The Unexpected Confessioner

I may have alluded to a trip I took last month. I was lucky enough to go to Prague, Czech Republic with a women’s travel group. Beautiful city. Affordable. Nice people. Great architecture. But me being me means there were some amusing stories, mostly at my expense.

And with that I give you story #1: Linda Accidentally Goes To Confession.

Prague has a plethora of churches that sat idle and neglected during the Communist regime. Since Communism’s fall in 1989 many of the churches are being used as originally intended. Others are for public gatherings such as concerts and festivals. And a few are solely for historic significance.

A few in our tour group wanted to go to Catholic Mass. We heard that a nearby church had outstanding acoustics and a musical Mass. The idea of live entertainment on a Sunday morning was intriguing. So our merry group of worshippers, about dozen women in all, set out to attend the 10:30 am Mass even though the majority of us were going solely for the live band, er, musicial liturgy.

I was raised Catholic and know the drill: the holy water at the entrance, the genuflecting before sliding into the pew, the being quiet. However, the being quiet part became my problem. My big, loud American-bull-in-the-china-shop ass slid to my spot in the pew and casually used my foot to flip up the kneeler. No kneeling of any kind will occur today, kids. I’m a professional Catholic and will work to make the other non-Catholics more comfortable.

Except the kneeler was not hinged to be flipped up. In fact it was never intended to be moved out of the way. My little foot flip trick caused the kneeler, which was as long as the pew, to lurch up and then down with a loud thud.

Did I mention the acoustics in this church?

Feeling a bit obvious, I decided it would be a good time to get up, walk around and check out the historical aspects of the old church before Mass began. Photography wasn’t encouraged so I concentrated and tried to memorize the details and store them in my brain:
*Baroque style
*Lots of religious figures painted on the walls and ceiling
*Huge pipe organ way up in the balcony
*Stations of the cross and other interesting artifacts along the wall

It was the artifacts that caught my attention. Statues, stained glass and gold relics stretched along the wall. It must have been the shiny things that drew me in. My focus was on the bling, not what was right in front of me. As I turned to my left to see more of the pretty, shiny things, I walked right into a door.

A door that led to the confessional.

Where the priest was sitting waiting for customers.

And he spoke only Czech.

Just five minutes in the church and I had two bloopers to my name. And, heck, I’m staring down a priest in a confessional. Bless me, Father. I have created a ruckus in your beautiful church. Please forgive me for being the neck-craning American tourist that I am. And, by the way, when does the music start?

Instead I quietly slunk to back to my pew, hands clasped in my lap, until the Mass began. Father Confessional was also the priest leading the mass. From the back of the church the pipe organ sprang to life along with a choir. The acoustics lived up to the hype. Even though the Mass was conducted and sung in Czech, the beautiful old Baroque church was being used in way the founders intended. And the American tourists appreciated that fact.

The band was pretty good too.

Heard At The Health Club Tonight

Location: Women's Locker Room

Me: Putting on my shoes

Six Year Old Girl to Her Mother: "Mommy, but how does the baby come out of the stomach?"

Mother: "It's just magic!"

Me: Quickly shuffling toward the exit while not making eye contact.

25 Scary Things About Me

On Facebook the current rage is to write 25 random things about yourself. Mind you, that's about 15 or 20 items too many. I struggled to make it to 25 because, let's face it, I'm just not that interesting. But I did s-t-r-e-t-c-h it out. One item I included was the scariest moment of my life.

It could have been a near car accident or a fashion disaster. Maybe a really bad haircut; wearing the wrong shoes after Labor Day. All these things are scary, at least to me. But the one gut-wrenching moment that I remember is January 17, 1994 --- the Northridge earthquake in Los Angeles.

There is a book out called The Survivors Club by Ben Sherwood that looks at which people have survival instincts and who becomes a deer in the headlights. If my survival skills are reflected in how I handled the Northridge earthquake, then I am screwed!

It all began at 4:30am. I was in L.A. on business and staying with a college girlfriend in the Los Feliz area...just over the hill from the Valley. I was asleep on Nic's couch. My plan was to get up about 5am and catch a flight out of Burbank to Phoenix for more appointments.

Then the house jolted up and down and around. I could hear things crashing to the floor as I tried to keep myself from being flipped off the couch. I put my one arm over my head because I was sure the ceiling was going to come down on me. Being L.A., hundreds of car alarms went off blaring the obvious. I had previously lived in L.A. and knew what an earthquake was. But of all the ones I endured, this was the most violent.

It lasted forever! (But later I heard it was less than 30 seconds) I understand the 'time stood still' stuff.

Once it was over, my true nature came into play. Nic yelled for me. Her first concern was that I put something on my feet because there was broken glass and who knows what else. She checked the electricity and found it was out. Then she instructed me to stay put as she found her flashlight and came into my direction.

I, on the other hand, have one overriding thought in my head. One gut instinct that helped guide me into my own crisis and survival mode.

"I have to get the f*&# out of here!" As in get out of L.A. Get out of earthquake row. Go to a place where the earth doesn't move around in a freakish manner.

Nic checked out the damage and was being, well, really calm. Calm! She saw her computer monitor had fallen on the floor; china was broken; books toppled.

I, rushing into my own assessment, was looking for my clothes and shoes because I'm determined that I am getting the hell outta there. I'll sleep on the curb or beach in another town -- somewhere where the walls and ceilings won't fall on me.

Nic comes over to me to see how I am. Am I hurt? Am I alright?

"I'm not hurt," I say. "But," I pause, clutching her arm.

"What is it?"

"I have to lay down. I'm having an anxiety attack!"

And that, folks, is how I handled a crisis situation: attempted to flee the scene and lie down to feel the waves of panic rush over me.

I don't remember much after that. We did go out looking for bottled water but the 7-11 and grocery stores were closed. The sun eventually came up to reveal a beautiful California morning.

And one unifying thought kept pounding through my brain:

"Gotta get out of here. Gotta go. Time to leave."

The car radio had news coverage for those stations still on the air. All I cared about was whether the Burbank airport had reopened. I even considered driving the 8 hours to Phoenix but soon realized that many highways were closed due to damage.

"Gonna leave. Gonna leave soon. Yep, getting my ass out of here."

We went back to Nic's and started to clean up the mess. She was rational and completely pulled together. When the aftershocks occurred she patted my hand supportively.

Being a good Angeleno she had a battery-operated radio. So I kept a quiet vigil on the status of the Burbank airport. LAX was a mess but I kept praying that Burbank would pull it together.

After a few hours I heard the news I was almost ready to sacrifice Nic's cats for: Burbank airport is reopening.

And there was Nic sitting on her bed, soothing her rattled cats. Calm, Zen-like.

"Honey," I started. "I gotta go. Maybe I can get to Phoenix after all. If it doesn't work out I will come back. Will you be okay if leave you alone?" (What a cad I was! Leaving a friend to deal with the aftermath of The Day The Earth Opened Up and Swollowed Us Whole)

She encouraged me to go and told me she was here if I couldn't get out.

So quick like a bunny I packed up. I realized I hadn't showered or even brushed my teeth. But time was of the essence. And the voices in my head wouldn't stop until I there was some distance between me and the floor of the Los Angeles basin. Somehow I made it the airport to find a sea of refugees just like me. Unwashed, dazed and frantically trying to get out town.

I made it onto a Southwest flight bound for Phoenix. Across the aisle from me was a woman whose hand was wrapped in cloth and bleeding. Someone else had a bandage on his face. For the most part we were quiet and beyond eager. And when the wheels finally lifted off the runway we broke into spontaneous applause.

For the first time since 4:30am I exhaled. And realized what a total wuss I was. For years afterward Nic and I would call each other on January 17th and wish each other a Happy Earthquake Day.

And now, 15 year later, I flip through the Survivors Club and wonder how I would handle it if I found myself in a crisis situation again. Ugh! I shudder to think. Once a wuss, always a wuss.