Sunday, Crazy Sunday

Wow. Who would have thought trying to get to church could be such a fiasco. But then again, now that I say that out loud, that's actually what a lot of people experience Sunday mornings. Either way, this was a new fiasco for me.

I was determined to make it out to the English-speaking parish this morning, basically so I could make some friends. Sound a little desperate? Well...no comment.

Leon told me mass was at 11:00. I started looking up the church around 9:30 to find out it was at 10. At this point the only way to make it on time was to take a taxi (after everyone ate, dressed, cleaned, and packed in 15 mins). But I couldn't find any cash. I knew Leon had some and considered busting into his 9:30 mass to get it. I almost gave up on the whole ordeal.

Meanwhile, Stella is undressing herself and throwing her shoes in remote places of the house. I "calmly" gathered them and put them in the bag. I'm glued to the timetables of the bus. We've never ridden the bus before. I'm not entirely sure how to do that. And it would get me there at 10:45.

I decided to do it, hoping but doubting the mass is at 11. If it's not, then I'll just mob the people at the end of the mass and try not to look too sweaty. "Hi! I need friends. Do you come here often?" (For the record, I left out the first sentence in the introductions)

In all of our running to busses, I think Emma fell down at least five times in her very fancy church dress. Turned out the mass was at 10, but there was an 11 Italian mass.We stayed, and I didn't understand a thing. There were only about 15 people there and I had the only kids. Normal, I suppose.

 I met one couple at the end of mass who come there "sometimes" they have a 1 year old named Michaelangelo. Yes, I made an artist joke and kind of regret it. I met the Fr. there and he was very new himself. But he said there was an 11 across town at some school. (Leon told me later, that this was the English-speaking family mass that he was talking about)

On the way home Emma ran a whole five minutes to the bus station, only to get on the wrong bus, jump off 6 blocks in wrong direction, walk back to the original bus stop, cross the street to the same number bus, headed in the right direction. The only plus about the return trip was witnessing a Vespa crash into a fruit stand while we were waiting for the (wrong) bus. It really was everything they make it out to be in the movies.

At home, my lovely husband had just returned from the Papal address and grocery store and made us sandwiches. I drank about a gallon of water and wanted to pass out. We stayed in for the rest of the day.

Next Sunday, we'll try the right bus, at the right time, to the right church. Then maybe we'll make some friends.