St. Peter Express

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

Exodus and Exile
The last hours before departure, I’m playing with fire: rushing to iron a pillowcase, drying and straightening my hair, baking cookies. Everything goes smoothly until the discovery that the last metro connection to Austerlitz Station is closed. The clock is ticking… terrified of missing my train, I race across the Seine heaving my big backpack, but on the platform, my cohort of 80 university students decked out in white and blue are milling about excitedly. Apparently, there’s still a half hour before departure. I get some funny glances—I probably look like how I feel: a packcamel after a Saharan sprint.

Self-ostracized in my sweaty and gross state, I nervously make my way to the couchette listed on my ticket. At a compartment stuffed with backpacks and a bunch of girls, I muster a friendly, “Hi, I’m bunk #96.” They’re not impressed. “The bunks are all taken; we’re not actually assigned anywhere, so you’re free to pick whatever spot you find.” Oh. Heat transfer: burn. I drift down the train peering into body-less but backpack-filled compartments, the lone new kid on the school playground.

Constructing a Sun in a Moving Train
Somehow my bunk is re-rendered to me, so I drop off my backpack and wander down the narrow hall in search of friendly faces. And I find one: a fellow in a classy blazer who answers, “engineering” when asked what he studies. His response and general friendliness inspire my soliciting help to transform my pillowcase into an unmistakable symbol of national identity. He kindly accepts. While he sets up a compass, three roommates swoop in on this quest to create a perfect circle—we consider tracing a round of Camembert, but it’s proportionally inadequate. Replacing the compass’ weak fiber with dental floss, the operation continues, and finally, the train finally begins to inch towards Italy. Cheers erupt from throughout the train; exuberant students stick their heads out the windows, waving at startled people on the platform.

But I, I stay put, observing the team of gallant Frenchmen at work making me a sun, which I eventually snip out with a tiny hot pink Swiss Army knife. Some of this brigade also stick their heads out the window, notably the fellow who drains his carton of pork rillettes into the rushing evening wind. Mirth and merriment abound. Visitors pop in frequently, asking what we’re doing with newspaper and scarlet fabric all over the place. The guys grin, “Making a Japanese flag, obviously!”

As dinner winds down, one of our accompanying priests leads vespers over the loudspeaker. We pull out our booklets. Chant, hymn and prayer fill the train.

Romeward Bound
A group leader arrives to herd his errant flag-making sheep from the far end of the car. I meet the people with whom I will be deployed in Rome. Ten of us, including a just-engaged couple and two brothers who’ve come from the coast of France for this trip, cram cozily into a compartment. The space is decked out with giant French and Vatican flags, much to the delight of the priest who stops by. We hold a discussion on love and forgiveness; a passage from one of John Paul II’s homilies: “Is not mercy love’s ‘second name’?” particularly strikes us. We pray Compline with the rest of the train before splitting.

Then the priest’s voice invites us to pray the rosary. I slip into the nearest quiet compartment, where the girls graciously gesture to a seat. How wonderful this trip is: strangers so freely praying together.

Later while I’m chatting with the girls in my own compartment, an American exchange student finds me and we talk briefly before the beds are set up. I climb into the middle bunk in the direction of movement (toss-up between slamming into the wall or into the two vertical straps in place to keep bodies from falling). But it’s actually exceedingly peaceful. I’m flying through the night on my back across the countryside in an insulated roller coaster. In my pajamas!

In the Morning
I wake up to what seems like one of the miracles required for the beatification to be valid: I could swear that we’re traveling in the opposite direction. What I am sure of is that most of us are awake, but no one moves until the priest’s voice informs us that soon it’ll be time for Lauds. To dress in the space of about two squashed square meters and chant morning prayer from our bunks, we become contortionists. (Yet another miracle?) After breakfast, we break to meet with our small groups to further discuss Divine Mercy.

Later, some students lead singing over the speakers and introduce our Roman itinerary. The useful narration is interspersed with some wry commentary as well as spontaneous karaoke until a rather doleful voice informs us that the mic has been reappropriated by the proper train authorities.

On the walls hiding the beautiful city of Florence, there’s gigantic graffiti that reads, “YOGURT,” with a “v” in place of the “u.” How Latin.

Flag-Making, Reprise
One car over, an assistant helps me center and pin the sun to the pillowcase with red safety pins. During our industry, we sing with another girl. When it’s time to work on the Polish side of the flag, someone from my group shows up and offers help. Thus while poking fun at the Parisian accent, we fuss with the large swath of red fabric, folding, cutting, pinning, and occasionally yelping in pain as we clumsily pierce our fingers. Well, he just pretends. I bear the injuries.

Rome
We leave Termini Station at 3 pm in our groups for the Basilica of Saint Mary Major. It’s a brief visit, as the second train carrying our mass’ celebrant, Cardinal Vingt-Trois, is delayed four hours. Our group settles on a bench-lined walkway between the Carcalla baths and the Circus Maximus to discuss charity and compassion. Then we break out our rain gear and head to the Forums, snacking on satisfyingly chewy chocolate chip cookies. The rain lets up as the chaplaincy meets at one of the oldest churches in Rome, the Basilica of Saint Clement. In the courtyard, our chaplains describe the building’s conversion from house to church, and the role of families in evangelization.

We then convene at the Lateran Obelisk—the largest standing in the world—waiting for others of the 1,500 from the Paris diocese to arrive. We’ve secured the basilica for our own French mass, and we enter singing joyously. After the mass, students linger to continue singing. The gilded ceiling and exquisite paintings in the apse and transepts are lit beautifully.

Nightfall
After picnicking near the Coliseum, we begin our trek towards the Vatican City. Other flag-bearing pilgrims cross our path that features clocks marked with numerals that couldn’t be more Roman. Near 11 pm, we arrive at the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele II. From my plot in the gutter, I can see the glowing cupola crowning St. Peter’s basilica above the housetops and the illuminated Castel Sant’Angelo lying at my feet. Not bad for a first outdoor sleepover. We’re just a drop in this river of bodies and sleeping bags lining the street; on the sidewalk, steady streams of Poles—some in cultish metallic red capes—parade past in both directions.

The priest takes his post at the intersection with a loudspeaker, rallying the morale of his French flock. Flags and banners dance above us in the night sky; we cheer as the bus carrying a company of cardinals—the Cardinal Car—creeps past. Traffic finally gives way to the multitude steadily filling the streets. Our territory secured, we pray Compline and sing the beautiful chant Totus tuus, the motto of John Paul II’s pontificate. Then we party like we just traveled 1,104 kilometers to celebrate the beatification of our favorite Polish pope of all time. Out come the guitar, violin, drums, and jubilant hymns… Some people actually fall sleep, but plenty don’t even try, opting to sit on the wall with the intention of singing through the night. Unfortunately, the post-hymn repertoire attracts an audience of smokers and the wind sends smelly toxic fumes in my direction. I muffle my aggravation, burrowing into my sleeping bag.