I was Expelled from the Vatican
And how I penetrated the Holy See
File this under lessons learned.
I was in Rome for travel. A lengthy jaunt across Europe, losing myself in backstreets, taking bad photographs, spending time with the locals. I loved finding little mischief with which to pass the time (an unhealthy habit I have never been able to kick, no matter how much I’ve tried).
It was the Italian summer, the air lavished with that lazy orange haze that makes everyone and everything they do chic and effortless. Sunlight caressed its way around corners and the warm air made everything lighter. I was made an instant captive of the easy Italian way of being, that natural uplift and feeling of being surrounded by cool.
Case in point: wandering around near the Italian Supreme Court, I was captivated with what remains about the coolest thing I have ever seen. A priest in full black attire, arm thrown over the window of his Mini Cooper, cigarette in hand, shoulder-length hair whipped back by the breeze, RayBans completing the look.
I’ve had little to do with Priests in my life, and would certainly never have said that anything about them was cool. But this one was, like Italian football or Milan street fashion. Perhaps it’s only Italian Priests that can be cool.
I suddenly wanted nothing more than to visit Vatican City and find out for myself if this baron of suavity was a one-off, or if there were throngs of them hiding out in that fabled placed of conspiracy and secrecy.
The only problem was, ensconced within the supreme, historical walls of Rome, Vatican City is closed off from interlopers. The Roman public is not welcome among its cobbled streets any more than a mouse is among dinner guests. It is cloistered, shut off, shut down, muted, distant, unknowable — despite hiding in plain sight and being one of the most distinct and influential aspects of the modern and historical worlds. Outsiders are not welcome, and especially not me.
Friends, I was not phased by this. I was ready to do anything it took to penetrate the Holy See.
Wandering around the St Peter’s Basilica (and being charged a Papal sum to gaze at the Sistine Chapel ceiling with 40,000 others), I walked the extent of the walls separating Rome from Pope, looking for a point of entry. Every one seemed guarded by those Swiss Guards in their faintly ridiculous orange and blue livery. How intriguing, these ridiculously clad doormen, more Court Jesters than Storm-troopers.
It was hot, and I took a restorative moment in a bookstore, which was happily flogging trinkets, pamphlets and other religious wares to the passing tourists. I had asked several guards if it was possible to enter the Vatican, and they promptly informed me in halting English that only the Basilica and the Chapel were open to outsiders.
But in the bookstore, I saw my opportunity. There was a window, not much off the ground, tall and quaint, with doors opening up onto the cobbled Vatican street beyond. Step through those windows, and there I would be.
The windows, reader, were man-height, welcoming; a rare invitation into the private world of the Holy See. And it is simply not in my nature to turn down such a welcome. It was everything but red carpet and drinks on arrival. Without bothering to check if anyone was watching, I stepped up onto the window ledge and then took another step into the Vatican street. A couple of onlookers turned their restive holiday faces into bemused smiles at the sight of me clambering through said window, they all seemed too relaxed to saying anything — thank God for that easy calm the place imparted.
Leaving them behind, I took another step. I had made it. I had penetrated the seal. When in Rome….
Now to find some more priests, and maybe the Pope.
When people say they travel to get off the beaten track, this is perhaps not what they have in mind. But I’ve rarely had greater fun.
Despite a day of long walking in the heat, I found renewed vigour as I stalked the ancient streets. I pounded around corners at will; lost, with no map to guide other than a sense of fun that had come unleashed on one of the world’s most secret and unwelcoming places.
It’s a shame, in a way, that the travelling public is not welcome to gaze upon the Holy See without prior invitation. Of course, this isn’t entirely true, as if the place through its doors opened (and not just in bookstores), it would hold less mystic and interest to someone like myself.
But I can gladly report that it was old and sweet, quiet and calm, dignified and other-worldly. It seemed untouched by, well, anything of the last two centuries. I have travelled to many places around the world, including to many of its oldest wrinkles, and it had that same rare feeling found in certain parts that remain adhered to the old ways of things. Not just old technology or street structure and architecture, but an old manner, that goes behind the superficial and is caught up in the overall aesthetic created by ten thousand small features and attributes.
I digress.
After passing several street corners, I eyed something of a prize: a Priest, in full regalia, bustling someplace with a sheaf of documents tucked under an arm. Where was he going? Would he mind if I followed him, using the man as a sort of unofficial guide?
I didn’t ask; I just followed.
We went around two more corners, and I saw more old buildings, caught more of the old temperature. At some point he realised that I was following him and that I did not belong. His steps hurried; I now resist the urge to make a joke about priests running away from a young man.
In truth, these fleeting moments were a highlight of my trip. I had done something so beyond what would typically open to passing tourists (and even local Romans), so bizarre and utterly frivolous.
But not for long. I heard voices call out something in Italian (only an embarrassingly little of which I can speak) — turning, I saw two Italian gendarmes, all guns and seriousness, calling out to me and approaching from 100 metres away.
To my credit, I did try and evade them. I think I got around another corner, my priestly guide watching me after having caught wind of the commotion. Unfortunately, I ran into a dead-end straight and had to give it up.
The officers that apprehended me were a significant upgrade on the Swiss Guards standing ceremoniously at the entrance to the Holy See. Instead of spears, they had assault rifles; instead of clown outfits, they had protective paramilitary attire.
They carried me (literally) to a police guard post at one of the blockaded entrances. There I was interrogated, my passport reviewed, my bags inspected. The whole thing had been so ridiculous that it was (sort of) simple to explain that I had just thought I could come and go into the Vatican as I pleased.
They were surprised that I had made it in and seemed immensely displeased that their protections had been so easily breached.
I didn’t tell them about the bookstore and its welcome mat.
Miraculously, they let me go, papers and possessions intact, ready for a next adventure.
And before you ask, no, I did not see the Pope.
Scott Colvin is an internationally acclaimed writer and lawyer based in Melbourne. His award-winning work has appeared in The Sydney Morning Herald, The Australian Financial Review, The Huffington Post, and a variety of other national and international publications. Scott writes on culture, politics and the economy.
