[Life in Italy]

Placido Domingo was one of Franco's dear friends; when the great Spanish tenor was in town, he often stayed at the villa. Placido is a true gentleman, always polite, always friendly and, like Franco, very witty and amusing. At table, the two men kept us laughing with their stories.

One time, Placido was in town to give a benefit concert at the Vatican City's newly-built auditorium. He invited Franco, giving him leave to bring anybody he wished. Never one to do things on a small scale, Franco invited a group of twenty-five, myself included. Dressed to the teeth, we arrived at the Pope's domain, were waved through the gates by the Swiss Guard and, a few minutes later, trooped into the gorgeous auditorium. Franco was escorted to the front row with great ceremony and seated alongside Italy's Prime Minister and various Vatican hoi polloi--archbishops, cardinals, all manner of clergy short of the Pope himself. As the rest of us were ushered to the two rows directly behind the VIPs, I was suddenly horrified to feel the elastic on my panties snap! Down they slid at an alarming pace. Slapping a hand to one hip, I managed to stop their escape just in time, and held on through the thin material of my dress until I took my seat.

Placido came out to announce he wasn't feeling well. But the show would go on. If we would just bear with him, he would do the best he could. His voice was a bit raspy, but he's such a nice man that we forgave him for not being his usual perfect self. At intermission, I started to file out with everyone else when my panties gave way again. I quickly slid into a seat, forcing the people behind me to squeeze by. When the theater was almost empty, I clutched my purse against my right side and hobbled out to find the ladies room. Of course it was around on the other side. I was only halfway there when the bell rang to announce the end of intermission. I had no choice; I simply had to go back immediately. My seat was in the middle of the row and if everyone sat down before I got there, it would be disastrous for me. Placido's voice was fading fast, so the second half of the program was short. He couldn't even manage an encore. Everyone applauded, he bowed, and then he stepped down off the stage to meet the government and Church dignitaries clamoring to thank him and congratulate him on his fortitude. Most of Franco's entourage went to offer their compliments too.

Not me. I just sat there in a blue funk, wondering what to do about my offending undies. Franco's secretary Bianca turned to motion me over, eyebrows raised to indicate I was being rude. I shook my head. Bianca glared, motioning more urgently. Looking heavenward, I got to my feet, clutched my right side for all I was worth, and shuffled over to join the mob milling around the performer. More people crowded in behind me, pushing me closer to Placido. He spied me, smiled and, to my chagrin, reached out in my direction. I stared at him for one electrified moment while going over my options. Seeing none, I shrugged and gave him my hand.

Down went those damned panties, all the way to the floor.

And then the crowd surged forward, literally lifted me out of the pool of nylon around my ankles and deposited me on the floor a few feet away. Through the haze of my torment, it slowly dawned on me that I had been delivered of my torment. Glory Hallelujah! As our group straggled toward the parking area, I started to laugh: What the heck were the clerical underlings going to think when they came in to service the auditorium?