Andrew O’Connell was in Rome for the papal canonisations
We always knew that getting into St Peter’s Square for last Sunday’s canonisation Mass would be an ordeal. But this was going to be the last of the great John Paul gatherings and we wanted to be at the heart of it.
A group of a dozen friends, mostly in their thirties – yes, the John Paul Generation is aging – decided to do whatever it took to get a spot in the Square.
6pm Saturday: We settle down at the top of the queue on the Via San Pio X. This is one of three designated entry points into the Via della Conciliazione – the main avenue leading up to St Peter’s Square. The authorities plan to fill the Via della Conciliazione from these three streets later in the night and, from there, the Square early on Sunday morning. So this is a queue for a queue. Groundsheets are unfurled and soon the entire street is carpeted with human bodies. Our night á la belle étoile commences.
The experience of being in a crowd like this brings out the best and worst in people. A lovely camaraderie emerges among the multinational crowd. Food is shared, names exchanged and, in the case of one of the ladies in our group, a mobile phone number is swapped with an admiring official.
Darkness
As darkness falls many pilgrims begin to pray: some in silence, others in groups. Beside us 50 young Maronite Christians from Lebanon pray the rosary in Arabic: the sound is mesmerising.
1am Sunday: We get to our feet as the barriers open and, with the volunteers forming a human chain ahead of us, we begin a slow march up the Via della
Conciliazione.
At 1.30am we come to a halt about three quarters of the way up the Via. We are now densely packed together. There is no room to sit down let alone lie down. And that’s the way it remains for the next four and a half hours. No toilet breaks are possible at this stage.
Everywhere you look rosary beads are threaded slowly through fingers. Occasionally, the crowd spontaneously bursts into the Lourdes Ave and the chorus lifts voices and spirits. The sight of the basilica floodlit in the distance is an encouragement to hang in there.
Mercifully, the night is dry and mild. Now and again the cry of “medico, medico” goes up as someone passes out. On one occasion the medic appears puffing a cigar. Only in Italy.
6am: The dawn breaks and after 12 hours of waiting, the crowd becomes impatient and chants “Aprite, Aprite” – “Open up! Open up!”, more in a spirit of fun than anger.
The next stage of the operation proves to be the most dangerous as the police release a few hundred people at a time from the Via della Conciliazione into the Square. At the first sign of movement there’s a violent surge. One side of the crowd is pushed forward at an alarming speed. Our group is separated in two and suddenly find ourselves 30 yards apart. Cries of “non spingete!” – “Don’t push!” have little effect.
7am: At last, our turn comes and we are released from the Via into the Square. Suddenly, just as we cross the white line that marks Vatican territory we are diverted by the police and sent behind the colonnade to a different entry point. Spirits fall when we realise we are in another queue. Another 90 minute wait follows as thousands of people try to enter the square via two narrow entrances – each the width of a regular doorway. For the first time tempers become frayed as exasperated pilgrims struggle to figure out why only two gates are available for such a crowd.
9am: At last we take up our places in the square with a great view of the altar and standing along the route Pope Francis will travel afterwards. Sure enough, we get a wave from him as he passes.
So, was it worth it? This was a pilgrimage and pilgrimages lose their value when the uncomfortable part becomes only a means to an end. The reward of the experience is not the bragging rights of being able to say, “I was in the square”. The long wait has meaning too. Some of the people singing the Gloria at full belt during the Mass missed that part: some of them would have walked over you in the queue only hours before. They are entirely oblivious to the incongruity.
Our 15 hour wait for Mass became a time to pray and reflect, to offer a smile and a helping hand to the stranger, and to forgive – literally – the trespasses.
So, in its apparent
dreariness, in a way it was in that queue on Saturday night that our Sunday Eucharist had actually begun. Of course it was worth it.
