Brief Encounter With a Leading Lady

James Carson

Be it ever so incredible, there's no place like Rome: heavy with history, easy on the eye and ice cream to diet for. What's not to like?

So when Michelle, my cousin in Kildare, suggested we take a trip to the Eternal City, I had my flight booked faster than you could say La Dolce Vita.

Our accommodation was located in a corner of Rome that is forever Ireland. The Pontifical Irish College occupies an elegant building, just a lion's roar from the Coliseum. For most of the year, it's a seminary for budding bishops. But during the summer the College opens its doors to pilgrim groups. Somehow, Michelle and I must have flown in under the radar, because our pursuits were far from heavenly.

She keeps it to herself, but my cousin is actually The Shopping Queen of Ireland. Some women have purchasing power in their blood, but Michelle has it written into her DNA. So, while the other residents headed off to the great basilicas, our sights were set on a very different place of worship.

Beneath Rome's central railway station lies a shopping mall to make even the hardiest of serial spenders go weak at the knees. Michelle took it all in her stride. Barely pausing to read a sign listing the hundred stores, she hit the ground shopping in a marathon spendfest that left her exhilarated and rendered me debilitated. Basically, she shopped until I dropped.

At last, Michelle peered over her Prada sunglasses, took pity on her clapped out cousin and agreed to take the afternoon off. And so, after a leisurely lunch, we swapped couture for culture and hit the tourist trail.

By the time we arrived, the queue for the Vatican Museum was already snaking round its massive walls for a good quarter of a mile. But the line was moving quickly, and we joined in the hope of reaching the entrance by midnight. As the minutes passed beneath a ferocious Roman sun, some dropped out, while others lost the will to live. But the three English ladies behind us were made of sterner stuff. "We queued for five hours to see the Queen Mum lying in state", said one of them. "Ooh yes, Margaret," her sidekick trilled, "That was the best day out we've had for a long time."

Once inside, it was hard to say what made the biggest impression: the Raphael frescoes, Michelangelo's Last Judgement, or the air conditioning that brought us back to life. We gawped at the Egyptian collection, gaped at the Map Gallery and gasped at the price of a sandwich in the museum cafe.

Finally, up to our eyes in art and laden with designer carrier bags, we returned to the Irish College. Just as we reached the entrance there was a sudden commotion behind us. The great iron gates of the College had opened and thundering up the drive was a procession of vehicles, escorted by police outriders.

Amid the blaring horns and flashing lights, Michelle couldn't contain her excitement:

"Maybe it's the Pope!"

As the biggest car reached the entrance, the doors swung open and out piled a family of four.

Michelle was crestfallen:

"Not even a cardinal!"

But there was something familiar about the woman gathering her belongings from the car. And then it dawned on me:

"Michelle! That's the President!"

Michelle's response will stay with her for the rest of her days. At least, it will if I have anything to do with it:

"The President of where?"

Her head still buzzing with Benetton and Botticelli, my cousin could be forgiven for immediately failing to recognise a famous face from home. For sure enough, ascending the College steps was Mary McAleese, the President of Ireland.

Bypassing the official welcome party, and risking instant death by Carabinieri, I stepped forward to introduce myself as a visitor from Glasgow. I could tell she was impressed, because the President immediately turned to ask Michelle: "And where are you from?" By this time, my cousin had recovered her composure, and while she launched a charm offensive on the entire presidential family, I rummaged in my bag for the camera.

Mrs McAleese happily agreed to a photograph, although to be honest she wasn't given much of a choice. Then, just as I was about to take the picture, the President's eldest daughter kindly offered to take the three of us. The resulting snapshot captured the moment precisely: the President (exuding warmth), Michelle (oozing glamour) and me (pumping sweat).

No doubt relieved to escape their strange meeters and greeters, the family moved on to their apartments. But not before an act of female solidarity by Michelle, who presented a brochure from one of Rome's up-market boutiques to the President's daughter. She appeared genuinely thrilled to receive this, and I've no doubt that Italian fashion was the main topic of conversation the following day when the family met Pope Benedict.

Later that evening, over an alfresco dinner, we reflected on the day's events. "Of course, I voted for her," said Michelle, swatting away the unwanted attentions of a geriatric waiter. His up-close and personal approach was threatening to spoil a perfect day. So, after dessert, I whisked Michelle off to a place where I knew she'd be untroubled by randy Romans.

The unpretentious little bar had the give-away title of "Coming Out". As we sipped our drinks, in the relaxed company of impossibly handsome Italians, Michelle surveyed the scene. "This is a terrible place", she said, morosely. "I'm surrounded by gorgeous men and none of them are looking at me".

But her mood brightened at the prospect of returning to astonish all of Kildare with a full account of her eventful trip. After all, it's not every day that such a distinguished head of state is granted an audience with The Shopping Queen of Ireland.