The rotund Frenchman glowered up at me from below his balding, dark forehead, continuing to rattle off sharp reprimands in a language I couldn’t hope to understand.

Rolling my eyes toward Notre Dame’s glorious, bricked archways, I half-prayed for some divine resolution as five classmates huddled behind me. We watched the rest of our class continue, unperturbed, into the assembly to sit together for the cathedral’s Ascension Day mass, leaving us stranded at the back of the seating area.

The solemn service proceeded tranquilly, with spectators filling the rows of chairs in Paris’ most famous Cathedral, as the hawk-eyed man barred my way toward seats with the rest of my class. But his tirade lacked any gestures or attempts at English to clue me into my offense. And I couldn’t even recall the French phrase for, “I’m sorry,” as I stared back, baffled.

Finally, as the furious Frenchman continued to prattle on, one classmate whispered from behind, “I think it’s your camera. Try putting it in your purse.”

Surely, I thought the problem couldn’t be my camera. Tour groups surrounded the assembly, flashes and shutters snapping. And if that were the problem, surely fixing it should be as simple as pointing to my camera, and then to my bag.

No, my offense must be much more egregious.

But just in case, I quickly switched the Canon SLR from the strap around my neck to my purse.

Instantly, the man disappeared.

The Latin and French recitations rolled over our heads as we found seats as close as possible to the rest of our class and hunkered down for the rest of the service, sighing with relief.

Examining the order of service, I noticed the disclaimer, “Communion is a Christian tradition, so we respectfully request that those not of the Christian faith do not participate.”

Now, I know that by “Christian,” the message meant Catholic. But being a logical Protestant, I thought, how will they know?

I remembered that several of my classmates – in Paris with me to study mass communications on an ACU study abroad Maymester – had said they intended to take communion. It was no big deal, they had insisted.

Glancing again at my awe-inspiring surroundings, I thought, why not?

Despite not understanding most of the service, I worked to make sure my heart was in the right place as communion approached, donning my most reverent attitude and demeanor.

After the blessing, I followed several of my classmates’ examples and lined up to receive the bread. Clergymen stood at the corners of every seating section with goblets of the divine stuffs.

Jumping in the shortest line, I waited my turn. As the person in front of me returned to his seat, I locked eyes with the man holding a goblet of round, white wafers.

It was my little French friend, scowling at me again with dark, beady eyes. In that instant, an understanding passed between us: This could not end well.

I had been told the process to receive communion went something like this: You walked up, you received the bread and you sat down.

But the man just continued to glare at me, making no move to hand me the bread.

Maybe I’m supposed to take it, I thought. But when he pulled back the goblet as I reached forward, I quickly realized that wasn’t going to work.

My panic rising, I thought, I have to say something. So I pretended to mutter a phrase in what I hoped sounded either Latin or French – whichever was correct – and tacked an “amen” onto the end.

“Amen,” I later learned, was the magic word. And he handed me a quarter-sized disc that looked as if it might be made of plastic.

Staring at the wafer in my palm, I wondered if it could truly be edible. Contemplating the mound of bread still in the clergyman’s goblet, I wasn’t sure any previous receivers actually had eaten their wafers.

I puzzled: I don’t know how the Catholic Church works nowadays; maybe it’s all supposed to be symbolic.

Remembering that several classmates also had taken communion, I figured, I’ll head back to my seat and ask them; if they actually ate the wafer, I’ll follow suite.

Turning, I walked about halfway back to my chair before a ruckus behind me caught my attention.

The French clergyman had left his post, chasing me, yelling at me in French. Again.

This scene was all too familiar. For the second time during Ascension Day mass in Paris’ Notre Dame, I was disrupting the service.

Horrified, I quickly discarded my rising frustration and the impulse to stick the wafer on my tongue and yell, “Bite me,” at my verbal assailant. Instead, I silently handed back my wafer and slid into the nearest seat, hoping the Frenchman would again disappear.

It worked, and I was left to contemplate my mortification to the soundtrack of my snickering classmates a few rows away.

Upon returning to the States that summer, I told all my relatives about the time I almost took communion in Notre Dame.

In so many moments, the experience could have gone better: I could have kept my camera hidden; I could have just eaten the wafer; I could have spoken French.

But time after time, my ignorance of the Catholic Church, of Parisian culture and of the French language reached up to slap my English-speaking face.

Clearly, when it comes to travel, sometimes an ounce of culture is worth a pound of apologies.