59 fountains

There are so many saints who have been waiting throughout the centuries for their name sakes to pay them homage that it has undoubtedly given rise to the common expression "to have the patience of a saint". I have happily shared my feast day,  the 5th of February, with St. Agatha.  As a child I had known that she died a virgin martyr in 251 in Sicily.  Although I wasn't entirely certain what a virgin was,  I knew it was both admirable and dangerous.
 St. Agatha is frequently depicted with her symbol- two breasts,  presented like blancmange on a platter. Either I was oblivious or I buried the ramifications of this deep in my subconscious, for I still imagine them to be quivering milky jellies.
Last October, after navigating an extraordinarily complicated one way system, the crowds and North African market hawkers,  I pressed my way into the expansive yet intimate Romanesque basilica of St. Sernin in Toulouse. I blessed myself from the holy water fount and rustled in my water-proof trousers past side alters and banks of candles flickering in their red, blue or green glass holders. 
And there she was.

Reliquary of St. Agatha