Purse Envy, The Stinky Scarf, The Swedish Milkmaid, and other Things Experienced During My Day at the Vatican

Leave it to me to wear a halter sundress to the Vatican.  I’m sorry, guys, I didn’t know there was a dress code.  I just knew it was hot and we’d be in line for a while.  Mom and I took a taxi, and were swallowed up by the first tour recruiter that came across our path.  Was it the lost panic on our faces?  Was it my sundress?  Whatever it was, it was obvious that we needed help.  We happily surrendered the extra $22 to be led through this overwhelming maze like a herd of cattle. 

We waited in the hot sun for about a half an hour while other tourists were relieved of their euros.  Finally, we were assembled in the wavy sort of unorganized group that is truly best practice for preschool age children.  Everyone had a buddy.  As the tour guide pulled out a snazzy little red flag, my teacher brain thought, “Oh, we should totally do that in the classroom” before I remembered that I no longer teach.

You know how these type of things go…you end up fixating on a couple of people to orient yourself.  At the start of the tour, there was a young couple in front of us that intrigued me.  The woman was also wearing a sundress, so you can see why I thought we may end up friends, breaking the rules of polite dress together, for fashion’s sake.  The man was wearing a linen white shirt, open to nipple-line, some clay colored shorts, expensive looking leather loafers- untied on purpose- and…are you ready for this?

He was carrying a man bag that I strongly suspect was actually a women’s purse.  I think he figured all that chest hair peeking out of his shirt would convince people he’d bought it in the men’s department of some exclusive little leather shop overseas.  I wasn’t fooled.  Furthermore, I get very uncomfortable when there is a man in my company carrying a better looking purse than I am.  It threatens my femininity.  Like Cory, my fashion sense has long been a strong part of my self-esteem.  I’ll be the first to admit I’ve gotten a little lax in the last year with my accessorizing, but I didn’t realize things had gotten this bad.

Sensuous pebbled leather that you wanted to get naked and rub on (well, maybe that’s just me).  Color-blocking:  subtle, expensive looking tones of mustard, camel, and deep black.  Sturdy leather straps.  Understated matte metal finish buckles.  I mean here was a bomb ass bag, and this Gaston look-alike was carting around like he was hot stuff.  I glanced down at my new I’m-going-to- Italy canvas messenger bag- retail $25- I’d been so thrilled with at the Battle Creek Target, and shuddered.  What have I become?

I soon became irritated with this guy thinking he should not be allowed to carry such a treasure on his arm.  Did he really love that bag the way I would?  Had he visited it faithfully every weekend for months before buying it?  Did he get to know it before he brought it home?  Did it have its own hook in a place of pride on his wall?  Doubtful.  Just doubtful. 

The longer we waited in line, and the hotter it became, the more pissed off  I became.  I had to restrain myself from tapping him on the shoulder and asking him why he thought he needed such a beautiful bag in the first place?  What could he not fit in his pocket that he had to have on his person when he left home?  Hair product?  Bronzing gel?  A vial of pheromones?  What, Gaston, what? 

I was two steps in his direction, when the tour guide came over the portable radio headsets as we approached the entrance to the Vatican museum, reminding the Jezebels among us to cover our shoulder and our knees by any means necessary or risk being thrown out of the tour.  Any means necessary left really only one option…the men loitering outside the entrance with cheap scarves laddered up and down both arms, yelling out to the crowd like a carnival barker,  “Two dollar.  Five dollar.  You choice.”

Anxious about being left behind, I thrust a fiver at the scarf man closest to me and grabbed one blindly.  He gave me change, and I caught up to mom.  Yes, I got the two dollar scarf.  I don’t enjoy forced purchases.

Inside, I looked around as other women tied scarves around their hips to cover their knees or pulled them over their shoulders to the guards’ satisfaction.  I followed suit.  Our group took off after the guide with the red flag, and all was well until I started to smell a horrible stench of body odor.  I tried to ignore it.  I mean, we were in Rome…in July.  There were scores of people crowded all together, the odds were someone there would not raise their hand and be Sure. 

I tried to maneuver my way around the crowd to make some breathable space between me and the unfortunate soul who needed a sponge bath at the very least.  To my utter chagrin, the smell followed me doggedly everywhere I went.  To the left, there was body odor.  To the right, there was more body odor.  There was nowhere to run; there was nowhere to hide.

I bowed my head in defeat, putting my nose in direct contact with my new scarf.  Source of stink was immediately located.  Nothing against the hard-working gentlemen who toiled in the hot sun to cover those of us stupid enough to dress semi-provocatively to come to the Vatican, but I really didn’t want his body fluid or remnants there of on me.

Unfortunately, I had no other choice.  Resigned to be the stinky American tourist who likes to show skin in religious establishments, I sucked it up.  I was almost over my upset, when I looked over and spotted something unbelievably unfair.  In my exact tour group stood a plump young lady wearing a short sleeved to the knee knit dress, sans stinky scarf.  What’s unfair about that, you ask? 

How about the fact that her double D’s were jutting so far out of her dress anyone who cared to could climb them like a tree or swing on them like vines? 

Wait just a second, here.  I have to cover my provocative shoulders with a scarf soaked in some stranger’s sweat, but she’s walking around showing off more cleavage than I even possess breast tissue?  I think I saw the rim of one aureole. 

I seethed about this right up until we got to the art, and then the world around me faded for the most part.  I would wear whatever item of clothing requested with whomever’s body fluid on it to be there seeing the statues, the paintings, the tapestries, and the wonder of the Sistine Chapel.

Everything there was amazing.  Two works of art I will carry in my memory, in my soul for all of my days.   There was a tapestry called “The Crucifixion of Christ”.  The tour guide encouraged us to carefully note the eyes as we walked past.  Yes, yes folks, they did.  His eyes followed me as I walked past.  They moved with me.  I have never seen anything like that.  I instantly broke out in giant patches of gooseflesh, and turned to Mom who was in the same exact state.

And of course, the Sistine Chapel:   I read once that someone was quoted as saying you could never really grasp what one man (person) is capable of until you’ve seen the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.  Truer words have never been spoken.  Looking at the time, the effort, and the aching beauty of that work made everything else seem so small, so manageable.  It was awe-inspiring.  I stood there, surrounded by hoards of people- some who stood respectfully silent, others who kept having to be shooshed by the guards- with tears on my face. 

 I would have preferred to be there alone, but I would have stood there surrounded by the masses for the next three days with my head bent at a most unnatural position, just staring at the magnitude of beauty, dedication, and passion I will likely not see again in my lifetime.
 I stood there until they made me move.

Wouldn't you?