Rome — And Suddenly, History

Last night, just before midnight, I crossed St. Peter’s Square. Thousands of us. Pressed together—more by the moment than by the cold. Lost gazes, prayers that didn’t always sound religious. We hadn’t all come for the same reason, but we’d all been summoned by the same one: the pope had died. And there we were. In the middle of that muted murmur, I found myself staring at the body of Pope Francis. Still. Exposed. Argentine, like me.

And then a strange feeling hit me. As if all of this—the place, the hour, the dead man, the coincidence—was some kind of cosmic joke. How could it be that this happens now, during these few days I came to wander through Rome without a plan? I think about it and smile to myself, because I know I’m not the only one. There are thousands like me, freezing the moment, trying to capture something more than just an image. And still… something lingers. Like a soft alert, a signal without a translator. As if someone were whispering: “Pay attention. This isn’t random.”

The Vatican at night has a different texture. I’m not Catholic, but even for me, there’s something in that place that feels different. I’m not saying anything new: we all know the Vatican has a certain mystique. But the one I felt wasn’t religious. It didn’t come from the marble, or the gold, or the centuries of accumulated power. It came from the people. Walking slowly, in silence, with faces that fully understood what was happening: the pope had died, and we were living a historic moment. We all knew it. And still, there was something hard to explain. Being there didn’t make you a protagonist, but it made you a little more part of the story. As if being present was a way of honoring what had just happened. A quiet responsibility to stand as close as possible to that moment that, for some reason, happened right when we were here.

And I think what moved me the most wasn’t the weight of the ritual, or the solemnity of the place, but the human side of it all. The way everyone—tourists, the devout, Romans just passing by—shared the same scene with the humility of those who don’t fully understand, but know they’re witnessing something. Maybe that’s why Rome is changing me. It’s undoing the ideas I had about religion, about Europe, about myself.

This city—eternal and chaotic, warm like a nona and ruthless like Roman traffic—made me feel, for the first time, that living and surviving might just be the same thing. And even though I don’t have a nona, I understand the invisible hug they represent. Especially since my girlfriend lent me a bit of hers. Rome is that, too: a mix of what’s yours and what you inherit. And in that emotional blend, making it to the afternoon espresso—even alone—feels like a celebration.

Rome is the kind of place where we’re all strangers, and for that reason, maybe we’re all friends. A city where no one judges you for crying in a church, or getting emotional in front of a ruin, even if you’re not sure why. A city where the past and the present don’t fight—they coexist. Where seeing a dead pope is not an ending, but a reminder that we’re still here. Still alive. And that—especially in these noisy times—is not just something. It’s something to celebrate.