In Medjugorje, there’s a crowd of people entering the church, praying at the grotto, climbing steep hills in prayer. It’s a place of retreat, usually quiet, usually peaceful.

This morning there’s a long queue at the ladies’ room between Masses. Waiting in the line are speakers of many languages, but two Italian women walk right past us, ignoring the single-file suckers. They march to the front and go for the next doors that open.

Two Irish women are supposed to be next and also head toward those recently vacated stalls. One of them is younger, the other older and determined. She steps in front of the women who cut ahead, and forces her way into the stall that is rightfully hers. The Italian women begin to scream, raise their hands, make a scene–almost precisely as the church bells ring outside.  Women in line tsk-tsk, and the lady next to me…