There are projects that are like airport hotels: functional, well lit, with everything you need but without the slightest invitation to stay. You walk in, take a shower, grab a nap, and leave as quickly as you can. They’re places where, before walking out, you gather your things and glance back just to confirm that not even your scent had time to settle in.

But there are others that aren’t like that.

There are projects that feel like hotels with room to spread out your things, where you can leave a half-drunk cup without anyone rushing to take it away, where you can think out loud without fear of being judged, where time is not a unit of measurement but a raw material you can work with.

At “Ideal Projects” you can walk in tired, spend the night, and start what you need to do after breakfast. They’re places where you don’t have to pay in advance or bring your slippers from home. Places where you can calmly say you don’t like something, that you prefer your omelet slightly undercooked—and they’ll make it that way. Because they’re places with staff who will never force you out at noon; they know that the best things often happen once the official time is up.

This August, however, I didn’t stop at any of them. I took a vacation. And that means I kept paying for the studio, the house, and my self-employment fees, but it also means lowering the shutter and hanging a “closed” sign without feeling guilty.

It isn’t easy to tell impatient clients to come back in September. It isn’t easy to get back into the rhythm after a four-week break. And it’s even less easy to rediscover the spark from months ago when you’ve spent the summer watching the world burn.

Tell me, driver: will we end up finding a way to feel at ease among the flames, even if only for one night?

Ingrid