That Time I Got Kicked Out of the Duomo.

Woops.

For my first day off, I decided to explore the little city we live in, so I took my bike to the historical center of Monza. This section of the city is sooooo beautiful, so Italian, with thin cobbled streets and brightly colored buildings and national flags dangling from the upper apartment windows. The street level is home to zillions of stylish boutiques and gelaterias and little restaurants, while up above people opened ornate shutters to let the mid-morning breeze into their flats.

I locked up my bike and took a stroll around, window shopping and thinking about where to get lunch in a couple hours, and trying to figure out where the Duomo San Giovanni Battisti was. Honestly, I got a pretty good feel for historical downtown Monza. In other words, I got kinda lost.

When I finally did find the Duomo, I peeked in and there was a mass going on, so I decided to come back later to go inside. When I did get to go in, all I could do was look up. The artwork and architecture were pretty magnificent, and I slowly made my way from the back up to where the choir sits, closer to the altar, when a man approached me. He said something to me in Italian, which I hardly understood, then pointed to my shorts and said "No." I apologized and mimed that I would leave, and when I turned back to look up one last time, the guy was glaring after me.

Not thinking, I had worn shorts because of the heat, which is obviously a big no-no if you're going into a place of worship. Silly American. Actually, when I looked around after I was booted from the Duomo, there were probably only about four other people wearing shorts: one of them was a guy and three of them were about 7 years old. Maybe Italian women only wear shorts when it's sweltering out?

Oh well, nothing a little gelato couldn't fix.