Saturday, April 2

We decided to walk back to our beds. I wished that I had brought my phone, so that I could call my parents, or anyone I knew, just to cement the reality of the situation that I had not yet absorbed. The hour-old day was cold, but we hardly noticed it. There were no stars to be seen; the lights of Rome hid them.

One hour earlier the second service on the steps of the Basilica of San Pietro began--it was simple and unadorned. Two nuns sang the music that echoed throughout the square, and a priest who grasped the microphone stand with two hands and had adopted a far-sighted stare offered words to the throng that had gathered. No one spoke.

We had arrived at the square by bus not too long before, as the first service was ending. The announcement had been made not more than an hour and half earlier, but the crowd of the sorrowful and respectful had already filled the place. There was enough room to move around the intial group of mourners that in the coming days would number over two million. They were crying, praying, and singing. Many more would come later, to line up three miles long to see a man who history would likely remember as Giovanni Paolo the Great.

One hour before we had arrived at our hostel after a long day of sightseeing and walking, and we were all ready to crash for the night. Because the key wasn't working, I went down to the front desk to get it remedied. The computer on the desk there had a single headline on the monitor.

At 8:30, Pope John Paul II had died.