It’s not a very long drive in the light rain, neon signs gleaming in the pavement reflections. The drizzle has stopped by the time the car’s parked in the oval, then a brief walk past arches and walkways of “patent artificial stone” a hundred years old.
The church is impressive. Even the most hardcore Commodore or Golden Bear would have to admit they’ve got nothing like this. Inside, most of the lights are off – only the choral balcony is illuminated, although most of it spills into the middle pews, but the side chapels are completely dark. Up front, a single candle lights each of twelve alcoves around the marble stage.
Nothing to indicate the service has started, obviously – just the first tones from the choir. The music tends toward the more arch strains of high-Anglican chorale, although about halfway through are the familiar tones of “Abide With Me.” I don’t know why they would be familiar – I do tend to drift into more Episcopalian services than most, but not with singing – but they are, and the candlelight gleams off the gold of the Byzantine decor, and the shadows flicker off the high domed ceiling and before long you can forget where you are. Or that you’re thirty-nine years old and your hair is going, or that you’ve got to go to the gym tomorrow, or that you have a project to manage and a bunch of insane relatives back east to cope with. You’re just…somewhere else.
Technically, I’m still a member of the old church back home, the last of my family still carried on the rolls – even though I haven’t darkened its door in over twelve years – but it was never good at anything but making you wish you were somewhere else. I don’t know exactly what this is, but it’s different…and, perhaps, centering.
The last note rings out, hangs in the air. Time passes. Nobody gets up. Then, finally, one or two people get up, and by twos and threes they drift out.
Back in the car, a soothing voice from eight hours in the future informs you that it’s just coming up on 5:38 GMT, and you’re listening to the BBC World Service.