June 2016 — jet‑lagged, overheated, and accidentally blessed
We’d just crawled off more than 30 hours of flights — that special kind of long‑haul where your soul leaves your body somewhere over Dubai and your ankles forget what shape they’re meant to be. But we were determined. Europe! Adventure! Gelato!
Rome greeted us with a wall of heat so thick you could butter toast with it. Naturally, in our travel‑fogged optimism, we’d booked accommodation “close to the Vatican.”
Except “close” was clearly written by someone with local knowledge, Olympic walking stamina, or both.
Off we went, weaving through back streets, convinced we were moments away. Moments became kilometres. Kilometres became “are we walking around the entire country of Vatican City?” The sun was melting us into two small puddles of Kiwi determination.
Eventually — sweaty, dehydrated, and spiritually softened — we reached the Vatican gates.
Security was intense: scanners, bag checks, stern looks. The piazza was filling fast. Fences were going up. People were gathering like something big was brewing.
We spotted a young Swiss Guard (crisp uniform, not a bead of sweat — rude) and asked what was happening.
He blinked at us, perfectly calm, and said:
“The Pope is having an audience.”
Of course he was.
We hadn’t just arrived at the Vatican.
We’d stumbled, jet‑lagged and half‑roasted, straight into a papal event.
Only us.
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