Even though I'd given Catholicism up for Lent when 13, I still contained sediments of convent distilled guilt. Knowing one could be refused entry if not demurely attired, I studied my limited wardrobe. One is entering sovereign, not to mention holy grounds. No Daisy Dukes, micro-minis or naked flesh shoulders. This former parochial girl decides to test limits.
I elect to wear the only dress I'd packed, black with low scoop neck, albeit made more acceptable (or so, I thought) by pairing it with a higher cut camisole.
"Scusi, scusi" they would have said if they talked. By they, I mean the striped, puffy pantalooned ones. Instead, a strange man's hand on my chest bars way into the Shrine of the
Apostolic Order.
Denied. Thrice. How ironic.
So off go I, to purchase a suitable cover for my exposed self, except, nothing was bared other than cardinal red lace. Oh heavens, do you think it the color or the fabric? We'll never know if my black one would have garnered the same response.
Wending my way through columns, hallways and hungry prayer boxes, I arrive at small gift store. A nun of hobbit size assists me, though neither speaks the other's language. I coffer up, returning with the only scarf large enough to veil head and decolletage. It is muted blues, homespun, coarse cotton, from papal homeland.
Chastened by habit, I am waved through with benediction. I cross threshold into Basilica. I smile.
"In nomino Madre..."
I elect to wear the only dress I'd packed, black with low scoop neck, albeit made more acceptable (or so, I thought) by pairing it with a higher cut camisole.
"Scusi, scusi" they would have said if they talked. By they, I mean the striped, puffy pantalooned ones. Instead, a strange man's hand on my chest bars way into the Shrine of the
Apostolic Order.
Denied. Thrice. How ironic.
So off go I, to purchase a suitable cover for my exposed self, except, nothing was bared other than cardinal red lace. Oh heavens, do you think it the color or the fabric? We'll never know if my black one would have garnered the same response.
Wending my way through columns, hallways and hungry prayer boxes, I arrive at small gift store. A nun of hobbit size assists me, though neither speaks the other's language. I coffer up, returning with the only scarf large enough to veil head and decolletage. It is muted blues, homespun, coarse cotton, from papal homeland.
Chastened by habit, I am waved through with benediction. I cross threshold into Basilica. I smile.
"In nomino Madre..."
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