Circo Massimo papal funeral mass

Packs Romana!

Here's a helpful tip. If you must absolutely, without a doubt, speak urgently with an Italian then what you need is his or her telefonino number. Gli italiani -- from teenaged ragazzi to la nonna in her pomodori-stained house dress -- get oxygen, nourishment and important bulletins about planet earth from these devices all day every day. For me, this is a curious, albeit infuriating truism. It bugs me to no end that a ringing telefonino will without fail disrupt dinner or the climactic scene of a movie. And because Italians need two hands to talk on these magic talking boxes, one would be wise to steer clear of a Roman motorist recklessly chatting away on his telefonino.

But the Italian government believes mobile phones can save lives. And thus, twice this week I received a text message from Berlusconi's boys -- the Protezione Civile to be precise. It was an urgent alert for me and the other 50 million mobile-phone-toting residents of Italy warning us that should we plan to venture into the center of Rome we may run into an enorme affluso ("enormous influx", presumably of people). Regardless of whether you were fishing off the coast of Sicily or skiing in Cortina, the good people at Protezione Civile wanted you to know what was happening in or around St. Peter's Square. The Protezione Civile have had the system for 8 months, but until this week have not (thankfully) had cause to use it to inundate all of Italy. But seeing so many pilgrims in town they rightly considered this to be a worthwhile moment to use the emergency spam hotline. I was told from the Prot Civile that the system was designed for massive events, which includes volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, terrorist strikes, and now, pilgrims.

For emergency crews, pilgrims pose a particular problem. You never know exactly when they will arrive, how many are coming, how they are coming and where they will stay when they arrive. If the New Testament had plagues, you can bet pilgrims would be on the list (most likely replacing frogs). So when millions of visitors (in fairness, roughly half were reporters) came unannounced this week to Rome, Romans were bracing for the worst. You see, on at least one occasion the unannounced visitors sacked the city, toppled the government, destroyed most of the buildings downtown. It was the end of an era, if not an empire, they say. True, those were invaders, not pilgrims. But you can never be too sure, particularly if the unannounced visitors are carrying guitars and singing disarming songs about Jesus. The perfect cover if you ask me. It turns out though these are mainly well-meaning pilgrims. And we are willing to overlook the fact that they are showing no apparent signs of planning to return home. They also haven't shown any signs of trashing the city. So, I think we will give them another 24 hours. The only ones who can stay are the foreign TV journalists who continue to over-pay us freelance hacks for the privilege of setting up nonsense interviews and harassing said pilgrims.

Friday night at St. Peter's 

i pelligrini 

Il papa

The piazza at St. Peter's has become an eerie place, the world's largest waiting room for shaken pilgrims. We've all been expecting JP Due's passing for years now, it seems. But still it seems hard to believe that this remarkably resiliant old man won't be greeting the faithful, the lost, the casual and curious from his top-floor window any more. Staring up at his window Friday night during an impromptu prayer vigil that attracted some 75,000, I really felt as if this was the end of an era, moving even for this Catholic who struggles with his faith from time to time, and time again. For me, it just seems particularly dispiriting to lose a true leader (mind you, I still disagree with much of his orthodoxy) when leaders are in such pathetically short supply these days.

The Romans won't admit it, but I think they will miss him most. To Romans, the pope is a neighbor, a Roman. And like all neighbors, there are fewer good than bad, I suppose. Maybe that's why Romans usually speak of popes in the darkest of humour. When a pope is on his deathbed, they say in classic Roman understatement: Morto un papa, se ne fa un altro. Dead pope, just make another.

But, from the somber pall that's descended over this city, I'm thinking even the Romans must feel there never will be another Giovanni Paolo Secondo. In my short time here, he's become my favorite Roman (even if technically he's not actually Roman living inside those massive walls with an odd-looking flag flapping overhead). I've marveled at how much he has to say about matters big and small, concerns distant and right below his window. In December, I recall, he challenged the city fathers to do something about the traffic. The traffic! It's killing the spirit of the young (I assume he meant commuters), he told a gathering of politicians. He also told them to play nice and start serving the Romans. I thought: this is what London and New York need! Not a deputy mayor! A pope! Well, maybe not a pope. Just a good neighbor, one who doesn't mind us showing up under his window from time to time.