This is part of a larger voyage across Denmark, Sweden, Estonia, Monaco, and the South of France. Each country brought its own rhythm — a harmony of contrasts. You can read each travel journal separately or link them into one extended escape.
đź“Ť Denmark Journal | đź“Ť Sweden Journalđź“Ť Estonia Journal đź“Ť South of France Journal(Upcoming)
We arrived not as tourists, but as believers.
Believers in the roar of engines, the poetry of speed, and the sacred geometry of a 3.3 km F1 street circuit that wraps around Monaco like a silk ribbon of legacy.
This wasn’t just a place.
This was a pilgrimage.
We boarded the train from Nice—thirty minutes of breathless anticipation.
The kind that creeps up your spine on a race start, when the lights are red and the world holds its breath.
And then we were there: Monte Carlo.
We stepped into the principality and whispered to ourselves,
“These are the lanes the legends have walked.”
It started with her.
My daughter, eyes shining with excitement, whispering Lewis Hamilton’s name with reverence.
A fan not just of one driver,
But of the storm that is Formula 1—
To her father—forever loyal to Michael Schumacher,
And then to me,
Drawn by the spirit of Ayrton Senna—
A man who raced as if guided by something greater than speed—
Conviction, soul, and the silence between heartbeats.
It’s strange how fandom becomes family.
How our evenings turned into race debriefs.
Her walls lined with Lewis, her voice alive with race day predictions and debates with her Papa dear.
How Monaco became a dream she carried for years,
Until we could carry her there.
We walked the track with reverence,
Feet tracing the sacred corners:
The thunder of the start line beneath us,
Tire marks whispering of battles past.
We stood at Sainte Devote—the first turn—
Where bravery and precision shake hands at 200 km/h.
We paused at the Fairmont Hairpin, the tightest in Formula 1,
Where speed becomes ballet.
The tunnel—darkness then sudden blinding light—
Like a metaphor for life, for loss, for everything we chase.
The chicane, quick and cruel.
And finally, the podium—
Silent now, but echoing with the champagne-soaked joy of champions.
We visited the Prince’s Car Collection,
Where horsepower sleeps in velvet shadows.
Each machine a sculpture of dreams and defiance.
And then the F1 store—part shrine, part marketplace of emotion.
She picked Lewis Hamilton’s fluorescent green cap.
He held a miniature of Schumacher’s iconic helmet like a holy relic.
And I—
I lifted my lens to Senna’s poster in the window.
A single frame that captured everything I ever believed about ambition,
About depth,
About the art of giving your all and more.
It is, perhaps, one of my best portrait photographs yet.
Monaco hums with a different frequency.
Where Ferrari red is a native species.
Where Rolls-Royces bloom like wildflowers.
Where yachts are not owned, they are declared.
Luxury, here, is not for envy—
It is spectacle.
But for us,
The real extravagance was emotion.
It all came to crescendo with one sentence.
A hug.
A whisper.
“Thanks, Mamma.”
And like a championship victory,
I cried.
Some journeys aren’t about landmarks,
But about the curves of passion.
Some trips aren’t measured in kilometers,
But in heartbeats.
This was not just Monaco.
This was not just travel.
This was everything fandom gives us—
The heroes who teach us to dare,
The circuits that become cathedrals,
The shared obsession that makes a family more than a sum of its parts.
We went to Monaco chasing Formula 1.
But we left having caught something else.
Legacy.
Connection.
And love—
That impossible force that, like a great driver,
Turns every lap into purpose.
