The Mystery in the Cathedral

(Despite the sound of that title, I saw zero Nancy Drews in the Cathedral of St. Paul.)



Let me begin by saying this:  I am not Catholic.  I was not raised Catholic.  Yes, the pope and I are best one-sided friends, but there are many things I don't understand about Catholicism.

Like this:

Now.  Have there been times when, all other disciplinary measures having failed, I have sprayed water our on children, chanting, "THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!"?  But of course!  Sometimes the only thing that will do is a good old-fashioned exorcism.  I'm pretty sure I read that in The Happiest Baby on the Block.  

Seriously, though, sisters of mine, what on earth is this for?  Is this one of those things I didn't even knew I needed until I had it, like my bendable cutting mats or good, warm socks?  Is this for cooking the best, most pasta-y pasta this side of heaven?  Am I going to hell for joking about this?  

Fortunately I wasn't quite so befuddled by all the wonders contained within the Cathedral.  I may not go to the kind of church that houses massive statues of the doctor, but I still understand this one.  I think.

Not The Doctor, of course- Dr. Luke.  OH, OH, OH, UNLESS... no.  I have tip-toed uncomfortably close to blasphemy already in this post.  I will restrain myself from suggesting that the gospel writer Luke and Doctor Who are one and the same person.

It's true- we don't have any of this fun statuary in my church.  Or, hang on, whaddayoucall'em- shrines, I think.  Is that right, my Catholic brethren?  Shrines, correct?

Whatever they are, I enjoyed the heck out of them.  Partially because they were so beautiful, so impressive, but also because most contained elements I wouldn't have expected.  

Take the above photo- is that a pegasus there on the bottom right, next to Luke?  I don't really remember reading about a pegasus in the book of Luke, or in any of the gospels, to be perfectly honest, which is really a shame.  Was this a strange whim of the sculptor ("You know what this disciple needs?  More pegasi.")?  Or is this yet another mystifying Catholic thing?  Do you unlock the mystery of the pegasus when you're going through Catholic confirmation classes?  Because in the Lutheran ones the most mysterious thing ever discussed was the Office of the Keys, which, after nine years of Lutheran school and two years of Lutheran catechism classes, I still can't tell you exactly what that dang thing is.  It just sounds cool. 

My questions about this one were answered by the tour guide:

I took these photos before the guided tour, and I may or may not have discovered the unfortunately impressive acoustics in the Cathedral when I snorted aloud at this picture of Catholic story time:

"Goodnight light, and the red balloon."

I was taught during the tour that these are Saints Cyril and Methodias (don't ask me which one's which, they're like those identical twins you went to school with, where you could never quite remember if Mandy or Mindy was the one with long hair, except with beards here, I guess), as in the Cyrillic alphabet.  I've decided that until they name an entire alphabet and its associated language after me, I should probably forfeit the right to make fun of them.  This notion was followed by some pretty intense guilt, which they apparently pump right into the air in these places.

Unlike the rest of the shrines, however, I knew this guy the moment we made crazy-eyed contact:

Oh, John the Baptist, with your hair toga-thing and your steady diet of locusts.  

"AAAAUGH!"

It's a little frustrating to look at these photos now, because they really don't give you any sense of the scale of this place.  It's massive, that dome up there soaring some 186 feet above the ground.  

It's the same with the stained glass.  The Cathedral's just dripping with it, but you're not experiencing the incredible play of light and color through them unless you're there.  

And while I may not be Catholic, I'm Lutheran enough to know that you don't just sashay up to the altar to walk your dirty little sinner's fingers all over everything, something a lady in our small tour group started to do, prompting two other women and I to audibly gasp and the kind elderly gentleman who was our tour guide to do a kind of, "UBUGUHGGG-D-D-DON'T GO UP THERE!  *Ahem* Excuse me, you are permitted to walk behind the screens to view the shrines, but please don't approach the altar."  It was a moment.

I just loved the whole thing- the beauty, the incredibly knowledgeable tour guide, the insane amount of detail, the shrines, all of it.  Makes me want to put stained glass in one of our windows, and maybe one of those bathtub shrines you bury in the dirt in our backyard.  Probably exactly what the architects of the Cathedral had in mind.  

Wednesday, Wednesday in St. Paul

Wednesday was rainy and cold, so I spent a comfortable morning scribbling blog posts in a notebook, working through a bible study (tell me friends:  Am I the only one who can't stand David?  I know it probably says something terrible about me, but I have a feeling if David and I were to enter an episode of Doctor Who and somehow co-exist within the same earthly timeline, we would loathe each other.  I'm suspicious of overly charming people- I feel like I'm being manipulated- and David does a number of seriously heinous things, realizes he's been a naughty, naughty David, and whines about it for the rest of eternity.  I decided to do this study because I was hoping it would change my long-held opinion about David.  So far, nope.), and reading bits and pieces of The City, An Altar in the World, and The Yiddish Policemen's Union.

Around 12:15 I finally got sick of myself and decided I need a little stimulation, so I went for a 45-minute walk through the St. Paul Skyway, where by minute 20 I had gotten all the stimulation I needed, but was by this point, of course, lost.  (HEY.  Those skyways are positively labyrinthine, not nearly as straightforward as the maps would have you believe.)

I did finally make it back to our hotel room, and vowed never to leave again.  Have I mentioned how much we loved our hotel?  WE LOVED OUR HOTEL.  It occupies three floors of a downtown St. Paul building constructed in 1917, and so much of the original ornate detail still exists in the lobby and select pockets of the building:

Just a slice of the view from the second floor balcony down into the lobby.  You can't even see the grand piano or the front desk.

As for our room, the parts you want to be tasteful and charming were, well, tasteful and charming, and the parts that you want to be just a teensy bit more modern (read:  shower, kitchenette, mattress, Keurig) were perfectly updated.

Hello, room.  I miss your big, original windows that actually open.  I miss your soft lighting from four separate lamps.  I miss your high ceilings and your two capacious built-in wardrobes and your complementary K-cups (replenished daily!) and your little tubs of flavored coffee creamer and the helpful nonjudgmental people working at the front desk who gave me all the extra creamer I could want.  Oh, and?  Every single room is different, which means we have no choice but to go back.  Our hands are tied.

Hello, big ol' bed with built-in drawers there at the bottom that you unfortunately can't see in this photo.

Yes, this bathroom was on the small side, but whomever it was that set up this little boutique hotel put all kinds of space-saving bits of genius all over.  

Plus, there's a little step-up to get into the (scrupulously clean) bathroom.

I don't know why I geek out over little steps and old doors.  I just do.

Two steps to get into the shower.  I didn't know what to do with myself.

Wardrobes are my love language.  Especially when they have waffle-weave hotel robes hanging inside.  Especially especially when the hangers holding onto those robes contain a (nicely) sarcastic little note informing you that if that robe somehow finds its way into your luggage when you leave, you can go ahead and have it for the bargain price of $75 a pop, or you can contact the front desk and they'll get one for you for a much more reasonable price.

You can see why we didn't want to leave.  Ever.  I'm sure we could have found a place to stuff the children.  I mean, there are two wardrobes.  Not mention free breakfast for hours and hours every morning.  I do believe all three of our kids would agree to a wardrobe for a bedroom in exchange for waffles every single day.  

Tuesday, Tuesday in St. Paul

Tuesday was more productive.  I began the day with a bracing run, "bracing" being code for cold with a light sprinkle designed to chill that soon morphs into a driving rain.  I decided to treat this as a high adventure spectated by fellow rueful runners and the errant homeless who surely wondered at the fact that society views them as crazy.

Later that morning I embarked on a 3 1/2-hour walk that began with the Cathedral of St. Paul.

Magnificent.  Breath-taking.  A welcome sanctuary when you could do with a break from the hubbub of the city.

This is just one little piece of one wall.  It's not even one of the focal points of the cathedral; I just like beautiful stained glass.

I noted that there were free tours every afternoon, and determined I would return on a different day.  This means you will be subjected to far more photos and adjectives of the cathedral in a couple days.

After I wrestled my way out of the giant church (huge, heavy wooden doors vs me), I finally finally found my first bookstore.  It was charming and twisty and in the basement of a building that houses a cafe that sent down a steady stream of bewitching scents that has to be torturous for those working in the bookstore.  If I were running the place, I'd offer free books to anyone willing to bring me a treat from above any time they wandered down the stairs.  I'd also have to change the name of the shop from "Subtext" to "Lair of the 700-lb Broke Woman."  I'd get a AAA Diamond Rating in no time.

Next I hoofed it, and hoofed it, and hoofed some more, trying to reach Garrison Keillor's bookstore Common Goods.  On the way I stumbled upon an absolutely delightful bookstore by the name of Sixth Chamber Used Books.  It was stuffed to the ceiling with- spoiler alert- books, plus book-scented candles and t-shirts for an upcoming event titled Potterfest.  On a related note, I am moving to St. Paul for the sole purpose of attending this extravaganza.  Our children will understand.

After buying one lonely book (my restraint will go down through the ages) from the friendly and extremely knowledgeable staff (I may or may not enjoy subtly quizzing bookstore employees to see if they are worthy of their calling), I looked at the map and decided Keillor's bookstore just wasn't going to happen.  Woe!  My life is so hard!

That evening Derek and I dined at Cosetta's (thanks for the rec, Cheryl!), but whilst we were venturing back to our hotel, Derek noticed a steady stream of people heading toward a large performance hall- and not just any people; old people.  He insisted on investigating, because Derek knows that where there are large amounts of older people, there is often music or theater that young people are too stupid to appreciate.  My spousal bloodhound was rewarded when we discovered that the operatic baritone Nathan Gunn would be performing, accompanied by his likewise impressively accomplished wife, pianist Julie Jordan Gunn.  It was a lovely cap to a lovely day.  (Except for that lady two rows in front of us who spent the first 15 minutes of the second half flipping through photos on her iPhone.  It was incredibly distracting, and believe me, she was old enough to know better.  I promise, lady, 9 out of 10 doctors state that it is possible to go an hour and a half without looking at your phone with little to no side effects, aside from engaging in the world around you and not making your companions hate you.  YOU CAN DO IT.  I BELIEVE IN YOU.)



Don't worry, I didn't forget about the sassy sign- I mean, really, what's not to like about a city whose No Parking signs look like this:

Tomorrow:  Books and Getting Lost Again and a Hotel Room Tour, Oh My!

Monday, Monday in St. Paul

If you have some deep-seated latent objection to the state of Minnesota, the city of St. Paul, or aimless rambling about nothing, you are in the wrong place this week.  Consider yourself warned.

Monday was spent in this charming practice of mine where I have a destination but quickly become hopelessly lost, briskly walking along city streets not because I know were I am going, but merely because I am a fast walker.  All this ever does is get me lost in a hurry.  You'd think I would learn.  You might further surmise that I would stop and eat when I felt hungry, especially in a situation like this, where a brief respite with a sandwich and a map could possible solve the entire dilemma.  You would be wrong.  Why be smart and sated when I can be starving and irrational?  

For some completely addled reason I would instead plunge blindly ahead, blood sugar plummeting, sure that the bookstore is right around this corner- no?  Well, how about this one?  And so one for two hours where I accidentally got to know the streets of downtown St. Paul rather well, all without actually finding a bookstore or stopping for food.  I don't know what is wrong with me.  

Before my tumble down the rabbit hole I did enjoy a run along the Mississippi, where above the water I beheld the beginnings of the yearly chlorophyll exodus, turning the leaves such pretty warm colors, while my mind's eye constructed a rather more gruesome scene for what surely lurks beneath the surface of the water.  This is why I'm wary of large, naturally-occurring bodies of water.  I mean, I'll still swim in them, occasionally, but it's with the understanding that I'm cavorting in a brine of waste and death.  

Okay, so I seriously did enjoy our trip.  I'm not sure what just happened to this post.  I swear, Tuesday of St. Paul is cheerier:  Cathedrals!  Bookstores!  Sassy signs!  A decided lack of the decomposing stew that the yeomen refer to as "lakes"!

I miss you and your disturbing secrets, Mississippi river.

Note:  Two things about this post are driving me crazy; I'm going to share them with you for absolutely no good reason.  1)  It's not really a chlorophyll exodus, is it?  I mean, it's not like the existing chlorophyll in the leaves is departing, much less for a photosynthetic Promised Land.  And 2)  I referred to the fact that I've swam in lakes and rivers that I think of as a brine of waste and death, when, in fact, most of these were fresh water entities, and a brine is a salt water solution.  I considered going back and changing both of those erroneous terms, but I really just didn't feel like it.  Writing this completely extraneous paragraph is obviously a much better use of my time.  

"A Cry For Help Unless You're Busy In Which Case I'm Good"

A few months ago, Derek signed up for a work conference up in Minnesota.  Between then and last week, he would occasionally mention aloud about how it would be great if I were able to go with him, and I would agree, but we were already taking our big ten-year anniversary extravaganza trip to Charleston over the summer, so it just wasn't feasible.

Then about a week and a half ago, Derek decided that he would go ahead and ask his parents if they would maybe perhaps possibly be willing to come stay at our house for four days to watch the kids and all around hold down the fort, but hey, don't be afraid to say no, just thought I'd ask, not a big deal if you can't/don't want to/whatever.

Derek can do this because he is not afraid of asking for things.  His philosophy seems to be "you don't know if you don't ask," whereas I hate asking people for anything so much I could literally be on fire and would still shuffle timidly up to my closest friends and family to say, "Hey, I don't want to bother you, but the flesh seems to be melting off my bones, so if you were already going to get some water for yourself, maybe you could get a tiny bit for me, but I mean if you weren't then don't even worry about it, it's not that bad.  Actually, you know what, never mind, I'm completely fine!  No really, I'm good!"  My personal version of hell is asking people for references over and over for all eternity.  I feel nauseated just thinking about it.

Anyway, they said Yes!  Don't remember what I was talking about?  Neither do I!

Derek's parents, who just watched our three favorite vortices of pure energy for a week in July, said that they would absolutely come to our house and feed the children and dress the children and get them on and off the bus and help with the Kindergarten homework and quell the squabbling and go to the storytimes and do all the exhausting things so that I could go to St. Paul with Derek for four blissful days.

I wrote down a blog post everyday in my little notebook while I was there, so I have a lot to catch you all up on.  Next week:  Derek and Kristy Take St. Paul!  (Subtitle:  Derek goes to conference sessions and does legitimate work while Kristy spends half the trip hiding in their awesome hotel room just because she can.)

Those are photos of two people who simultaneously can't believe their good fortune and are trying to get a good shot of themselves and their gorgeous hotel lobby.  Hotel 340, we miss you already.