St. Peter Express, Part II

Of the abridged adventures of one of the 1.5 million pilgrims that descended upon Rome for the beatification of Pope John Paul II: an account of everything but the beatification itself.

By F. Ferguson

Stampede
The moment before I fall into the arms of Morpheus, a voice cries out the most hateful words I can hear in this moment: GET UP! I’m immediately on my feet, blindly shoving my bed into my bag, mindful of the thousands of people mobilizing to cross this bridge. No time to pack my mat—this is four hours earlier than I expected. By the time I’m upright with my belongings, I’m totally surrounded by a mob of Poles of all ages. I scan the horizon of heads for my French comrades and manage to find some of my group at the end of the Via Conciliazione, where security personnel let people through individually at five or six entry points. Thus begins the all-night six-block marathon up the street.

It’s a battle: our small disoriented company losing men in the fray, getting separated, identifying comrades in the crowd by their clothing, flag, or language. These things are enough to bond when you’re up against obnoxiously loud Italians, groups of Spaniards enacting a Running of the Fools, and endless throngs of fearless Polish grandmas determined to press forward. Halfway to St. Peter’s Square, we hit a gridlock and settle down, trying not to get crushed.

Reaching the toilets in the nearest crossroad is an incredible ordeal. Although volunteers escort us through the body-strewn street, it’s inevitable to step on people as we tiptoe through the mass of immobilized bodies, reminiscent of a Dantean vision of Inferno.

We manage to return to our nebulous camp in the human amoeba that plasters the street. For two hours we huddle in the middle of what is usually a very busy thoroughfare, twisting our bodies to fit whatever crevice we can fill, hoping to catch some sleep. But it escapes most of us.

I’m more or less facing St. Peter’s, which rises before us like the Emerald City, only it isn’t green. Still, the cobblestones beneath us might as well be the Yellow Brick Road. Which I guess would make us a horde of homeless Munchkins. You can imagine a lot of things at 3, 4, 5, 6 am in the midst of 1.5 million people storming the smallest city-state in the world.

In the last leg of the race as the sky lightens, there’s no pretense of civility. Between falling asleep standing up and leading my group (the constituents of which have changed dramatically through the night) in song or joining in with the Parisian parish group that happens to be nearby, it’s a series of violent bag- and body-pushing towards the Vatican City. Normally, I’d hate this. But this is beyond normal. It’s rather exciting. With our bags and mats in testudo formation, we bulldoze through, two meters at a time.

In The Elliptical Square of St. Peter
Past the X-ray machines at the entrance, we’re hit with a devastating reality: the Square is already packed, and irritable sleep-deprived Catholics are jumping barricades and arguing loudly, fighting to shortcut the passage. The immense power of the crushing crowd steers us up against the barricade, then around a column; we creep down the shallow steps, discerning paths among bodies and blankets. In the bustle, we start losing each other one by one; I keep in sight of a student (tactical strategy: blue sweatshirt=friend), who spots a chaplaincy encampment. But it’s impossible to reach them with the human tangle on the ground and the constant incoming waves of people shoving us on. When we see one of our chaplains on the other side of our stream of traffic, we dodge all sorts of sleeping and smoking forms to reach the small Parisian oasis. Unfortunately, my raised mat is futile against the smoking girls sitting in front me; I weakly wrestle the great vexation that engulfs my sleepy mind. Sometimes, such as when I’m being forced to inhale carcinogens, carbon monoxide, tar, and ashes, I’m tempted to go soft on the Christian principles of forgiveness and forbearance.

Pageantry
With my Japanese emblem draped over my shoulders and a small Union Jack in my hand, I take in the sight of the other flags represented: one or two of the Philippines, Canada, Mexico, Greece, Slovakia, Switzerland, Spain, Lebanon, and about a billion of Poland. Even non-Polish looking banners reveal themselves to be in fact, Polish, once their texts come into view.

Ceremony
This is better recorded by others. Suffice it to say we’re overjoyed to celebrate the achievements of one of our brothers, thrilled to see Pope Benedict XVI beatifying his dear friend. I’m mumbling prayers of thanksgiving and petition—yes, including for the cessation of smoking but also for more compassion in my own heart—through my somnolent daze.

Exeunt
We leave the square (easily!) when Communion begins. Volunteers in the streets hand out packs of bottled water labeled “San Benedetto” as we power-march past landmarks and stride through Piazza Navona to picnic near Termini. Happily munching on Polish sausage for the occasion, I observe Rome in the sunshine. It’s as strange for me to see tourists and locals going about their day just as we backpacking pilgrims must appear strange to them: international sojourners who camp in the street for a short ceremony.

No Italy without gelato; I waltz off and board the train with pineapple and peach sweetness. Immediately I’m enlisted to block the doors from two Tunisian men trying to sneak into France on our train. We nervously follow the unsettling instruction to search the bunks, storage spaces, and bathrooms for “undesirable passengers.” The border security stint over, I dig into an avocado with a gelato paddle and introduce the French to Reese’s peanut butter cups. When the train begins to nap, tranquility itself rolls by in the golden evening light on the other side of the window and bids us farewell. Arrivederci, Italia.

Bonjour, Paris
There’s nothing like beating the crowds to early-morning teeth brushing, watching the landscape flash past at 75 kilometers per hour. After Lauds, our voices continue weaving four-part harmonies down the hallway, searching for wisdom, reveling in beauty. This isn’t a dorm fieldtrip but a makeshift cloister on wheels, a koinonia of bright youths fervent in their walks of faith, part of, and yet apart from, the world.

We’re back at Austerlitz at 10:30 am. The two brothers from my group rocket down the platform, shouting exultantly. The rest of us take pictures and exchange see-you-soons before taking to the transports of Paris, very much looking forward to a nice shower. It’s been a great weekend: we’re renewed in spirit and we’ve grown in friendship with some great memories shared between us—and the rest of the world who joined us—in the great adventure of attending the beatification of Pope John Paul II in Rome.