Ooh La La

Je suis fatigue.

I am tired.

I was up at 6 a.m.

I couldn’t sleep.

Oh.

I tried.

But gave up the goose around 6:20 a.m.

I popped up and decided to head out to a spot over by the Arc de Triomphe to see some fellows this morning at 8 a.m.

I arrived with plenty of time and was able to grab a quick cafe creme at Comptoir de L’Arc, a little cafe I got turned on to by a friend when I lived here four and a half years ago.

And!

I got a message from that friend today, she’s going to be in town for a quick visit and we are going to meet up at a spot tomorrow with a few other fellows, hang out, do the deal, and go to some French fellowship after.

I am super excited.

I may be super exhausted, but I’m going to sleep when I’m dead.

Or.

Perhaps after I write my blog.

I really did make a big run on the day.

Up so early I felt like I got a scandalous amount of things done today.

One of which has been on my list of things to do in Paris that I never quite got to the last few times I was here.

I went to Marche Aux Enfants Rouge this morning after doing the deal.

I bought cherries and Belle Pomme de Boskop!

My favorite apples in Paris, I believe that they come from Belgium, but they are the apples I used to buy at the market at Square D’Anvers when I lived next to it.

I took my booty to the park nearby, Parc du Temple, sat on a bench and watched the children play in the playground and the ducks paddle about in the pond.

It was spectacular.

Quiet.

Serene.

I had a moment, a Paris moment, and I almost laughed out loud, this, this sitting still on a park bench in a quiet park, off the beaten tourist track, in a sweet neighborhood in the 3rd Arrondisement, may have been one of the highlights of my trip.

It was so serene.

Sometimes a girl has to fly around the world to sit still.

I’m sure I’ll have other opportunities to sit still, although perhaps not tomorrow, as a friend and I are heading to Clingancourt early, but I will give it a shot.

Speaking of friends.

There is nothing, and I mean, nothing quite like bumping into a friend at random in the Marais.

It was amazingly serendipitous.

We walked all over the Marais, chatted, caught up, window shopped.

And.

Ha!

I got my Paris sweatshirt!

Except.

Heh.

It’s not exactly a sweatshirt.

It’s so much better.

And.

It’s so damn me.

It’s a pink satin bomber jacket that I got to have custom patches put on it.

There’s one on the right arm that says Rue Cambon, 1st Arr.

Rue Cambon is where all the fashion house are.

And.

The patch on the back.

Rue de Mauvais Garçon, 3rd Arr.

Literal translation:

Street of the Bad Boys.

Yeah.

I will run with that.

I haven’t had an impulse buy like that in some time and with that I am pretty tapped to with my spending.

I have gotten all my booty and then some.

In fact.

I am a shopped out, museum’ed out, and just about walked out.

My ankle is holding up and I am super glad I go the walking shoes, and I have been careful to not push too hard.

I can easily go too hard too fast.

Which is why I am very happy that I took time today to sit down and watch ducks for a while.

And despite being tired, which frankly makes it harder for me to speak French when my brain isn’t running on a full nights sleep, I got wonderful compliments about my French several times today, and many times over the course of my time here.

I was told by one person that my French was so pretty and where was I from.

He was shocked when I told him that I was from the states.

“But you have no American accent!”

Thank God.

Not that I’m not happy I’m where I’m from, but it does help tremendously to not have the American accent, there is much that is disparaged here about America and sometimes, well, it’s just nice to slide under the radar.

Not that I slide very far under the radar.

I am still quite noticeable in Paris.

I have tattoos you know.

But.

It’s also nice to be recognized.

I had dinner again at a little place by the Musee D’Orsay on Rue de Bac called Cocorico.

The waiter waved me to the table I had last night, the owner came over and chatted with me and we talked about where I was from, again, surprised that I was from America, with my lack of accent, about me being on vacation, that today I was tired, but happy to be eating in her lovely restaurant.

She asked me what I had been doing and I told her, walking and museums and then I told her about the show at the Orangerie and the amazing installation there and she got excited and said she was going to go.

It was a super treat to be chatted with in such a manner, I’m not a local, but I wasn’t treated like a tourist.

She bought my cafe creme for me and when I went to leave she asked my name, “Carmen,” I said, “comme l’Opera.”

Carmen, like the opera.

“Enchante,” she replied, ” je m’appelle Odette.”

I told her it was such a pleasure to meet her and that I was so happy to enjoy her delicious food and I wished her a good night and a good weekend.

I floated out the door.

It’s the little things.

I felt very special.

Thank you Paris for dressing me up in pink satin jackets and making me feel noticed and loved.

It means the world.

It really does.

The Day In Review

It was a good day.

A great day.

A grand day.

A day full of walking and art and photographs.

Unfortunately I somehow lost a series of them off my camera.

And I have spent too much time searching my computer for them, obnoxious.  I don’t know what happened, but they were imported, then deleted from my camera, which is usually how I roll.

Then.

I was editing them.

And while I was editing the photographs, I plugged in my Iphone and my phone went to download photos and I clicked, without thinking the close button on Iphoto since I didn’t want them to download.

So when I re-opened Iphoto after smacking self on the head, the photographs I had down loaded off my camera, the ones that I was in the middle of editing, poof.

All gone.

Like nowhere.

Like I have spent over an hour looking through everything.

Going back into my camera–nope, gone.

Remember, I deleted them when the import to my computer was done.

In the trash, through all my photo files.

Everywhere.

No photos.

Sigh.

Which is too bad.

I had a couple of good shots and two great shots that I was super excited about.

However.

I did also take photographs with my Iphone.

So.

Some things to share about the day.

This is on the bridge under the Metro line 8.  It has to be one of my favorite Metro stops, Passy, as it has the most beautiful hanging gas lamps.  I just love it.  Plus, the building to my left is the building where Last Tango in Paris was filmed.

This guy here.  Marlon Brando making some furious American love up on the 4th floor.

The bridge was an easy segue off to the Palais de Tokyo.  Where I have been regaling my friend of the amazing cafe inside and the modern art.

Which would have been fantastic to see.

But, um.

Ha.

I read the hours wrong and we went on a day the museum was closed.

We’ll be going back on Thursday.

A brief, but probably not all inclusive look at the following days:

Tomorrow, Wednesday, the Louvre in the morning followed by lunch, somewhere in the neighborhood, then a walk through the Tuilleries to the Jeu de Paume to see some modern art photography.

If we have enough time, possibly swinging over to the other side of the Tuilleries and seeing the Monet water lilies.

We may not have all that much time, and if so, we’ll just be heading back to the studio where we are staying on Rue Juge in the 15th, to get ready to go right back out.

Yes.

Tomorrow we are off to the ballet in the evening.

I will want to have a good hot, long shower after much tramping about the Louvre, and put on my polka dot dress and shoes and off to the Garnier Opera House for a night of ballet.

Thursday and Friday, Christmas Eve and Christmas day, will be a little more flexible, but will include museums as well, the Pompidou is actually open on Christmas and I cannot think of a better way to spend it then walking around a bunch of amazing modern art on Christmas day.

Plus being so close to the Marais and it’s sweet alleys and walkways.

We have also been invited a few places and will likely see friends in the fellowship.

So many good friends.

Saturday perhaps Pere LaChaise and some shopping and who knows.

Honestly, while I write, it could all be completely different than what happens.

As I said, I thought I was going to the Palais de Tokyo today and the Jeu de Paume and neither of those happened.

But.

The Musee d’Art Moderne did.

And they were having an awesome Warhol exhibit.

So much Warhol.

And some really lovely pieces in the permanent collection too.

Plus a divine view from the main galleries.

And an amazing courtyard with cafe tables everywhere.

My friend and I had great fun checking out the art, then we had lunch on the terrace, sitting in the sun eating salads and drinking cafe creme, listening to the babble of French around me and looking out on the Eiffel Tower in the afternoon light.

Pretty spectacular.

Then.

Lots more walking.

Up Avenue George V.

Past the American Cathedral and onto the Champs Elysees.

We went up to the Arc de Triomphe, by passing the enormous line with our museum pass, thank you to whomever it was so many years ago who turned me onto the pass, it really works.

A jam packed line to get up to the top was by passed as well, and we circled quickly through, then back to the Champs Elysees where my friend did a little shopping and we navigated as quickly as possible through the holiday Christmas Village madness.

We cut short the grand avenue and walked over the Alexander Bridge between Invalides and the Grand Palace and Le Petite Palais.

Stopping for some photo moments, which was nice, having a friend with to take some shots of me too.  I have thousands of photographs of Paris, but not all that many of them have me in them.

It was sweet to have my friend take a few captures of me today.  Although I am bummed that I lost the photos from my camera, there were still some good shots on the Iphone too.

After walking the bridge, we descended to the river bank and walked along the Seine for a while.

Resurfacing to walk around Place de la Concorde and onward into the Tuilleries.

We debated, my friend was game, I was not so much, even though I really do want to go for a ride, the ferris wheel, but the line was so long I passed on it.

I figure there is still time and if I make it a point to prioritize it, the ride will happen.

So much will still happen.

And the walk through the Tuilleries at dusk was divine.

We even managed to sneak in a late cafe creme and sit down a one of the cafes in the garden before it closed.

Walking through as the sun went down we headed toward the Louvre.

Just to check out the Pyramid at night, the museum is closed on Tuesdays.

We’ll be back tomorrow!

The night was far from over and it included a walk across Pont Neuf, a walk through Saint Germaine a visit to the American Church, a walk under the Eiffel Tower and the most amazing dinner at a restaurant in the neighborhood that blew my mind.

I am grateful to have good instincts and though I was worried my friend my faint from lack of food, I urged going there, and my God.

It was worth it.

La Cantine du Troquet.

So very, very, very good.

We had a chacuterie plate with two types of terrine de pate de foie gras, prosciutto, salami, cornichons, pickled peppers, and I had a beautiful pork chop with green salad and a cafe creme (which I probably should not have had, I’m wide awake, but damn it, it was good) and an amazing plate of chevre for dessert.

My friend had pomme frites and the salmon avec coquillages St. Jacques, and an amazing chocolate pot de creme.

A quick brisk walk back to the studio.

Et.

Voila!

Je suis ici.

Full and happy and ready to take on tomorrow’s next adventures.

I am so lucky to be able to do this.

My life is beyond words.

As too.

My gratitude.

I am the luckiest girl in the world.

I really am.

 

Well, That’s One Way

To stay in Paris–I could die here.

I thought to myself as I hollered out, “hold the fuck on!” And something intelligible that sounded suspiciously like a whoop of pure joy.

I was at the top of Boulevard Haussmann, heading into the 12 avenue turnabout at the Arc de Triomphe on my sparkle pony, er, my fixed gear Mission Bicycle.

It was not exactly a conscious decision, I had taken one wrong turn on my way towards Avenue George V, and it put me headed up to the round about instead of just below it where I would normally cross the Champs Elysees on my bicycle.

Then again, let me be honest, once I realized where I was headed, I did have the opportunity to change my mind, hop off the bike, cross the street in the cross walk on foot.

But what fucking fun would that be?

Huh.

Besides when I saw someone on a Velibe slowly making his way through the round about, I was like, no way am I going to not do this.

Here’s to having one more feather in my Paris cap–riding my bicycle in one of the more intense traffic scenarios in the world.

I did have a moment, I will not lie, when a bus was coming and a motorists was honking at a woman who was indecisive about merging.

Move, bitch, get out the way.

I was on the side of the honking car, you have got to make the decision and commit.

I committed, rolled past her, stood on my pedals, and whooped some more joy.

I spun around three-quarters of the round about and hit my turn off onto the Champs Elysees, spinning my crank smoothly into the turn and leaning to the right, I almost blew the Japanese tourist, timid on the corner waiting for the light to change, a kiss as I signaled my right turn.

The smile stayed plastered on my face, the adrenalin coursed through my veins, the sun shone on my warm body, my heart beat solid strong and smooth as the pedals turning perfect circles with my sheathed feet in their purple Hold Fast foot retainers.

“Why don’t you take your bike for a ride if the sun comes out,” my room-mate suggested this morning as we were discussing tickets back to the states, money, and what to do about my bike.

I thought in my head, “fuck off.”

I said out loud, “that’s a good idea.”

I had absolutely no intentions of getting on my bike.  I had an agenda and a plan and I knew better.  Besides I have not ridden my bike as much as I would normally ride as I was holding onto it as my last bit of collateral.

I will sell it if I have to.

“Why sell your most prized possession if I’m willing to pay for your ticket and you have a year to pay me back?”  My room-mate said with some wisdom.

Well, because then I would feel obligated to go back to the bike shop, tail tucked between my legs, see I did not make it in Paris, I am a failure, and I sold my beautiful bicycle.  Will you take me back and let me design another.

Then I realized, sheesh, I had to pay a lot of money for my bike, even if I got what it was worth, which I would not, not going to be many takers for my midnight blue sparkle pony whip.  She is a little too customized.

Nice Ride

I don’t want to go back to work at the bike shop, however.  I realized as I was writing this morning, after my room-mate left and I was alone with the quiet of the pen on the paper, that to sell my bicycle is to be making a fear based decision.

Holding onto the idea that I do not have enough and that there will not be enough is not allowing myself to embrace the abundance and prosperity the Universe has for me.

Hell, it’s only the 2nd of April, all sorts of miraculous things are in the works.

Just because I cannot see them does not mean that they are not.  So, things are not working out the way I want them too.

Usually what I want is near sighted and not nearly as amazing as what God wants for me.  So much so, that I always sell myself short, I say no, that cannot happen and I argue my own limitations.

As the pen stroked the paper it dawned on me bright and clear.

I don’t want to sell my bicycle!

I want to ride my bicycle.

I got so excited, I leaped up and adjusted the saddle and pumped up the tires to 120 psi.

I grabbed my u-locks–one for the frame and the rear rim, one for the front rim–tossing them in my Rickshaw custom messenger bag.  Which just so happens to have been designed to match my bike.

That’s right, bitches, my bag does not match my shoes, it matches my bike.

I got a bottle of fizzy water out of the fridge that I had set aside for the open mic at Le Chat Noir, which I ended up not attending so I could get up early today and take care of some business.  I nearly danced out the door with my sparkle tights on, my sparkle infinity scarf, and my Converse tight on my feet, ready to hit the streets.

The ride, aside from the excitement by Place de l’Etoile, was like signing my favorite song at the top of my lungs in the shower, I had a smile on my face and a, yes, song in my heart.

I had the facile idea that whatever choice I was going to make about the bicycle would be the wrong one.  Knowing, only too well, that I just needed to make a decision, thinking about it was not taking action.

I choose the path of faith instead of fear.

I may be stuck in the hallway of not knowing what is going to happen next, with Paris, with life, with where am I going to live and what job am I going to do, but I don’t care.

I’ll be riding my bicycle there.

Hanging Out

 

 

In Between

The fear and the faith is a line I seem to straddle quite well.

I do not know if this is a blessing or a curse.

I sat at Bert’s listening to a woman, young, scared, oh so scared, talking about needing to find work and what needed to be done and I thought, “am I doing all these actions?”

The fear, contagious, fell from her mouth, I could taste it, blood copper in my mouth, burnt with the edge of the cafe Americain I had been drinking.

Then I breathed.

I do not have to live in fear.

Even when I do not know much about where the day is going to go.

I was pushed and pulled a couple of different ways today.

Mainly, tied longer to the house than I could have desired.  Tied here now, in this moment, waiting for the electrician, at 7:10 p.m. on a Friday evening, to fix the stove top.

Things in Paris do not always happen on my time frame, my American time frame.

Things are often late.

They take longer.

I had sat this morning, waiting, waiting, waiting, then not gonna wait anymore,  I fled.

I left the land lord a message and said, “the door is unlocked, tell the electrician to just come in.”

I had it with being in the house.

Do not trap me inside with the weather as lovely as it was, robed in robin’s egg blue, the sky flew down my throat and ate up my heart, it was so divine.

Especially after the dreary of yesterday.

All those poor drenched Valentines Day troopers out there trying to make the best of the mercurial Paris weather.  It was as if Paris said, listen you yahoos, you are allowed to be romantic everyday of the year, “I am Paris, after all,” but I will not suffer you this hallmark version of love.

Nope.

I rain on your parade.

Then, with a chuckle, the benevolent skies open up and the blue caterwauls in.

It was a gorgeous day.

I had an errand to run after my coffee session at Bert’s and I walked to the Metro George V on the Champs-Elysees.  I could have gone to Charles de Gaulle Etoile, but the roads were a mess of tourists fresh off the buses, boats, planes, and trains, being serenaded by the commerce song of the trash souvenir sales.

I choose to avoid it as much as possible.

Although, truth be told, I was headed to the mall.

I had made a purchase there last Friday and was none to happy that my purse, my one splurge from my tax refund, had a faulty zipper.  I discovered yesterday as I went to pay my bill at Odette & Aime.

Zoot!

The zipper literally pulled off as I opened the purse to take out my wallet.

I had the receipt however, should I ever go back to the states, or when, I will probably go back for Burning Man, especially after I got that thank you card yesterday, stirring up all sorts of fun time memories, I will have a pile of little receipts to exchange at the airport for my taxes.

The tax in California, it ain’t fun, I remember that from living in San Francisco.

California has nothing on Paris.

The tax here?

19.5%

Fuck my mother.

If you are not a “citizen” here, when you leave, you can be refunded the taxes from the purchases you made during your stay.  Granted I am not exactly a tourist, but seeing as how I can’t get a real paying job here and I get nothing of the benefits of paying taxes here, I want that money back.

Thank you very much.

Normally I would have tossed the receipt out.

So glad I did not.

I pulled it out of my pile and stuck it in the purse with the broken zipper and headed out.

Aside, I am ready for the electrician to be done now.  I needs to do some eating, dang nabbit, it is dinner time.

Sigh.

When I got to the end of line 1, Metro stop La Defense, I hopped up the stairs and out to the esplanade.  It is entirely possible to stay underground and go from the Metro straight to Quatre Saisons (the mall).  However, I had purchased my cheap on the cheap lunch at the Monoprix–packet of roasted peanuts, piece of Elemental cheese, and a banana–and I wanted to be outside for it.

The sky just shamed me with its loveliness.

I finished my eats and squared my shoulders, I went to the store, presented the purse, showed, the receipt, and asked for a new purse in exchange.

All in French.

Smooth, easy, breezy, took less than five minutes.  The saleswoman was utterly accommodating and exceptionally polite and nice to me, she even told me to hold onto the receipt longer in case it should happen again, they would again exchange it for me.

Well, alright.

Once the transaction was done, I scooted out of the mall as quick as quick can be.

I had come for what I needed and I did not need to spend any more time or money there.

1.71 Euro for my lunch and my new purse and I am out.

Out into the day.

La Defense is just an amazing outer space area.

I decided to not get right back on the Metro, rather I walked the esplanade and took pictures.  I find it amusing to be in the middle of stunning, first world, modernity, and there, off in the distance is the Arc de Triomphe.

In the Distance

The juxtaposition is really quite impressive.

Then I saw the Eiffel Tower off to the right between a line of a skyscraper and a crane doing more work on a new building rising, pushing, headed skyward, unstoppable with progress and bright pained windows of light pressed glass brick upon  glass brick.

View

Sky Reflections

Plaza

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I walked the length of the esplanade.

I took in the buildings and marveled at the sudden remembrance of a childhood memory, playing with building blocks, when they were still wooden and you did not have a box full of plastic pieces with a fold out map that tells you how to assemble the building on the package.

I thought of how I wanted to be an architect at one point in my childhood, the skyscrapers I would build.

It was as if someone had opened up my head and dumped all the buildings out, jumbled and tumbled, then righted and stacked.

I smiled, I am in the right place.

In Paris.

Or just outside of it.

Signs from God

It’s Who You Know

Dontcha know?

No.

I actually don’t.

I don’t think about networking.

I don’t exactly know how to do it.

Sometimes things just seem to happen by happy accident.  This person here knows that person there and here, call him, e-mail her, drop a message to so and so.

“You have a huge network,” he said to me.

I think you are condescending to me.

Yeah, I have a lot of friends on facecrack, but that does not feel like I have a lot of friends, you know, as I sit here alone in my apartment.

That is not to say that I don’t have loads of support.  I do.  And I am hella, insert Oakland here, grateful.  I really, truly am.

However, when it comes to asking for help with agency, publication, what is the next step, I suddenly feel like a lonely little child left in a corner, facing the wrong direction, watching the spider cracks in the plaster grow forward.

I turn around from the stool, tilted back on two legs instead of three, and see suddenly, that I am forty years old and still looking at the cracks in the ceiling, the smear of the water stain at the seam in the corner, wondering, how does this whole thing work anyhow?

I forget that I am self-centered.

I forget, moreover, that others are self-centered.

We all have our struggles, our worries, our anxieties, our Euro to count out on the table top.

I can afford to go sit in a cafe.

I can.

I have to go write.

I was feeling a little dejected, a little like my soul had gotten sucked out my head, through my ear, Wrath of Kahn style, dribbling on the floor, insouciant.

See that, there, that puddle.

No that is not rain fall from my parapluie, just the shedding of my soul.

I left the damn umbrella in the closet when I set out for my day.

Fortunately, I did not get doused.

I got misted.

It was sexy, in a cold drizzle kind of way.

I lifted my face to the cathedral and breathed deeply.

The cathedral of Paris clouds, the cathedral of Saint Augustin.

Saint Augustin

Saint Augustin

I walked from George V back out to the Champs Elysees and up to the Arc de Triomphe.

Arc de Triomphe

I had thought about climbing the stairs, but after a walk below and a walk along the terrace, I changed my mind.

I wanted to have a little space from the tourists milling about and I felt like a walk.

I took Haussman Avenue.

I saw Saint Augustin in the distance, thinking, I know that!

I have ridden my bicycle past that, in fact, I bet I could walk to that and find my way back to the apartment.

I was correct.

Astounding.

I still will get lost, no worries, I have not been here that long, but I had my bearings and I followed the bicycle paths, staying off the paths, I saw a Japanese woman almost get run over yesterday by an irate Parisienne woman on a Velibe, and actually made it back to la maison without too much hassle.

I stopped at Saint Augustin to take some photographs, the stone so old, weeping age, seemed with time.  It was beautiful to see up close.

It was open.

I went inside.

It smelled glorious.

Old stone, wood, incense, candles burning.

The cathedral immense and empty.

Empty but for me and three other people.  One man, homeless, sorting through his sacks in the back pew, one man, in his sixties, ring of white hair a froth of halo over his head as he dipped into the font of the holy water and did the stations of the cross, and a woman arranging flowers.

Quiet.

Serene.

I felt calmness flow into me and I looked up at the stained glass in wonder.

How many hours, how many laborers, how long had this taken to build, how many artists chiseling the corners, sculpting the friezes, how did they get up so high, the wobble of scaffolding.

Is my house built on scaffolding or solid stone.

Stone.

It whispered to me, soft, strong, pliant, unmoveable and cool fired under my hand.  I touched a pillar, I walked past the corners, I looked up into the air of the church sparked with a few lights of half lit chandeliers and the strained grey light plunging through the colored glass overhead.

St. Augustin

I pulled out my phone and took a very discreet photogrpah, no flash.

Then I went back into the rear of the church, staring in amazement at the levels of intricacy surrounding and the wealth of silence wrapping me soft in its arms.

I felt so completely cared for.

Sighing deeply, I walked out.

Only to be stop by a little grotto by the door.

A few candles lit nestled in an altar before Saint Rita.

I had never heard of Saint Rita and I do not know why I stopped to read it, but there it was, in French, mind you, a brief description of her life and her sainthood.

And what she was a saint for–Lost Causes.

I almost laughed out loud.

Here I am, your vessel.

Fill me up.

I walked out the door into the misty grey day and headed toward the 9th, pacing through the busy side walks by the Lafayette Galleries and weaving in and out of the shopping crowds.

It may not be the holidays anymore, but there is always shopping to be done, n’est pas?

Then the lunching, the drinking of tea, the networking.

Maybe it is just the overflow of information, there is so much of it.  So much that I fall looped into pools of it, splashing about, trying to find my way, uncertain which search terms to use, how to cold query, where to go.

I answered some e-mails, and I found a good site with some decent ideas and I did some reading and I wrote another query to another agency about my book.

Then I looked at the clock, get out, get out, it thrummed in my blood.

I pulled my wallet out and sifted through the Euro.

You have enough, there is enough, you are allowed to go get a cafe, to sit, to write, to rent the table and do the work, that is what you came for, right?

How many people out there quietly envy you, sitting in your cafe crying in your creme, whoa, I mean, woe is me, broke writer living in Paris.

I laughed out loud.

I looked at myself, I heard a friend’s voice in my ear, “if you stop writing, I will kill you.”

The query does not matter.

The agency does not matter.

Believe.

The networking does not matter either.

You know what you know.

You know you are a writer.

Now go.

I went.

I wrote.

The breath of the cathedral blew out of the sky and the rain tumbled down my umbrella.

I am watched over by saints.

I am.