Category: Mahir

Walking Metz: Stone, Glass, and Roman Floors

Written by: Mahir Daiyan Ashraf

Waking City (8:45)

Place de la République is still settling when our HTS 2084 group gathers beneath the Galeries Lafayette awning. Café chairs scrape across the paving, and the warm smell of the boulangerie wafts out each time the door swings open. Cyclists coast the square in easy arcs, and the clock on the courthouse roof keeps its patient time. We count heads, tighten backpack straps, and step into the morning with the city awake enough to notice us, but not yet in a hurry.

Cathedral (9:00)

Saint-Étienne Cathedral makes its case in height and glass. High Gothic here is a working grammar: pointed arches teaching the eye to rise, ribbed vaults turning weight into lines, and flying buttresses keeping the reach in equilibrium. Metz calls it La Lanterne du Bon Dieu—The Good God’s Lantern—because so much wall has been given to stained glass that daylight becomes part of the building’s meaning. Windows from the 13th to the 20th century set medieval blues beside modern work, including panels by Marc Chagall. The nave lifts to about forty-one metres, the third tallest in France, and that vertical space exists to serve the glass rather than to outshout it. Bands of colour fall across the pale stone and drift as the clouds move; a few people kneel in prayer; the soft shuffle of footsteps carries through the great hall and thins under the vaults.

In the crypt and treasury, the air cools, and the objects get specific: Saint Arnoul’s ring, a carved bishop’s crosier from the high Middle Ages, and a small group of gilt chalices and processional pieces that mark the city’s liturgical calendar across centuries. Labels fix each work to a workshop and a date, so the craft has a place as well as a name. Nearby, scale models of major French cathedrals show how ideas travel between places. Local memory keeps the Graoully in the frame too, the dragon Saint Clément is said to have banished from the Roman amphitheatre, so legend sits beside light and metalwork, and the cathedral reads as a record as much as it does a monument.

Underfoot (11:00)

The Musée de la Cour d’Or opens the Roman chapter beneath the streets. Long before the Gothic ridge of windows, Metz was Divodurum Mediomatricorum, and you can follow that name in the floor itself: brick piers of a hypocaust holding a once-suspended room, a blackened flue where hot air ran, a stretch of masonry that still suggests the curve of an apse. There is tableware in common clays and finer red terra sigillata, glass vessels with a faint sea-green cast, lamps, keys, weights, spindle whorls, and a patient line of coins that date rulers more reliably than memory.

The route carries you forward into rooms where early Christian and medieval pieces take over: fragments of sculpture, metalwork, and painted stone that show how older techniques were adjusted rather than discarded. What you feel, moving from one level to the next, is practical continuity. Heating, drainage, storage, and craft persist while the purposes change. Infrastructure survives, techniques migrate, and later life stands on earlier work from quite literally, made two millennia ago.

Second Acts (14:00)

After lunch by the Moselle, we visited three nearby churches.

Saint-Martin kept the parish scale and a clear backbone. Set along the old Roman ramparts, it mixed Romanesque weight with later Gothic openings, and it even lacked a traditional façade, drawing entry through the south transept instead. The effect read as weekly use more than display, a steady parish rather than a spectacle.

The Templar chapel gathered space into a compact octagon, built around 1180–1220 and singular in Lorraine. Its ribs met cleanly at the center, fresco fragments lingered on the walls, and the plan recalled the order’s network that once tied Metz to routes far beyond the city.

Saint-Pierre-aux-Nonnains reached furthest back. The building began in the 4th century as part of a Roman complex and became a church by the 7th, later serving as a Benedictine house before centuries of other uses and a modern restoration. Inside, the surfaces stayed plain and exact, the Roman fabric still legible beneath the Christian plan, which is why it is counted among the oldest churches in Europe.

Seen in one walk, the three made the point without fuss, continuity held through reuse, and new purposes took root without erasing the layer beneath.

Continuum

By late afternoon, the day held together on its own. We turned off toward a café, found a table by the window, and let the city settle while cups of coffee and hot chocolate steamed between our hands. Outside, Metz kept moving, older lines still visible beneath the new.

Monza

Written by: Mahir Daiyan Ashraf

On TV, Formula 1 looks fast, a tidy kind of fast, contained inside a frame. But at Monza, you feel it. The engines rattle your chest, every downshift thumps your ribs, and the world narrows to a blur of color as the cars fly by. I’ve watched this sport for years, but nothing prepared me for standing trackside at the Temple of Speed.

Our trip started in Milan: breakfast at Milano Centrale, a metro to Garibaldi, then a Trenitalia to Monza. With every stop, the carriage reddened. Caps pulled low, flags over shoulders, chants in Italian that rose and faded with the doors. Trains, buses, sidewalks, everywhere. A sea of Ferrari red. The closer we got, the louder it became. It felt less like heading to a sporting event and more like joining a pilgrimage. The tifosi were out in force.

Outside the station, thousands pressed into the line for the Black Shuttle to the circuit. We dodged the crush and took a regular city bus instead. Slower, but we could breathe. Even so, by the time we reached the gates the Formula 3 sprint was already over. Our first taste of action was Porsche Mobil Supercup qualifying, which shook the afternoon awake. Adel, meanwhile, tried an octopus burger and, after one brave bite, promised none of us should ever repeat it.

During a quick break we drifted through the infield past stalls stacked with merch. Under white tents, historic cars from the ’70s onward sat gleaming in the sun: long noses, wide tires, slow circles of people. When the music from the fanzone stage dipped, the crowd shifted. Free Practice 3 had begun. We hurried back to our spot at Variante Ascari.

The first flash of scarlet lifted the grandstands to their feet. Flags lifted, shoulders bumped, and the sound of cheers rolled over us like warm air. You could feel the tifosi’s love for the Ferraris. Then the F2 sprint delivered a perfect home script, Leonardo Fornaroli winning in front of his crowd. The place glowed.

Before qualifying we moved again. Robert had heard about a better angle past the old banking, so we followed the path under the trees until the historic curve rose in front of us. Seeing it in person was staggering, the tarmac rose nearly vertically; it felt impossible that cars ever raced on it. We pushed a little farther and found a perch beyond Ascari that looked almost straight down onto the modern track.

It was the perfect place to watch qualifying unfold. Q1, Q2, Q3. Through Q1 and Q2 the McLarens hunted purple sectors. In Q3, Lando Norris briefly took pole and, for a moment, the outright fastest lap in F1 history by average speed. Seconds later, Max Verstappen arrived and stamped a 1:18.792. New track record. Fastest lap in F1 history. The stands erupted, voices in a single chant: “Du du du du, Max Verstappen.”

Then the cherry on top, the historic parade. Machines from past decades rolled out. McLaren’s chrome-liveried MP4-22, early-2000s V10 screamers, cars that built eras. When they lit up, the tone changed, cleaner, higher, and people around us actually jumped. A Ferrari 312 B howled; a 412 T2 followed, the last V12-powered Ferrari F1 car, and grins spread in a wave. I filmed like everyone else, knowing the clips would never hold the heat in the air or the small hum that stays in your chest after a car is gone.

By the time the engines fell quiet, the sun was low. We let the slow tide carry us back toward town and found a small pizzeria called Al Poeta. Top three meals in Europe so far, no contest. What made it memorable was the boy taking our order. He was thrilled to practice his English with us, and his enthusiasm carried the same joy I had seen in the stands all day. After a day of deafening engines and a historic lap, that simple exchange was the perfect ending.

That’s the thing about Monza. It reminded me that Formula 1 is as much about people as it is about machines. The records, the speed, the legends matter, but so do the chants, the flags, the laughter of strangers. And in the middle of my semester abroad, standing in the Temple of Speed, it hit me: some experiences cannot be streamed or replayed. You have to be there.

Finding My Way in Metz

Written by: Mahir Daiyan Ashraf

Before leaving for Metz, I told myself I wouldn’t be nervous. After all, I’d already crossed an ocean to study in Atlanta, far from Dhaka. How different could this be? But as my departure date crept closer, the nerves started piling up. Balancing tough classes, cooking for myself for the first time, navigating buses and trains in a language I half-remembered, planning trips on the weekends, writing for this blog…it felt like a lot to shoulder at once.

By the time I walked through the airport, though, the nerves had dulled into something else, a quiet kind of determination. I’d done this before. I could do it again.

After a long layover in Bahrain, I finally landed in Frankfurt. The first thing I noticed? A food counter stacked high with bread and cheese. Somehow, that tiny image summed up Europe for me more than any welcome sign could. Soon enough, I found the other students at the meeting point, and we piled onto the shuttle. We stared in amazement out the window at the rows of wind turbines stretched into the horizon as the bus drove us toward Metz.

Kyler and I were dropped off first at ResidHome, since we were living away from the main dorms. Tugging our suitcases behind us, we made the most logical choice a pair of jetlagged students could make: instead of unpacking, we set off into the city in search of food (as well as the shrimp Big Mac Kyler was so desperately trying to get). We wandered aimlessly until we found a tiny place called MM Chicken Spicy. To our surprise, we actually managed to order in French and walked out with dürüms in our hands.

We wandered past colorful macaron displays, matcha packets stacked taller than my head, and storefronts that already hinted at how different daily life would be here. Then, in classic “day one abroad” fashion, we managed to board the wrong bus and got dropped off at the opposite end of Metz by a driver heading on break. Welcome to Metz.

The next morning was orientation. We were greeted by faculty, toured the Georgia Tech-Europe building, and were met by food trucks waiting outside. Classes started the following day, and life here began to take shape.

Now, mornings mean walking to the bus stop past Gare de Metz, watching locals carry baguettes tucked neatly into tote bags, the air filled with the smell of croissants and warm bread. At GTE, breakfast often includes pain au chocolat, croissants, and sometimes a jelly-filled donut whose name I still haven’t learned. In between classes, the student lounge thrives, buzzing with students, with mandatory breaks for table tennis and pool in between.

The C12 bus has become my favorite, mostly because it drops me closest to GTE (and because I’m lazy in the mornings). I’ve taken it so often now that the driver nods when I board, a small gesture that makes the city feel less foreign. Even the people at MM Chicken Spicy recognize me when I come in with friends, greeting us warmly. These little connections add a sense of belonging that I didn’t expect to find so soon.

Metz itself has kept surprising me. The city has a Gothic soul, cathedrals and arches that carry centuries of history, but it also feels alive, especially during events like the Mirabelle Festival. Metz’s golden plums are its pride, and for a weekend the whole city celebrates them. Streets filled with music and dancing, stalls offering jams and pies, children running around, and at night, the cathedral lit up in dazzling colors. Standing there in the crowd, it felt like Metz had opened a door for us, saying this is who we are.

GTE is already showing me that this semester will be unlike any other. The small classes make the community feel tight-knit—you quickly learn everyone’s name. But balancing academics with the responsibilities of daily life? That’s no joke. Cooking, traveling, managing logistics, and fumbling through conversations with locals who are patient but amused at my French stretch me every day. And yet, those very challenges are what make me feel like I’m growing.

Now that the first few weeks have passed, the nerves I carried here feel a little lighter. Yes, it’s a lot. But it’s also worth it. Between the smell of fresh bread on the way to class, the festivals lighting up the city, and the laughter that comes from bus mishaps and language slip-ups, like accidentally saying por favor instead of s’il vous plaît, Metz is becoming more than just my “study abroad city.” It’s the place where I’ll build routines, make mistakes, laugh about bus rides gone wrong, and maybe discover a few more festivals I didn’t know existed.

Georgia Tech-Europe is a small community, but that also means it’s a close one. Everyone knows each other, and everyone’s learning to manage life abroad together. The familiar nod of a bus driver. The light catching on old stone at sunset. The moments that feel fleeting but make a place stay with you.

And if the beginning is any sign, there are plenty more stories waiting to be told.

Why We Romanticize Old Tech in a Digital World

Written by: Mahir Daiyan Ashraf

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine pulled out a film camera during a weekend trip. It wasn’t some modern digital device dressed up to look retro; it was an actual 35mm film camera, complete with the satisfying click of the shutter and the roll of film waiting to be developed. Watching him take a photo, carefully framing the shot without the instant feedback of a screen, I found myself quietly fascinated. In a world where everything moves quickly, it felt oddly grounding.

I’ve been noticing it everywhere: film photography is back in style. Vinyl records are selling better than CDs. Mechanical watches, once seen as outdated, are now prized possessions. Even handwritten letters, something that should have disappeared with the arrival of email and texting, are quietly making a comeback among certain circles.

But why are we, a generation raised on smartphones and streaming, reaching for technology that is slower, clunkier, and, in many ways, less convenient?

I think part of the answer is hidden in that word itself: convenience.  

The digital world is designed for speed. Swipe, tap, scroll. Everything is instant, efficient, and optimized. Photos are snapped endlessly, stored in the cloud without a second thought. Songs play with a single voice command. Conversations flash across screens in blue and green bubbles.

And yet, for all this convenience, something feels missing—the life in it.

Old technology forces us to slow down. But more than that, it demands care and intention. Film photography makes you think before you shoot, knowing that every click counts. A roll of film is expensive. Each shot makes you pause, frame, and commit. A vinyl record demands your attention. You can’t shuffle tracks or skip ahead with a click. Writing a letter means sitting down, thinking about your words, and trusting that they will take days to reach their destination.

There is a kind of intention to it. A weight. A sense that what you are doing matters, even if only to you.

Maybe that’s why the imperfections of old tech feel less like flaws and more like features. Film photos with their grain and light leaks. The warm crackle of a vinyl record. The ticking of a mechanical watch that’s never quite as accurate as your phone. Interestingly, even film’s grain has a human touch: silver halide crystals are irregular in shape, so their texture feels organic and natural, unlike the rigid grid of pixels. These flaws remind us that the world isn’t supposed to be perfect. Life is textured. Messy. Human.

I’ve felt this myself. I still keep a physical notebook where I jot down thoughts and sketches. Last year, I switched to taking notes on my iPad, thinking it would be simpler. And it was. Everything tidy, synced, and searchable. But after a while, I missed the feeling of a pencil scratching across paper. Writing by hand felt slower, but also somehow more honest. Ideas took shape more naturally, and they stuck better when I physically wrote them down. There was no pressure to backspace and edit every sentence as I went. It felt more real. Maybe more human.

Even printed photographs carry that same weight. A few weeks ago, my mom unearthed a stack of old photos tucked away in a drawer: shots from my first birthday, my parents during their college years, my grandfather standing proudly in front of the small store he once owned. Their edges were worn, their colors slightly faded. But holding those moments in my hands felt different from scrolling through an endless camera roll. They were memories with presence, something tangible. Something that lasts.

And perhaps that’s what we’re searching for in these analog rituals: a sense of connection to something real. In a digital landscape where everything is designed to be smooth and efficient, physical objects give us something to hold onto.

It’s not just nostalgia for a past we never lived. Many of us who are drawn to these older technologies didn’t grow up with them. I’ve never used a rotary phone, and my first camera was very much digital. But I think it’s less about wanting to return to a specific time, and more about craving an experience we’ve never really had: depth in a world built for constant refresh.

There’s also something quietly rebellious about it. Choosing to shoot film, or listen to records, or write letters, is choosing to step outside the endless upgrade cycle. It’s saying no to the pressure to always have the newest phone, the fastest app, the latest update. In a way, old tech offers a break from the future.

I think about the photos we take today. Thousands of images, stored somewhere in the cloud, forgotten almost as quickly as they were taken. Compare that to a printed photograph—the way it ages, the way you can hold it in your hand, pass it down, frame it on a wall. There is permanence in that fragility. Once a digital photo is deleted, it’s gone. But a physical photograph carries a sense of presence, of memory solidified.

Even the visual aesthetic of the past has come back into style. The film grain effect is all over Instagram and TikTok, not because it improves image quality, but because it feels more real. More alive. Filters that mimic vintage cameras or scratched film aren’t attempts to hide flaws. They’re attempts to recreate warmth in images that otherwise feel too polished.

In the end, I think the resurgence of old tech is less about rejecting the modern world and more about finding balance within it. We’re not giving up smartphones or cloud storage anytime soon. But every now and then, reaching for something slower, something tactile, reminds us that life isn’t always meant to be optimized.

So maybe that’s why we romanticize old tech. Not because it’s better, but because it feels human.

And in a world obsessed with speed, choosing to slow down might just be the most radical thing we can do.

Chasing Stories Across Europe: An Introduction

Written by: Mahir Daiyan Ashraf

If you’d told my 10-year-old self—stuck in Dhaka traffic, face pressed to the window watching people go about lives completely different from mine—that I’d one day be heading to France to study, I probably would’ve laughed. That boy was curious, yes, but he couldn’t yet imagine the world being that close, that real.

And yet, here I am.

Bags packed, passport stamped, and a heart full of curiosity.

I didn’t grow up traveling abroad constantly, but I grew up learning how to observe. Whether it was during long drives through rural Bangladesh or afternoons in the local farmer’s market, my parents always reminded me to look closer, to ask questions, and to keep an open mind.

They believed that every person, every place, every plate of food carries its own story, and they taught me to listen to it. When we traveled within Bangladesh or nearby countries, we would go beyond tourist sites and into villages where we’d sit for community festivals or eat dishes we couldn’t pronounce. That’s how I first fell in love with travel, not just the physical movement from one place to another, but the cultural immersion. The little rituals, the stories in between, and above all, the people and the omnipresence of humanity.

Fig: Aarti ceremony at the Tal Barahi temple, Pokhara, Nepal

Fig: A family moment around a globe of light

(Also, that’s how I fell in love with Nasi Goreng in Singapore. Still undefeated in my book.)

As I grew older, I searched for more ways to explore cultures beyond mine. I picked up French in school and held onto it for three years, imagining one day I might visit France and speak it outside the classroom. But eventually, the emergence of COVID-19 put a halt to it.

That’s part of what drew me to the Georgia Tech-Europe program, returning to something I once loved.

GT-Europe feels like the perfect middle ground: an opportunity to continue my coursework while reconnecting with the French language and culture in an authentic, lived way. I get to wake up in Metz and walk through the very streets that once only existed in my textbooks. All while staying on track academically. As someone who values both structure and spontaneity, that’s a rare opportunity.

But beyond the language and the credits, what excites me most about this semester is the chance to slow down and notice.

I’ve always been drawn to moments that feel fleeting: the glint of sunset on old rooftops, the quiet rush of a train station before departure, the laughter of friends at a roadside tea stall (or tonger dokan, as we call it in Bengali). Maybe that’s why I found my way to photography, an attempt to hold onto the things that pass too quickly.

Fig: Tea shared with friends
Fig: Silhouettes at sunset, Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh

This fall, I want to chase those moments all across Europe.

I’ve already started planning with my friends:

  • Hiking in the Dolomites
  • Wandering through the streets of Vienna
  • Catching a glimpse of Aurora Borealis
  • Watching the Monza Grand Prix in Italy (I’m a huge Formula 1 fan)
  • Getting lost in cities I’ve never been to just for the joy of finding something unexpected

But even more than that, I’m excited for the everyday moments: the morning walks past a bistro, the quiet bike rides by the river, the language slip-ups that turn into conversation starters, perhaps sitting in a café, watching all the people passing by, each with a story to tell.

Through this blog, I hope to document both the spectacular and the simple.

You can expect photos, of course, plenty of them. From landscapes and architecture to little details I stumble upon. But I also plan to write about the contrasts I experience: between my life in Dhaka and Atlanta, and life in Metz, between comfort zones and adventures, between what I thought I knew and what I continue to learn. 

There may be stories about food, conversations with locals, spontaneous trips with friends, and even reflections on what it means to travel with intention as someone who never took that opportunity for granted.

In short: I want this blog to feel like a journey we take together.

Whether you’re a future GT-Europe student looking for tips, someone craving travel stories from your desk, or just a fellow curious soul, I hope you find something here to relate to.

One of my favorite quotes comes from a video I once watched: “You don’t need to go far to explore. You just need to notice what others overlook.”

That mindset has stuck with me. And while I am going far now, I’m hoping to keep that same spirit alive, one blog post, one photograph at a time.

Thanks for reading! I am excited to share my adventures with you.

Fig: Sunrise over the Himalayas
Fig: Courtyard reflections in Putrajaya, Malaysia
Fig: A quiet corner in Nepal
Fig: Sunrise from a hot air balloon
Fig: Hills in Bandarban, Bangladesh
Fig: A fisherman in Tanguar Haor

Introducing…Mahir! GTE’s Fall 2025 Blogger

Written by: Mahir Daiyan Ashraf

Salut! I’m Mahir, a second-year Computer Science major at Georgia Tech, and I will be studying at Georgia Tech-Europe this fall 🙂 

I’m from Dhaka, Bangladesh, a city that never slows down, a place where centuries-old Mughal forts rise behind rickshaw-filled streets, and where chaos and charm somehow coexist in a way that feels like home.

Growing up, I was lucky to travel often with my family, which sparked my love for wide-open landscapes and winding roads. That eventually led me to photography, trying to hold onto those small moments before they slip away.

This fall, I am excited to take that curiosity across Europe as I hike in the Italian Dolomites, wander through the Baroque streets of Vienna, maybe catch a football match in a city I’ve never been to. I’ll be sharing bits of it here through photos, stories, and the everyday things that catch my eye.

When I’m not behind a camera or on a train, you’ll probably find me playing guitar, watching Formula 1, or trying to relearn the French I picked up nine years ago. I also love spontaneous adventures with friends like taking the long way home, getting off at the wrong stop just to explore, or walking into a café for a mug of hot chocolate.

I’m looking forward to seeing where this semester takes me, and sharing the journey with you.