The small city-state located on the southern coast of France is an attraction both for the incredibly rich and for the curious middle class.  When I visited on May 20th, the city was relatively empty because the Cannes Film Festival was taking place nearby.  I could not pretend to belong in a city-state like Monaco.  I am a missionary with a monthly budget of just over $1,000.  The average income in Monaco is 13 times that.  Regardless of standing, the city is open to everyone who has already been allowed to travel within the European Union. 

Monaco might be described as the Dubai of Europe.  Both of these places are inhabited by people of immense monetary wealth.  There is a saying in English “money is no object.”  In Monaco, I think it is safe to say “money is the only object.”  Automobiles valued at over half-a-million dollars crowd the parking strip in front of the Monte Carlo Casino.  Yachts and other pleasure craft worth more than the house I grew up in crowd Monaco’s opulent harbors.  It is a haven of a unique order.

I found Monaco to be a great distraction for an afternoon.  Although I am not a member of the club, I enjoyed all of Monaco that was open to me.  When my father was a child, he had two wooden blocks for his toys.  They were whatever he imagined them to be; an engine pulling a rail car, two racing autos, a hot air balloon and a pterodactyl.  Having little is good training for rich living.  

They know this in Albania instinctively.  A family in possession of a soccer ball will never find children indoors.  Every mound of dirt is a mountain to be climbed, stormed, taken and secured.  The best bread you can find is that produced in one’s own oven.  A single espresso shot can take up to two hours to drink.  Contentment is a choice.

Travelling can be likened to a skill or a trade.  Because the metaphor of building is comfortable for me, I will liken the exploration of each city to that of the learning of a new hand tool.  Rarely can one simply pick up a hammer for the first time and begin driving nails with it without putting all other parts of one’s body at risk of severe injury.  Even so, tradesmen are constantly about with cuticles blackened and peeling away from a pool of blood brought underneath by an unfortunate stroke from their framer, ball pein or sledge.

I have taken as of late to attaching myself to another person who is a traveler unpartnered and otherwise unencumbered by children or strict agendas.  I had planned to meet a Russian woman who was vacationing from the Washington D.C. area in Nice on the morning of the 20th.  After standing at our arranged place of meeting for 30 minutes, I struck up a conversation with another lone traveler; a young woman from Poland.  Aga was heading to Monaco, as I was, but on the way she wanted to visit the medieval mountain town of Èze.  Would she like to spend the day travelling with me?  Of course she would.

Èze is one of three noteworthy small towns along the road from Nice to Monaco.  I did not have time to visit Villefranche or Beaulieu.  Èze sits an easy 45 minute hike from the southern coastal highway, where Avenue de la Liberté becomes Avenue Raymond Poincaré.  It is a place I would not have sought out alone, but God’s hand is in every encounter.  Once I had linked hips with Aga, my plans and intentions were reduced to notions and hopes.  The day became about combining what she and I had wanted individually, honing our bulbous stones into complementary halves, and fitting them into a whole.

We visited the Fragonard Perfume Factory which has a proud and lasting tradition for scent production.  We took photos from the lookouts in the Jardin d’Èze; a garden of exotic cactus and other rare species of vegetation.  And we walked through the Eglise Notre Dame de l’Assomption before taking a few minutes to eat before heading back down the mountainside to take the bus on into Monaco.

Aga and I blessed each other’s journey.  Her boyfriend back in Poland is more fortunate than he knows.

Nice is a three hour train ride from Marseille.  As it began raining on the day of my journey, I cannot attest to the beauty of the land between towns.  I can tell you that the southern coast of France has water every bit as blue and envy rending as that found along the Dalmatian coast or surrounding the land fingers and islands near Mount Athos.  When people coo and guffaw over the French Riviera, it is the Mediterranean Sea they are speaking so highly of.  The cities I visited are leaving the upkeep of their buildings and other infrastructure to future generations.

Nice has a low hill called Mont Boron in its eastern quarter which has been set aside as a park.  Much of the park has been allocated as a cemetery.  Lookouts from the park provide vantages from which one can observe the city below; a Tetris puzzle of yellow faced buildings with orange terracotta roofs interrupted by an occasional spire or half-ellipse armored in fist-sized fish scales. 

In rain, or in instances of other coastal weather, Nice is quite a limited venue for visitors.  On the boardwalk, which is a raised concrete platform behind the beach, I found a few rows of straight-backed beach chairs which were populated by people who enjoy a bit of salt with their conversations.  The breakers in the surf and threatening clouds above had all but the very young and macho avoiding all water exploration. I found some peace simply taking deep breaths as the wind surged and kicked about me.

Nice is a hub for surrounding cities with more charm, as I was about to discover.

At the bus station in Barcelona I met three young women from the States who told me they were from Seattle.  They were the first Seattleites I had met on this trip.  Coincidences are of God, and that is how I have understood them since becoming reacquainted with one of my best highschool friends while shopping for a baseball cap at the Las Vegas airport in 1997.  In a city built on the foolish hopes of those who do not have respect for the odds, I discovered that there are no odds which can explain occurrences like this.

In my view, luck, coincidence, and chance are all terms which serve to explain away the working of God in the world.  They are explanations with the greatest degree of ambiguity possible; the modern equivalent to sprites, ferries, trolls, and other invisible, mischievous congerers of fate.  Everything happens for one reason or another.  The reasons are the prerogative of the Creator of All Things.  They are not for us to choose. 

At the conclusion of my bus ride, I said goodbye to my new aquaintences, and made my way to Hostel Vertigo, Marseille, France.  In my shared room I met an American who introduced himself as Alex.  “Joshua, I’m from Seattle,” I said.  “Yeah, wait, what?” he replied.  “Are you from Seattle too?” I asked.  “Yeah, Ballard.  That’s crazy, what are the odds?” Alex concluded rhetorically.

For the next two days everyone assumed that we were traveling together.  Alex and I have many interests which overlap, and he reminds me a lot of my brother Brandon.  Needless to say, I enjoyed our time together.  So, what is God’s purpose in this?  Why has God decided to introduce me to this man in this way?  I may not know the answer to that for many years.

Agave, withered yellow weed, purple-white egg-stands, budding shots and deep purple spinners stand rooted in the rocks.  At the top of the lower stair, I wait before going inside.  The Mediterranean is getting blue like the sky.

The Crypt is like a cave carved out of vanilla ice cream; simple, adequate, cold and quiet.  The Basilica up stairs has a gold and flower-rich ceiling with geometry and vigilant artistry as its means of beauty.  Chains of model ships hang in the air.  The marble arches remind me of Dr. Seuss.

Thousands of hours are underfoot in 1/2 inch square tile mosaics without beginning or end.  Bring what art you have and hand it in God’s house.  Miracles found in the Bible are depicted in the ceiling.  Miracles found on earth are shown in oil canvases which crowd the walls.

They show ships surviving storms, mothers surviving sores, bombing raids, wrecked aircraft, train wrecks, children falling into rivers; angels appearing as devils dissolve.

There are a handful of tiny countries salting the map of Europe.  Known as microstates, they have autonomous governments which are recognized by the larger states around them.  Andorra’s population is eclipsed by that of Bellingham, Washington for 9 months of the year.  If I could, I would visit every nation on earth.  And so, Andorra is one spot on the map that I could not pass up the opportunity to see.

The bus from Barcelona took four hours each way.  I have become accustomed to long bus rides over the course of last year.  The countryside of eastern Spain, and that of Andorra, is wonderful to see.  Hills with dramatic, cliff faces are the seat of large, stone churches.  Cream and Swiss cheese colored rocks jut out from beneath tall trees; stubborn looking, craggy, obstinate, and porous-sharp boulders acting as homes for smaller beasts.

Andorra La Vella, the capital, rests in a valley and is surrounded completely by low mountains.  A fast-moving creek cuts through the town, bringing with it the calm sounds of mountain water.  A light rain had me moving quickly from place to place.  I was attracted to a large, mirror-glassed structure, the obvious center of everything.  Once inside, I found out that it was a famous spa.  I ogled briefly at the chrome-plated Star Trek interior before making my way to the water museum.

Andorra owes much of its modernization to hydroelectric facilities which were built there before the Second War.  The water museum was impressive, opulent, engaging, and free.  Afterward I went to a three story building which houses three small museums.  The first floor was showcasing a Spanish sculptor who had been on the losing side of the Spanish Civil War.  Josep Viladomat was a man with a rare ability to capture faces and hands with hammer and chisel.  His works are displayed throughout the city.

An interesting coincidence of God happened after my return bus had dropped me off in Barcelona.  One of the men I met at the hostel just happened to be entering the station as I was leaving it.  I would have lost track of him altogether had we not been brought together in that moment.  It is amazing how God works and unfathomable that miracle of orchestration.

Barcelona belongs to an artist named Antoni Gaudí.

His name is on the lips of both residents and tourists alike, garnering respect and adoration, not only across cultural lines, but from women and men of every age group.  It is difficult to express his impact on the city, and difficult to comprehend how, nearly 90 years after his death, this man captivates us so.

Gaudí’s work has given modern artists and architects in Barcelona an unparalleled license for creativity and forward thinking.  When standing in front of Torre Agbar, for example, one might think “how odd a structure is this?”

It is 38 stories of blues, reds and pinks in a soothing, fluid pattern.  And then one might remember “oh, I’m in Barcelona.  That makes sense.  I get it.”  Mundane would be out of place here.  The ordinary, routine and humdrum structures of Brussels, and London were designed for cities without a foundation in creativity.  Gaudí’s work has set the table for eye-catching feasts of meticulous frenzy.

Now that I have toured a bit of Barcelona, I can recognize his impact on Seattle as well.  From iconic structures like Experience Music Project to restaurants like Pesos and Matador, Gaudí’s influence has permeated our Northwest world.  And while I have always winced at the eyesore which is the EMP; I can appreciate the respect that was shown Barcelona’s prince in the creation of it.

Yesterday I walked around Barcelona with one of my hostel mates.  She and I put together a rough plan of what we wanted to see before heading out, and then we walked in the city for the next nine hours.  Our walk could have easily extended for another nine hours, energy and daylight permitting.  Taking in this amount of beauty can be an exhausting undertaking.  Barcelona is like an self-regenerating resource of vitality.

Energy, creativity and life come from the air, the ground, the people, the buildings and the trees.

An artist might find it to be inspiring or altogether overwhelming.  The city holds more surprises, history, and culture around each turn, up each shallow hill, and between the walls of each bending alley way.

Barcelona is like a vibrant chimera tree.  Each dying limb or falling leaf makes room for, and indeed gives birth to, two more branches or leaves of more complex character, more compelling composition.  When touring La Sagrada Familia, I was delighted to see the names of modern masters carved into the stonework and stamped in the side of the metalcraft.

Like a living, growing treasure, La Sagrada Familia is metaphoric of Barcelona itself.  Rooted in richest earth with a healthy sun above coupled with the excited energies of disciplined, vested caretakers; this city will only become more interesting as time goes on.