On a self-guided tour of the Ex-Convento de Guadalupe, I am startled by a sudden blast of live mariachi music. I step into a little glassed-in alcove on the second floor, where I look down into the cathedral on a wedding in progress.
Would it be a sin for me to stay until the nuptials end?
Clad in jeans and sneakers, I am hardly dressed for a wedding. (Stiletto heels on cobblestones are killers.) I feel as though I’m reliving the biblical parable about the guy who shows up at a royal wedding without the proper attire. The king is offended, and orders the intruder to be thrown out into the darkness where “there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” (You can read the parable in Matthew 22.)
For at least forty-five minutes, I hover near the entrance to the cathedral, waiting for the bride and groom. No one tells me to leave, so I reach into my pocket for my camera.