It began innocently—it just didn’t end that way. I am a rule follower. I don’t disregard instructions and orders and surreptitiously disobey if I don’t like them. But this time, I openly flaunted the regulations. However, I didn’t go to jail, pose for a mugshot, or spend the rest of my vacation in a regulation-issue jumpsuit! Allow me to explain.

It was a hot summer day, and my husband and I were visiting an ancient cathedral. After touring the main parts of the building, we discovered a small treasure trove called the “Chapter Hall.” It had its own entrance, and a single doorway channelled visitors in and out in separate lanes. Beyond that entryway was a case filled with glittery jewelled pieces calling me to drink in their artistry and glamour. In addition to the sparkling objects, this tiny museum displayed an exquisite ornate metal altarpiece and numerous works of art. In hindsight, I should have paid more attention as I entered rather than heading straight for the good stuff. It was, as it turned out, an egregious oversight.

The security guard at the desk handed us a cardboard legend of the paintings hanging in the main hall. As I have previously mentioned, map reading is not my strong suit. Although this wasn’t specifically a map, understanding it wasn’t easy. The pictures on the wall didn’t match the diagrams on the card. Some were out for cleaning, which changed the number and position of others. Since I was unfamiliar with the names of the works and the artists, it became a frustrating mystery. Eventually, I gave up in despair and just enjoyed the experience.

And then I looked up. Beautiful frescoes covered the ceiling—murals that were astonishing in their detail. How artists can spend their careers painting ceilings, achieve the proper perspective, and still have working necks in old age is beyond my ability to fathom. But I appreciate their talent and sacrifice and enjoy basking in the fruit of their labour.

To remember this fantastic find in the future when I’m sitting at home massaging my arthritic neck, I reached into my purse and withdrew my phone. Trying to encompass as much of the ceiling as possible in a single shot, I moved to the end of the hall. Just as I was about to push the button for the perfect picture, a man in uniform burst into the room. With arms flailing, he was hyperventilating and shouting at a decibel level generally reserved for “Fire!” “No photos! No photos!”

Stunned at the commotion, I was astonished to discover I was the object of the man’s immense displeasure. Quickly, I slipped the phone back into my purse because it would have spoiled my day to go to jail. Fortunately, not many others were in the room to witness my humiliation. At least it was limited to only a few tskers and my travelling companion, who had vowed to love me through thick and thin.

As we exited the premises a few minutes later, I told my husband I was surprised there were no signs indicating the prohibition on photography. He gave me one of his long looks that speaks volumes without using words, turned me around, and pointed to the giant sign in the doorway that said “NO PHOTOS.” I had sidestepped this huge impediment on my way in, completely unaware of its existence or message. That might have been good information for the observant partner to share with his less-so spouse before the drama unfolded.

The result could have been much worse, especially if we had been in a country where such an infraction is not considered an innocent (or stupid) mistake. In that case, I might still be awaiting extradition. As it is, I didn’t go to jail, the security guard seemed to recover from his excitement and exertion, and I’m still married. Not a bad outcome, I’d say.