Note: This is a “future diary” entry, written as an imaginative preview of a dream I hope to realize.
December 29, 2026 – Tuesday
At 4:00 AM, I drag my weary body out of bed. Despite the early hour, my steps toward the bathroom feel light, as if I’m walking on clouds. There is a distinct flutter in the heart when a long-held dream is about to materialize. Today is the day I finally stand before the architectural wonder I first encountered through photographs as a college freshman in 1999.
I am currently traveling through Paris with my extended family—my parents, my sibling’s family, and my own. Our theme for this trip is “living” rather than “sightseeing.” Instead of rushing to check off famous landmarks, we chose the joy of sharing emotions felt in new spaces. During the planning stage, I asked every family member to name one “bucket list” wish. Today is the day we fulfill mine: Notre-Dame du Haut in Ronchamp, Le Corbusier’s masterpiece tucked away in a small French village.
Since it requires a four-hour train journey from Paris, we left the accommodation early. European trains are punctual and pleasant. I surrendered myself to the flow of time, alternating between gazing at the passing scenery and catching a few moments of sleep. When we finally transferred to a local train and arrived at Ronchamp Station, we were greeted by a quaint, charming atmosphere that reflected the small scale of the town. To reach the chapel, one must climb a hill. I could see the silhouette of the building in the distance, but I intentionally kept my eyes on my feet, refusing to “steal a glance” until the moment was right.
After about 15 minutes of walking, the building finally revealed itself. It looked exactly like the photographs. As with many historic sites, the first impression might seem a bit smaller or humbler than expected. However, facing the “real thing” is a visceral experience—like moving from watching the ocean through a window to diving headfirst into the waves.
Our emotions deepen when light meets space. Though I have moved on to a different career, my background in architecture leaves me with a deep affection for the field. I know well that lighting and natural light are more than just “brightness”; they are core elements that breathe life and warmth into a structure. Thus, whenever I think of the word “light,” this building—which I studied so intently in college—is the first thing that comes to mind.
Designed by the master Le Corbusier to rebuild a chapel destroyed during World War II, this white structure sits atop a green hill like a figure wearing a large, sweeping hat. The roof, resembling a massive hull of a ship, possesses a unique form found nowhere else. The thick walls pierced by irregular windows and the curves that flow as if they were straight lines constitute the unique language of this building.
I stepped inside cautiously. In the high, vast hall of the chapel, dreamlike, ethereal light was pouring in. What might seem disorderly at first glance actually hides a precise rhythm and intensity of light orchestrated by the master. In particular, the slender sliver of light seeping through the gap between the ceiling and the walls offers a sense of awe that no other architecture can replicate.
This marks the second architectural journey of my life. This chapel is no longer just “data” stored in my memory. It has become the trembling of particles hitting my retina—a physical sensation of space that transcends form. Today, I joyfully cross off one precious line from my heart’s bucket list.