Too early in life, the male species began to fail me. As an adolescent, I was lied to, cheated on, harassed and assaulted. As a young adult, more of the same. Nevertheless, I ended up in a healthy marriage with a kind, trustworthy man. Sometimes I think it’s because of what happened that summer more than 30 years ago at the Vatican.
I was standing in St. Peter’s Basilica, feigning interest in a statue of Charlemagne while waiting for my best friend, Erin, who never needed to feign interest. She loved old churches and read every plaque. Minutes earlier, she had rushed outside to find a map of the Basilica, and I’d stayed behind. My skirt fell just above my knees, and I worried the fashion police wouldn’t allow me back in.
“Are you American?” a voice asked. Standing behind me in a blue blazer was a man about my age, tall and slender, with curly dark hair, a beard and mustache, warm eyes and a wide smile.
Oh my, I thought.
I already have a boyfriend, I thought.
His name was Fabrizio; he was a university student working at the Basilica for the summer. We chatted, and when Erin returned, I introduced them. “Have you been to the dome yet?” he asked.
“We just arrived,” I said. “We’ll go up later.” In truth, we were debating whether to pay the entry fee and hoof it up 551 steps.
“Find me at 2:30,” Fabrizio said. “I’ll take you on another elevator, so you need not pay.”
“Nice work!” Erin said once he was out of earshot. We were on a strict budget, so any break was a windfall. “Did you make promises? Do you have to sleep with him?”
