I remember the first time I picked up a camera coincided with my first time in Rome. It was one of those low-definition, digital point-and-shoots that have recently experienced a comeback. I remember standing amidst the chaos and colors and beauty and mystery of the ancient city wanting to swallow it whole. I photographed everything.

I would flirt with photography over the years to come, but it wouldn’t be until a decade and a half later that I would pick up a camera again. This time for real. And when I did, I couldn’t help but think of the old photo albums I used to crack open every now and again when I was feeling like discovering.

Many of the photos were shot on film by my grandfather throughout the 60s, 70s, and 80s. I never got to know my grandfather, but what I do know of him is through his photographs and the stories my mother has told me. He was an adventurer and passionate about documenting the world around him. He would pile crates full of cameras and film (which at the time weighed a ton) into his little single-engine airplane and, with my mother as copilot, they would go explore vastness of French Polynesia. Everything they saw and everyone they met was immortalized on rolls and rolls of film.