If it hadn't been booked two years in advance I would have been married in the Colonial church at Greenfield Village.
Instead I settled for the small white church where my parents exchanged vows nearly 30 years earlier. While it lacked the period charm, it offered the simplicity of design that somehow seems more spiritual in churches like the Greenfield Village Colonial or the historic adobe missions of California.
So when we found ourselves in Monterey last week, we sought out the Cathedral of San Carlos Borromeo, also known as the Royal Presidio Chapel. Founded around 1790 by Captain Don Gaspar de Portola and Franciscan Father Junipero Serra as part of a new settlement to secure New Spain's possession of "Alta" or "Upper" California, the cathedral was the official chapel of the province's Spanish Governor. It's also the oldest church in continuous use in California, just one of the reasons it's a National Historic Landmark.
Designed in Mexico City and built of cut sandstone in the Spanish colonial style of the time, the cathedral recently was reopened after a two-year, $7.2 million renovation that included peeling away layers of paint and plaster to reveal bits of the original wall art. Now it's one of the most beautiful of the California missions.
Arriving in mid-afternoon, we admired its soft gold exterior, then opened the massive front doors to reveal its cream walls and high, blue ceilings, its archways over curving stone steps. We were alone but for the sound of a piano played lovingly -- if haltingly -- from somewhere in the distance.
Tracing its source, we came upon a fragile old man bent over the keyboard to the side of the altar. A cane and a worn baseball cap stained with perspiration rested on a nearby pew. Enchanted, we listened until the hymn ended, then my husband struck up a conversation. The man said he'd been coming to play there for a month and a half.
"With this instrument, it's truly a blessing," he added, a sad smile and moist eyes speaking of some private tragedy.
Not wanting to intrude, we thanked him for the music, then made our way back to the front doors. Pushing them open just wide enough to slip through, we were startled by an orange cat that darted inside. We followed, hoping to catch it before it could slip under a pew or jump onto the altar. I scooped it into my arms, where it began to purr.
Once more we waited for the man to finish his hymn, then asked if he knew where the cat belonged.
"This cat wanders around, even during services," he said with the same sad smile. "It has carte blanche."
I held the cat a minute longer before setting it down, and we turned to leave again. But before we could tip-toe out, the man began to play "For All the Saints," a song I particularly love. From across the room we joined in softly, then a bit louder, enjoying the sound of the notes as they blended with his, enjoying the intimacy of the moment.
Coming out into the sunshine, I felt a sense of peace deeper than any after a church service. And thought how, by healing himself with his music, an old man also was healing others.
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