In which Dad and Hilary stumble upon a bishop…

Our plan had been to go to St. Peter’s for an 11 o’clock mass, but we were late in getting ready to go and did not leave ourselves time enough, given the vagaries of bus service on Sunday. So we decided to go on across the river as we had intended on doing after the service there. On Via della Trastevere, on our way to the bus stop, we passed by a small church dating back to the 8th century, San Crisogono. There was a procession forming outside the church featuring an older cleric in red vestments and white mitre. We made a quick decision to attend the service and found seats in the rear just before the procession entered.

It consisted of the priest we had first spotted, several others, and 12 young people being confirmed, two of whom were boys. (My impression last Sunday at first communion was that the girls vastly outnumbered the boys. Based upon the names listed in the program, I later concluded that the score was 27 girls and 8 boys.) I have no clue as to what accounts for these disparities.

The church is attractively decorated, appropriately lit, and quite small compared to Santa Maria, and it was packed. As the service proceeded, moved along at appropriate places by a small all female choir accompanied by a guitar providing music of a traditional sort, I was struck by continuing confusion on the part of our fellow worshipers as to when to stand, when to sit, and when to kneel. As non-Catholics, we look to parishioners for our cues, especially when the service is in a language foreign to us, but the cues we discerned usually were ambiguous, because the others were not sure what they were supposed to be doing either. It was different at Santa Maria. And the responses here were much weaker and more tentative than last Sunday.

Several nuns were in attendance more or less managing the confirmees, setting up and overseeing the table in the rear where each lit candles for placement at the alter, and no doubt cueing them in various ways.

We were curious as to the identity of the older priest who said the mass. It was obvious that he was an honored guest. When the service concluded, I moved to the front and addressed one of the younger priests who, unfortunately did not speak English. He turned to a parishioner standing nearby who had a bit of English, but not much, who in turn brought in his young daughter who proved to be an adequate translator. After the priest understood my interest, he excused himself and returned with a piece of note paper on which was written, "Filippo Giammini, vescovo emerito settore Centro di Roma." I think this translates into bishop emeritus of central Rome.

When the service concluded, we went just a few steps to a restaurant for lunch, which was quite decent. then a few steps further to the bus stop. But # H did not come, and did not come, so we grabbed a taxi for Piazza de Poppolo. We had a special mission to fulfill, successfully, at the leather shop, which I am not a liberty to reveal here. Fortunately, Hilary’s new best friend from our last visit was there, and the picture records their reunion.

Then it was on to Spanish Steps. Hilary’s coral purse acquired Friday at FAO naturally requires its own pair of gloves. Unfortunately, the glove shop was closed, and we settled for gelato.

Last night Stefano suggested we search the stalls at Piazza Repuiblica for prints. So we took the metro to Termini and walked to the piazza a couple of blocks away. Most stalls were closed, but we chatted with one voluble fellow who deals in used books and who has a deep interest in the War between the States. He related a very amusing anecdote about Gen. Ben Butler and a young Reb soldier after the war was over. If anyone wants it, let me know, but I won’t bother to include it here.