Crying at the Vatican.

Over the summer. Remember? The summer? A distant memory in November when the roof is leaking and you can see your breath in the bathroom but we had one.

Over the summer I went with my new fragile lovely relationship to Rome.


Yes. Very nice old business. Loads of lovely food. Nice and warm. Public displays of affection obligatory.

It was all going quite well.

Until we went to the Vatican museum.

Firstly, the Vatican museum is gargantuan. We were tired and hot and shoved about with far too many other tourists following closed umbrellaed holding tour guides. We had not had enough gelato that day.

After trudging through centuries of history and art and tourists taking photographs with their ipads, we finally arrived at The Sistine Chapel.

There had not been any signs earlier to warn us that I was in fact offending God by wearing a vest top.

We were trapped outside the Chapel.

I could not go to the exit on the other side because of God and we could not track back through 4 hours of museum on the other side.

The guards seemed rather annoyed as we stood with them for 10 minutes looking helpless, repeatedly saying, “But we didn’t know… How do we get out?” In small voices.

The guards finally relented and said that I could pass through the Sistine Chapel, as long as I did so quickly and went straight to the exit on the right. The Boyfriend wanted to stay a little longer and take in Michelangelo’s ceiling so we agreed to meet at the exit. On the right.

Was it the right?

I got to the exit on the right. It did not have an exit sign. There was a door on the left that did. I then went and waited there. 15 minutes passed. No boyfriend. I went to the other door. No boyfriend. I returned to the first exit. No boyfriend. I did not cry.

If this was a movie – you would scream at the television, “JUST CALL HIS MOBILE, FOR PETE’S SAKE, YOU DAFT WOMAN.” I would have done the same.


Off I went out the front of the vatican where I waited another half an hour, reasoning that, if I didn’t see him by then that I should just go back to the hotel.

I didn’t see him.

I had a cry at the Vatican.

I got an extortionate taxi back to the hotel.

Boyfriend was not there.

Further crying.

An hour and a half later, after much panic on twitter, the Boyfriend knocks on the hotel door.

We embrace sweatily, before he screams, “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”


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