I'm late for the wedding.
I hurry my pace towards the church. Layers of English schoolchildren fitted in azure-blue blazers man all the traditional checkpoints. One hands me a program at the threshold of the narthex, and I mumble "thanks," self-conscious of my American accent. My wife and boys follow.
The church interior is light and airy. It looks much bigger on the inside; this is clearly a cathedral. It instantly reminds me of where I was married in Kingston, Ontario. But the ceremony has already started, and I scan the pews for seating; we're supposed to sit on the left side. I hastily pick an open pew several rows back. Pope Francis is in the front row, sitting among several other attendees from the Vatican I suppose, and I don't want to draw his attention as a latecomer. From behind, I can tell it's Francis from his white vestments and zucchetto.