Sunburned, yes, but it’s 1965. No one really cares whether your skin is scrunched up and boiled like a lobster or fried crisp like an overdone chicken wing because this is the time of the gypsies and being in the sun is a way of life. There is miles and miles of trailers, caravans and tents as far as the eyes could see and people are sprawled half-dressed or almost butt naked on the grass and veranda chairs they brought with them. There is an electric buzz in the air and heightened shouts and low whisperings masked by a thick smoke of sweet sensimilla that intoxicates even those not interested to smoke.
A girl passes with a cherry red face and flower headband print in the forehead that compliments the long peasant skirt that sweeps the grass. A bright, carefree personality covered miles and miles of peeling skin peeped out from above her shoulders and gave her a questioning glance as he asked “This waiting is such a drag…where’s the Pope.” “He should know gypsies don’t wait around”. “Maybe it’s worth the wait” she replies “I’m beginning to think he’s one of us. His dress certainly fits!” “In Rome ?”