My golden ticket

Imagine a town, made almost entirely out of 17th century stone blocks, with three cobbled main streets running parallel to each other and ending in a 13th century cathedral and graveyard. The town, largely pedestrian, has small shops, a 15th century chapel with a clock tower, an old fountain, tiny "wynds" or alleys leading to enclosed gardens and low houses with brightly painted doors.

Now imagine that town invaded by Matrix 3 agents dressed in black uniforms and glow-in-the-dark vests, like swarming, hostile crossing guards.

We’ve watched mysterious vans arrive and eject flocks of these men, only to scoop them up and dart away moments later. We’ve had bomb-sniffing dogs. Manholes and pipes are sealed shut. Bus stops have been removed. Classes have been rescheduled for buildings outside the perimeter. We saw someone checking the electrical panels on the street lights yesterday and marking them off with tape. And two days ago we received a security briefing which I cannot apparently share with you. Suffice it to say we should report anyone who alleges to have a bomb (as opposed to asking them in for tea?).

The University has issued 390 tickets, 300 to students and 90 to staff. Students call them "golden tickets." Each person selected has been background checked and issued a dress code (yes, you can wear official academic gowns if you wish) and a series of warnings regarding hats, bags, cameras, umbrellas and entrance and exit points. Everything has been royally and publicly ordained down to the very last niggling detail -- everything except what, precisely, will be happening.

I do have a few more details. In addition to the unveiling of the plaque, apparently Wills and Kate get to see the 600-year-old papal bull that started the University in 1413. So we . . . will be looking at them . . . looking at paper. Yep, we'll surely need bodyguards to keep the hysteric hordes out of that particular event.

But I'm dodging the most important point – I get to go. I have been selected as a VIP minder. Fortunately, I have experience. I minded Donna Brazile (Al Gore's campaign manager) when she provided training for librarians in Virginia. If I can handle one of the toughest, most powerful politicians and commentators in the country, I can manage a 29-year-old monarch. I think. Actually, I don’t know who I’m minding, but I’m excited. I’m to wear a dark, smart suit, which should make me look sufficiently like a flight attendant. A damp, cold flight attendant, according to the weather report, with tired feet, probably stuck holding an umbrella over (doubtlessly) a rather middling level donor who must be kept away from shellfish.

Never mind. Doesn't matter. Students are thrilled, rushing in breathlessly to pick up their tickets (official ID, please, and a signature!) and dancing out the door holding their cream-colored envelope with both hands. Store owners are thrilled – in fact, a local bakery has written “600” in the store window using cupcakes. And I’m thrilled. The Quad where the events will be taking place is only a couple hundred feet square. This is the closest I’ll ever get to a real, live princess.