Was this romanticism inspired by the view? The date on the calendar? Perhaps it was Vulcan himself: He wears an apron, but his pants are nowhere to be found.
The next morning, I spent a couple of hours in the Birmingham Museum of Art, where many of the galleries are devoted to European paintings and decorative arts from the 13th through the 19th centuries. The museum's collection of American art includes works by Gilbert Stuart, John Singer Sargent, Frederick Remington and Georgia O'Keeffe. The top floor includes galleries devoted to African and Asian art, Native American and pre-Columbian works and, oddly, a large collection of Wedgwood ceramics. But some of the most striking pieces are displayed in a gallery devoted to recent acquisitions, including a "wearable sculpture" — fabric with applique crochet and buttons and yarn — by performance artist and sculptor Nick Cave.
At lunchtime, I picked up three of my colleagues who were eager to dine at Chez Fonfon in the Five Points area of Birmingham. The French bistro was opened in 2000 by Frank Stitt, who, many believe, has almost single-handedly put Birmingham on the foodie map with Fonfon, the next-door Highlands Bar & Grill, and Bottega Restaurant & Cafe.
Chez Fonfon did not disappoint. Our group sampled a fennel and blue cheese tartine; gravlax with potato cakes and horseradish cream; a shrimp and avocado salad; trout with brown butter, capers and Brabant potatoes; and Gulf fish with olives, roasted potatoes and aioli. The relatively small space (it seats about 60) with its high ceilings and stone tile floors made for a civilized midday meal.
A typical Birmingham experience? Perhaps not. The next night we dined at Saw's Juke Joint in the suburb of Mountain Brook, southeast of downtown. It was crowded with locals who wore their loyalties — Auburn and Alabama, primarily — on their sweat shirts and kept their eyes glued to the flat-screen TVs tuned to the sports matchups of the day.
Our waitress handled our party with ease, and soon we were feasting on fried okra, onions and pickles, pork with grits and turnip greens, and deviled eggs, all served amid buckets of peppers, barbecue sauce, hot sauce and mustard, rolls of paper towels, and beers and margaritas.
If Fonfon calls to mind an outing on a sunny afternoon in the south of France, Saw's Juke Joint is more Oktoberfest in Munich. Almost every member of our crowd departed with a glaze of satisfaction on his or her face.
As we crisscrossed the city to various dining spots and meeting locations, we stopped at several other landmarks — Cathedral Church of the Advent, the Alabama Theatre and the Alabama Power Building. But a handful of us wanted to return to the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church for Sunday services.
We needed more time to look around and take in the beauty of the sanctuary. We listened to hymns of praise, readings from Luke and Matthew, and a pastor who preached for close to an hour — seemingly without notes.
Inside, the congregation listened to the choir sing "Victory in Jesus." Outside, runners in the Mercedes-Benz Marathon passed by, struggling to complete their Herculean task. Just a few minutes away, patrons at the newly opened Todd English P.U.B. at the Westin Birmingham sipped beers and indulged in another type of worship: the adulation of professional sports figures.
Faith takes many forms in Birmingham, and on this Sunday morning they all seemed to be on display.