The air was electric as the positive energy flowing through the crowd was tangible. Hundreds of people had come to the Vatican and were now crammed together in this piazza for the same purpose: to see, hear, and maybe touch the pope. Some people were crushed toward the front of the stage, some were moving back and forth, side to side, up and down in hopes of getting a better view of the man of the hour, the big guy not quite upstairs, el jefe, the papa, the guy with the funny car, the man with one of the largest fan bases in the world, a man who looks great in white and it's totally normal for him to kiss random babies, the pope.
Everyone in this crowd was mentally and physically preparing themselves for this ethereal experience. Everyone, except the police officers standing twenty feet in front of where I lounged on the steps, taking note of their every move.
At first there were only two guards, two medium sized Italian men wearing their navy blue police outfits with hints of red and white along the edges to jazz up the outfit. They were stern yet relaxed as they surveyed the crowed. They appeared friendly with each other. Perhaps they were partners, who had been working together for years. They talked amongst themselves. The officer on the right spoke more with his hands, which was pretty impressive considering one hand had a radio glued to it. Undeterred by his handicap, he told, from what I could tell, was one of the funniest stories his partner had heard. The officer on the left struggled to keep a sharp stance as he laughed and listened.
Soon two more officers joined in and the mirth grew. They laughed and talked while they watched the crowd, and while the crowd changed as the pope entered the plaza they did not change. They did not move. They told stories to their colleagues and watched the crowd, guarded yet relaxed.
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