In which I am reminded that disbeleif does not exclude having A Sense of Wonder

Ottawa is a big town full of constrained office buildings and older architecture left over from back when the city was home only to petty gangsters (the Irish) and less petty gangsters (the Government). Shortly after arrival, I wandered three blocks away from the hotel and found a tiny Catholic church nearly lost amid the highrises. The doors were huge, and I struggled with pushing for a good minute before discovering that pulling was in fact the best strategy.

The interior was huge, ornate, beautifully painted with arching ceilings and a lovely marble baroque alter. It was empty except for a few elderly people at the front of the sanctuary, murmuring into the echoing overhead. An amplified voice periodically came out of nowhere, reciting prayers in French, too raspy to be God and too young to be from the crowd. The whispers of the few alternated with the voice of the one, each succeeding the other like waves breaking silently against the shoreline. Somewhere in the distance a siren started up, barely breaking the stillness of the afternoon. I sat for a while then left.