaisek, Waterfront Toronto’s chief planning and design officer, who has been working on it for two decades. The first phase was unveiled in July 2025 with the opening of Biidaasige Park, named in the local Indigenous language.

The park is dissected by the new river mouth, which was extended by more than 1km using cranes and cleaned on‑site soil, and allowed to snake naturally. Kayakers paddle in the now‑clean water, while families walk along the shore path. The Lassonde Art Trail is a big draw for visitors, featuring open‑air contemporary pieces embedded into the park. The only theme connecting them is the artist’s inspiration from the landscape.

As the surrounding wetlands slowly regenerate, design work is under way for the nearby community and housing development, with the first residents expected by 2031; it is named Ookwemin Minising, after the cherry trees that once grew here. “We have changed our relationship to the Don River and the city,” says Glaisek. “I hope that this will be a model for more positive development in Toronto.” Other cities that are struggling with housing issues should also take note and make more of their overlooked industrial port areas in 2026.

In Africa’s fast‑evolving fintech landscape, few stories embody ambition and resilience like that of Moniepoint. Formerly known as TeamApt, the Nigerian start‑up has, in less than a decade, morphed from a modest provider of banking software into one of the continent’s most powerful platforms.

In October it announced that it had raised a further $90m (€77m) in funding, bringing its total war chest to more than $200m (€172m). The most recent injection includes cash from Google’s Africa Investment Fund and Visa; the calibre of backers signals not only investor confidence but also recognition of Africa’s growing influence in the global digital economy.

Founded in 2015 by Tosin Eniolorunda and Felix Ike, Moniepoint began as a small operation providing software to Nigerian banks. The founders soon realised that there was a deeper problem: millions of Nigerians remained locked out of the financial system, trapped in a hard‑to-monitor cash economy.

In response, they created a network of local agents who could deliver digital services to people overlooked by conventional banks. From remote villages to city markets, Moniepoint’s blue‑and‑white point‑of‑sale terminals became emblems of accessibility. Today the company serves more than 10 million personal and business customers and processes more than $250bn (€215bn) in transactions annually.

The firm’s reputation was cemented during Nigeria’s 2023 cash crisis, when policy shifts and currency shortages brought the formal banking system to its knees. While ATMs went dark and queues snaked around banks, Moniepoint’s agents kept cash flowing and digital transactions alive.

As Moniepoint scales, can it balance rapid growth with its founding mission of accessibility? Its trajectory – joining other Nigerian “unicorns” valued at more than $1bn (€860m), such as Interswitch and Andela – certainly suggests so.
moniepoint.com

Set the gastronomic rivalry aside and let’s ask a big question: is Italy really the new France? Comparisons between the two cultural big hitters have become unavoidable this year. Both know how to live and eat well and attract vast numbers of tourists. That said, France has foundered economically and politically, while Italy – the home of fiscal blunders and political gaffes – has looked surprisingly stable in comparison.

If proof were needed of the two countries’ fortunes moving in different directions, it came in September when global ratings company Fitch upgraded Italy to BBB+ status, while downgrading France from AA- rating to an A+ (Moody’s gave the country a could-do-better negative outlook in October). The humiliating Louvre robbery a month later seemed like a kick in the crown jewels. That’s before we mull over the jailing of former president Nicolas Sarkozy.

So is Italy really the new France? Not quite. Financial institutions love extreme prudence and that’s precisely what Italy has been pedalling under its far-right prime minister, Giorgia Meloni. Spending has been reined in but little has been done to stimulate growth or investment. Public debt is still higher in Italy (135 per cent of nominal GDP) than in France (113 per cent) but the latter is catching up. While Meloni’s retrograde social policies have managed to avoid too much global scrutiny, you have to take your hat off to her for keeping together a ruling coalition in a country that doesn’t normally do political compromise.

Beyond politics, Italy has been either cheeky or canny – depending on how you look at it – in stimulating its economy by tempting the wealthy to transfer their fiscal residency here. France’s then prime minister, François Bayrou, even accused it of “fiscal dumping”, in a reference to an Italian flat tax on foreign income and other favourable conditions that have caused an exodus from France, the UK and elsewhere.

Italy has problems that aren’t going away, though, from an ageing population and a Eurozone debt mountain to stagnating wages. But it’s having a good old gloat about arguably being the most stable western European power. Meloni has championed herself as a bridge between Europe and the US, and even Africa. The longer she keeps the government together, the more plausible this will start to sound.

Ed Stocker is Monocle’s Milan-based Europe editor at large.