I had a steamroller and plenty of time to think, the light filtered through the tall windows at an angle it only reaches in the late afternoon, and I thought to myself: someone would pay to get married here.
I laid down the roller and stood in the middle of the barn floor. I observed the proportions of the space, the old wooden beams on the ceiling, the way the light fell upon it, and I understood that I was inside something inescapable. You could approach it, spend astronomical sums trying to reproduce the very particular atmosphere of a place used for a century and a half, whose walls, floor, and beams had absorbed all that history, but you couldn't manufacture it.
