Plan B

And just when I thought I would go mad reading about marytrs, a deus ex machina arrived in the form of my friend Stephanie, in Paris for a few days before she headed out to Tours to spend a year of her masters program (and going mad reading about something other than martyrs, presumably), and in need of a place to stay.  So I forced myself to put away my books for a few days (although we did spend one afternoon in MontEnchantedFairyLandsouris, me reading about the Diocletian persecutions and her napping away some of her jet-lag) and we made it out and about into the city.

Stephanie had the good fortune to spend some of her younger years living in Paris with her family, and so for her, being in Paris was like coming home.  I couldn't help but watch her giddiness at seeing the booksellers along the Seine again and wondering if we'll feel the same way when we return someday.  And although she didn't have too demanding of a schedule (it's a short train ride from Tours to Paris, after all, so return trips for her are practically guaranteed), she did want to see Sacre Coeur, or, as I call it, the most beautiful sight in Paris.

Now in addition to the breath-taking view of the exterior (especially on a sunny day, which we were lucky enough to have), the beautiful mosaic work inside, and the lively crowd that is usually gathered outside (often including some pretty entertaining street performers), Sacre Coeur is dear to me because it's home to my dream job.  Allow me to explain:

My first trip to Sacre Coeur was by myself on a Friday in early March.  Just before entering, I took a moment to read the usual sign: "No photography, silence" Ok, Ok... "...and appropriate dress." Jigga Wha...?  Luckily, it was still cold enough that I was thoroughly swaddled and thus rather unobjectionable, so there was no issue.

I took AH back that Saturday, and this time, instead of just a sign, there was a man standing outside the entrance enforcing these mandates.  Mostly, he was telling people to put their cameras away, or he was shushing with great French enthusiasm.

*Side Note: where were the shush-happy French, I ask you, on my tour bus to Western Ireland where I missed half of what the tour guide said because of the noisy Italian teenagers behind me? Alas, I had to rely on the cranky Canadian in front of me.  Effective, but somehow less witheringly judgmental.

So speaking of witheringly judgmental: this gentleman was enforcing the first rules with gusto, but was sadly neglecting the last.  I saw a girl with pink and purple argyle leggings, for goodness sake!  And that's when it hit me:  that might just be my dream job, standing outside of Sacre Coeur, deciding what is and is not appropriate attire for entering a house of worship.  I could lead a revolution, a revolution, I tell you!  I would cover the bra straps of the women, pull up the pants of the menfolk and provide appropriate footwear to all!

And so there you have it.  If reading about martyrs becomes too much and I decide that I'm not cut out to stand in the pulpit, you'll find me just outside the church.  And I might be handing you a cardigan.