When I was fifteen years old I took a trip to Rome sponsored by the Catholic High School I attended. Around fifteen students were chaperoned by a teaching brother of the order that ran our school. We would visit the Vatican and attend a public mass served by Pope Paul VI in Saint Peter’s Square.

The mass was scheduled for the day after our flight landed in Rome. I recall being tired, having not accounted for the effects of jet lag. It was also a very hot, humid day. This mass was a very big deal for the members of the religious order who led our group. There was excitement in the air. We walked from our inexpensive Catholic pilgrim lodging to a small restaurant to get some lunch before heading over to St. Peter’s. The restaurant could not accommodate our entire party at one table, so another kid and I were assigned to a separate table. We all were given food allowances before the trip began, so we had money.

The waiter came to our table and placed a carafe of red wine down before we had said a word. We looked at each other. We were two American teenagers, never having been given sensible guidance about a healthy relationship to alcohol, so we took full advantage of the opportunity. We downed the wine far too quickly, then ordered a second carafe. Then another. It was a very enjoyable meal, as I recall. We finished off bottle number three just as we spotted the rest of the group get up to leave the restaurant. We settled our bill and followed them.

As we exited the door I tried to keep my eyes on our group, but it was difficult because of the dense crowd of people on the street walking towards Saint Peter’s. The other kid saw the group and pushed ahead. I was a bit drunk and tired, and I walked smack into a street light pole, which snapped my eyeglasses in two. The other kid had not seen my mishap. I should mention that I was born with a severe astigmatism in my left eye, and my right eye isn’t great either, so I didn’t get around too well without glasses. I realized that I was now on my own.

Even in my impaired state it was easy to follow the crowd to St. Peter’s Square. It wasn’t far, and it seemed as if everyone on the continent was heading in that direction. I was surrounded. There was very little space for me to walk without colliding with another person. Soon the group I was a part of was absorbed into the sea that filled the square. We had arrived. I was drunk and tired. I wasn’t really looking forward to standing through the entire Catholic liturgy. I looked around for a place to sit down. No chance. I knew I wouldn’t find my group either.

There was a murmur in the crowd. A surge of people pressed closely against me. I didn’t know what was going on. Using my limited knowledge of the Italian language, I deduced that Pope Paul VI had arrived in the square. I just wanted to go to sleep. Soon the space between me and the other people closed, and I was lifted off my feet by the wall of bodies. I was soaked in my own sweat and that of the pilgrims around me. The stench of body odor was overwhelming. People were screaming “Il papa.” I wanted to be anywhere but there. I blaspheme, but Rome in July is hot as hell.

At this point I experienced a miracle. There is no other way to explain it. The crowd parted to get around the base of a light pole. I was pushed into the cool stone, and slid down into a sitting position. It was the perfect refuge. People passed close by me, but never touched me. I put my head down and fell asleep. I awoke later in the afternoon to see that the mass was over. I had not seen the Pope nor heard him speak. Most of the crowd was gone. Tourists gathered in small groups, and workers swept up debris. I climbed to my feet and found my way back to the dormitory. My eyeglasses were held together with tape for the rest of the trip.