When I Met the Pope
has been to the Galápagos with Richard Dawkins. I almost ask, wh
The flight to Rome is sentient; it knows exactly where I’m going and what to provide. At my gate, I find myself sitting next to a guy eating a massive perfect panini. He smells like ten men, perhaps because of the additional paninis he is smuggling on his perso
My Tyrolean mountain climbing outfit is judged too revealing, so I am asked to tie a sort of barber’s cape around my waist. ‘Just the waist!’ the man yelps, when I try to put it around my whole body; I’m not going to cheat him out of an arm view. Downstairs, I start my period immediately while looking at an illumination of Christ as a sausage, coming violently uncased
Someone is playing Bach on a cello made from the wood of Greek migrants’ boats. We have a programme containing the pope’s address in English, but I’ve only glanced at it to see a quote from Romano Guardini comparing artists to children. The cellist finishes, the pope begins. His speech, since I am looking at him instead of following along on paper, seems to consist of three words, repeated over and over: *Bambini*. *Morta*. *Che bella*. ‘Che bella’ comes out with his old strength of voice, so beautiful.
Small dick equals big brain,’ Hope says knowledgeably, indicating one statue; she is absorbed in her own parallel track.