It seems an unlikely pilgrimage. Lapsed Protestant heads to the epicenter of 1.4 billion Catholics to witness the centuries-old tradition of electing a pope. And yet Tuesday, I’m headed to Rome.

Truth be told, I’m fascinated by the pomp and pageantry of the Catholic Church—the incense, the communication of world news via smoke signals, processions of 200 grey-haired men all dressed in red (which a friend pointed out could be a Santa thing.)

Suffice it to say, my hometown didn’t have a Catholic Church. I was in college before I attended my first mass. It was another world from the white clapboard church of my youth—a minister in a black suit, the smell of Pledge-burnished mahogany, Welch’s grape juice standing in for the blood of Christ. Mass introduced robes and incense and a wine that I wasn’t yet legal to drink. To me, I was Dorothy landing in Oz, and everything had just turned technicolor.

I went on to marry that guy whom I went to my first mass with. When our kids were young, Italy was one of our go-to countries for summer vacations, and it never disappointed—the food, the antiquity, the crazy Italians speeding by on bright yellow Vespas. So two years ago when a friend turned 80 and told me her dream was to see Italy, I cobbled together an agenda and off we went.

In Rome, we splurged on a private tour of the Vatican Museums that ended in the Sistine Chapel after hours. During prior visits, we’d been herded into the chapel by the dozens, everyone jockeying for floor space and holding out a mirror to get the best glimpse of the ceiling. I wasn’t going to put my friend through that.

Instead, we splurged on a private tour that ended after hours in the Sistine Chapel. Shortly after we entered, the larger groups left. All that remained were the two of us, our guide, and a guard. We were completely alone under Michelangelo’s ceiling. It was magical. Since photos are forbidden, I stood utterly still and tried to sear this moment into my brain.

As we were leaving, I said to the guard, “Tell the truth. When you’re alone, do you ever snap a photo?”

“No,” he replied, “But I always pause for a moment and reflect.” Then he smiled, “But you can take one photo if you wish.”

Our guide gasped, “Really?!”

The guard nodded, so I snapped one very quick photo and thanked him profusely. He put his finger to his lips. Shhh.

It was our secret. Until now.

In that moment, I added the Sistine Chapel to my list of fascinations.

Now flash forward to an early morning in Paris not long ago. I had just returned from the coffee shop when Pat told me that Pope Francis had died. “That’s a shame,” I said, “He seemed like a kind man.” Then it dawned on me, “Wait. There’s gonna be a conclave?! How stupid would it be if I went to Rome?”

Those of you who’ve been here a while know that Pat encourages all my ideas irrespective of merit. He didn’t flinch, “Julie, if you’re that interested in it, go. I want you to go.”

It took fewer than 30 minutes to learn that the conclave would start between May 6th and 11th, to book a flight for the morning of the 6th, and to reserve a twin-bedded room that’s a five-minute walk from Saint Peter’s Basilica.

That afternoon, I watched the movie Conclave and a YouTube video of the announcement of the election of John Paul II. Years ago, I’d taken my mother-in-law to see him speak in front of Saint Peter’s. After all, to me he was the papal equivalent of Elvis. Then after living in Central Europe for four years and seeing his likeness everywhere, he became my favorite pope. (Full disclosure, the only popes I can name are John Paul II, the German guy, and Francis).

Watching the video, I was reminded of how stunning John Paul’s selection was. The commentator struggled to pronounce his given name, Wojtyła. In betting jargon, he was a long shot and by papal standards at 58, an atypically young choice. He was also the first pope from Poland, which at that time was still communist.

The crowd in the packed square stood momentarily confused and silent when his name was read, but when he came to the window, they erupted. It was pandemonium.

So I ask myself, why not just stay home and watch the replay?

But doesn’t too much of our lives already play out on our phones?

The last several weeks I’ve read about, and reflected on, a societal epidemic of diminished attentiveness, the importance of hobbies that aren’t morphed into side hustles, and our inability to shun the stranglehold of around-the-clock connectedness. Much of this deals with the increasing intrusiveness of technology and the need to create healthy boundaries.

So no, I don’t want to wait and catch the replay.

Last week, I read Anthony Doerr’s memoir, Four Seasons in Rome, about the year he spent there with his wife and infant twins. Coincidentally, it was during this sabbatical that Pope John Paul II died. Doerr describes hearing the cacophony of bells announcing a new pope, racing with his sons to Saint Peter’s, joining the diverse crowd of Catholics and atheists, Protestants and Buddhists who cheered and cried when the new pope was introduced.

Often my travel plans eventually enter a what-the-hell-heck-am-I-doing phase. But not this time. This time, I’m like a kid waiting for Christmas. (The minute I wrote that I thought, Wow. What if this is actually a Santa thing?)

It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to waste more time trying to unknot my motivation. Bottom line, while I may never understand why I went to Rome during the conclave, it requires no justification. I’m going to a city that I adore to witness an event that fascinates me.

As of now, I’m switching my focus to my goals: To pay tribute to a humble man. To witness faith. To disconnect. To learn only that news which is communicated via the centuries old tradition of burning paper to create smoke. To experience every single Roman church bell ringing simultaneously. To sit in the moment. To journal my thoughts exclusively with pen and paper.

On Thanksgiving morning, Anthony Doerr wrote something that still resonates with me. I’m thankful that everything sweet is sweet because it is finite.

This thought will serve as a reminder throughout this trip—and I hope beyond. To remain grounded in each moment. To savor the sweetness. To accept finitude.

Of Rome. Of Paris. Of everything.

Categories: Ruminations, Western Europe

Tags: conclave, nomadic retirement, Sistine chapel, the world inbetween, Unusual retirement options