It’s true: we photographers are an overly trusting sort with an unbridled optimism that includes a belief that most strangers will not kill us in our sleep.

The reasons she had invited me to shoot with her are unclear but one thing was certain: she was under the mistaken impression that I was not, in fact, semi-retarded and possessed some rudimentary ability to operate a camera.

Boy was she in for a rude awakening.

So there we were, before the famed Loretto Chapel in Santa Fe, New Mexico, waiting to shoot what was sure to be one of the most beautiful weddings either of us would ever attend. We were both thrilled to be there despite the fact that we had passed the prior three and a half hours roasting in a truck in the New Mexican heat waiting to take “getting ready” shots that never happened. Or that the bride was stressed to the max and in dire need of whiskey or Vicodin or pretty much anything that would deaden her sensibilities. Forget the fact that – after having waited for three and a half hours in the baking heat – we engaged in a high-speed race to the chapel that ended with us becoming lost in the maze of kitsch Santa Fe boutiques and ended up parking roughly six light years away from where we wanted to be or that said parking location necessitated a last-minute sprint to the wedding location whilst carrying camera equipment of a not-insignificant weight. Did I mention that Santa Fe is a city that rests among the New Mexican mesas at 7,000 feet above sea level? Because that detail should not be left out as I admit that I did indeed moan for someone to administer bottled oxygen while limping down some adobe-lined avenida.

Anyway. After all that we managed to make our final approach to the Loretto Chapel, conveniently located a minimum of ten miles away from any available parking. And we were happy. Because we were not – for the moment at least – required to run anymore.

So when we arrived at the church – which had been cordoned off to tourist traffic on account of the wedding – the first thing we were greeted by was a gaggle of camera-wielding tourists who were very clearly pissed off that they had been denied entry. One man in particular was registering his displeasure at a decibel level that surely had reached China and that nation’s environs. His state of vexation was not helped by the taut-lipped wedding planner who released the chain at the entrance long enough to usher Angela and I inside.

“Oh, oh! So I get it! Theeeeeey get to go in while the rest of us are stuck out here…” The man began to bray in a very good rendition of Self-Important Tourist Asshole. While Angela and I worked our way to the docent-guarded door the tourist’s diatribe grew louder. Apparently the interlude at the gate was a simple warm up. My heart sank as I realized that he must be a fellow Californian.

At any rate, we made it in and immediately got situated in the back of the chapel and by “situated” I mean “we threw our camera bags down in despair” because the chapel was NOTHING like the photos we saw online in which the abundance of natural light and windows had been highlighted. What we were greeted with a scant ten minutes before the wedding ceremony was indeed ornamented as the online brochure had promised but light-filled it surely was not.

“Holy shit.” Angela whispered.

Holy shit indeed. The rest of the wedding went downhill from there with us scrambling to get a handle on how we were going to cope with the available light deficiency, her running to the back of the chapel swearing under her breath as she realized that she had put a memory card that include her last shoot – a boudoir session in which tits and ass played a large part – into her camera, fielding odd instructions from a creepy priest and the never-ending litany of indignance that emanated from Mr. California who was being kept at bay outside the churchyard.

That’s when Angela emerged from an ante-chamber to the south of the church holding the shattered remains of a 70-200mm telephoto lens.

Let me re-phrase that for those of you who may not be camera geeks: Angela walked into the main part of the church holding the shattered remains of a lens that cost $1,700.

She had tears in her eyes. Once I surveyed the damage I had tears in my eyes too.

“Can I borrow yours?” she asked. Of course she could. I grabbed her 24-70 and positioned myself at the back of the church while she took up the front with my 70-200. The ceremony started, and for five minutes everything went fine.

Then the third photographer walked in. And his rig was better than ours.

WTF? I thought to myself. They hired a third photographer and didn’t bother to tell us?

I was ready to kick the guy’s ass. Angela signaled that I should refrain from my murderous intentions and do something else. I positioned myself near his kneecaps for maximum pain.

As it turned out, the 3rd photographer doubled as the deejay and only wanted to take photos for practice on an actual wedding. (“I checked out his work and his photos are crap.” Angela stated, “and besides… he’s shooting with a Nikon. Hang up your irritation, he deserves our pity.”)

The rest of the wedding went ok, given the lack of light, Mr. California’s never-ending bitching outside and the fact that I received a text from my husband between the ceremony and the reception in which he highlighted his concern over the fact that our 3-year-old daughter had discovered the self-gratifying aspects of her vibrating electric toothbrush: OUR DAUGHTER WAS SPREAD EAGLE IN HER ROOM… started the text.

And through it all? I kept thinking to myself, “RIGHT ON!!! THIS IS THE KIND OF SH** I LIVE FOR! BRING ON THE CHAOS! I’M LOVING IT!!!”

Of course this giddiness at the business of the affair was tempered by the fact that it was not, after all, MY lens that was shattered on the marble floor of the church.