Several years ago—oh yes, when times were kinder—the womenfolk of my family spearheaded a Marian pilgrimage. The penultimate destination was to La Virgen de Covadonga, in Asturias, Northern Spain. Due to the crucial role in the reconquista de los moros, the liberation of Spain from the Moors, it was teeming with history through the centuries, and suffice to say, rife with miracles.

However, we overstayed in the basilica on top of the mountain and needed to rush our terminus, the little French town of Lourdes on the foothills of the Pyrenees, some 600 kilometers away. The desired wish was to catch up and participate in the evening candlelight procession, with pilgrims and devotees singing the all-familiar hymn of the ever-iconic Ave Maria.

En route to the renowned site of more miracles, though, we drove by the sprawling city of Bilbao. Filled with the creations of world-renowned architects Cesar Pelli, Alvaro Siza, and Arata Isozaki, I even believed the entire urban place would receive design awards.

Since I was a temporary resident of the United Kingdom, I desired to visit the Guggenheim Museum, the latest addition to the landscapes of skyscrapers and architecture I was familiar with, as these have been widely featured in newspapers and magazines, documentaries and films.

Sadly, as we were chasing the slowly-fading sunlight, we could only glisten the Guggenheim Museum from a distance. And in a blink of an eye, it disappeared.