The First Kiss of My Life Under Rome's Clotheslines - When the Pope Wouldn't

The picture is AI-made by the Author on the following prompt: "a picture of two kissing men in Rome in a backyard with only the moon as witness in 1980ies quality".

The news reports that the Pope has been hospitalized with pneumonia. It is now said that he is recovering.

Of course, that is good news for him—imagine receiving such attention as an 88-year-old man who falls ill.

But it makes me think of an event that took place in 1984.

I was on an Interrail trip across Europe, and my main destination was Rome. I had planned to spend a week in the Eternal City. Nothing was prearranged—back then, you couldn’t just hop on a computer to book a hotel room or check prices.

In 1984, people would simply stand on the platform when international trains arrived, holding large cardboard signs displaying the cost of a night’s stay. Many backpackers were on the train coming from the north. We examined the people holding signs, judging by price and the person's appearance whether their hotel or pension might be a good place to stay.

I ended up with Mama Kathy. The price was reasonable, and I asked her at the station if I could stay for a week. "Of course," she said. I would even get a small discount. Everything was falling into place.

We followed Mama Kathy to her Pension Kathy, just a few streets away from the central station. There were about ten of us in the group, already familiar from the train. Most were Americans who aimed to see Rome in just one day before moving on. We Europeans laughed a little at their rush; they would never truly experience the soul of the city that way.

We were shown to a larger room with a sink on one side and six beds lined up along the walls. I quickly realized that privacy would be nonexistent. Mama Kathy also had certain rules, including a curfew for how late we could return at night.

We weren’t allowed to use the antique sink for anything other than brushing our teeth—washing clothes in it was strictly forbidden.

On the other hand, we could ask her about anything under the sun, and she would try to answer. Or at least, I think that’s what she was saying, because by this point, her limited English vocabulary had run out, and she had long since switched to Italian. Fortunately, I spoke a decent amount of French, so I could understand the gist of it.

I often asked her for directions to my various sightseeing destinations, and in the evenings, I would ask for restaurant recommendations. She knew exactly which back alleys to go to for the world's best pizza or pasta at incredibly low prices—so long as we let the staff know we were from Mama Kathy. It never failed, and what portions a hungry young backpacker was served once they heard I was staying with her!

I was incredibly happy with the company of the other young travelers in the dormitory and with Mama Kathy’s warm hospitality.

She heard about my plan to visit St. Peter’s Basilica on the Feast of Corpus Christi. She instructed me to position myself at a specific fence that would be set up in St. Peter’s Square. She was certain the Pope would pass right by! But I had to leave early to get a spot. She promised to wake me up in time.

The next morning, she gently took my arm and greeted me in Italian. She truly was a mother to her boys at the pension. I got up and was sent off into the empty morning streets. I quickly found a place to buy an espresso and a piece of bread before heading to the Vatican.

Street sweepers were cleaning the square, and guards were patrolling St. Peter’s Square. Only a few people had arrived at this early hour, and I found the exact spot Mama Kathy had described. There was no one else standing there—only a few nuns sitting on chairs on the other side. On my side, standing was required, so I stood there in the rising morning sun. It was warm, and I was glad to have brought a bottle of water.

Time passed, and the square filled to capacity. I remained at my spot, with thousands of people beside and behind me.

Just a few years earlier, Pope John Paul II had survived an assassination attempt (in 1981), so everyone knew he now rode around greeting crowds in his bulletproof Popemobile. We expected the same on this day. However, in a surprising exception, the Pope chose to ride in an open Popemobile, without bulletproof glass—only the Swiss Guard in front and behind him for protection.

The crowd erupted in cheers when they saw him. He made his rounds, and as it turned out, he passed right by the spot where I stood in the front row at the barrier—just as Mama Kathy had predicted.

His car approached slowly, and he shook hands with those he could reach. As the vehicle passed me, I eagerly stretched out my hand, ready for a handshake from the popular Pope. But the woman to my left received it instead. She was nearly fainting with excitement. I was disappointed, but it was still an incredible experience to have been so close to such a significant figure.

Afterward, I joked about it. Of course, the Pope had immediately recognized that I was a Lutheran and that the woman beside me was Catholic—so naturally, it was only fair that she got the handshake!

This is a completely true account from a long-lost time. I have deep respect for what Pope John Paul II achieved during his time as Pope. I don’t see the same progress for humanity under the current Pope, but his health struggles triggered a flood of memories from my past. I hope he recovers and can be a charismatic leader if that is God’s will. Otherwise, I hope he has a dignified passing and that the next conclave—perhaps they should consider electing a somewhat younger Pope—finds a worthy successor.

Later that day it got romantic!

Later that day, I went to one of Mama Kathy’s recommended restaurants. A group of local guys thought I should come with them to the Spanish Steps.

So we went, and once there, we hung out, drinking wine from paper cups. The locals began playing guitars and singing serenades. But I was the target of their songs—their blonde, blue-eyed guest from Denmark—not the girls who stood in flocks, trying to flirt with the guys.

Their singing was wonderful, and I told the handsome one with the guitar that I had to be back at the pension by 11 PM. No problem—he would walk me home.

At some point, when the wine was gone and spirits were high, he tugged on my sleeve—it was time to go. We walked through the quiet city streets, lit only by the glow from windows and the murmurs of conversation from restaurants.

Suddenly, we were holding hands. He pulled me into a courtyard, where only the moonlight reached down. Above us, laundry hung from clotheslines stretched between the buildings.

I still remember how beautifully he kissed, how we clung to each other like two untrained wrestlers, grasping at each other’s bare chests. It was wonderful—innocent, because it didn’t go any further—but it reassured me that I was attracted to men and that I would find someone to kiss in the future.