At first, I didn’t notice his presence. I didn’t notice when he entered the cathedral, either, but then I heard his voice, the silken lilt of his accent that made his English difficult to understand.

I wasn’t even sure he was speaking to me, so I turned around and noticed that no one else had come in with him, so it was safe to assume he was speaking to me. I cocked my head, trying to make sense of his words. And then I wished I hadn’t tried so hard.

His voice quickly became an unwelcome caress. “You know, this place was once a brothel. It was run by fallen nuns and a very dirty Portuguese man who…â€?

I stopped him mid-sentence with a look. It was what my mother laughingly referred to as my “Medusa Look.”

After successfully silencing him, I took a rosary out of my bag and closed my eyes with a resolute sigh. I longed to leave – the cathedral had stopped being magical after his entrance, but I’d be damned if the local jerk forced my departure.

Incredibly, he spoke again: “Um, you’re not a nun, are you?”