Back in Spring 2022, I had the opportunity to stay in Pope Francis’s residence, Casa Santa Marta (also referred to as the Domus), for a week. It was in many ways an otherworldly and at times exhilarating experience to know that I was staying under the same roof as the Holy Father. A priest friend who was working in the Vatican had helped arrange my accommodations, and along the way he kept reminding me to be on my best behavior and not to break the house rules (such as they are) when I stayed there. He knew me too well: I have a tendency to trip and fall and knock over expensive things, or to make comments that I think are completely benign only to realize I’ve said something terribly insulting.

2022 was nine years into Francis’s papacy, and I think by then the residence’s employees had a pretty good handle on the ins and outs of managing a building that’s part hotel, part apartment building, and part home to the most famous person on the planet (and all the logistics and security measures that come along with that). Last year, a clearly perturbed and unnecessarily nasty Judge Andrew Napolitano wrote a vindictive column about his stay there. Perhaps as a famous Fox News pundit, he’s become accustomed to having attendants cater to his every need, and he didn’t find that to be the case at Casa Santa Marta.

Napolitano wrote grumpily about his experiences in close proximity to the pope: “It was surreal when he was brought in to the guesthouse dining room, using a walker and an assistant at each arm. It was bizarre when he sat with his back to us. I wanted to go up to him and greet him, but the Swiss Guards had warned us not to approach him or call out to him. Two days later, I turned a corner in the guest house lobby, and there he was, 10 feet away. I gently bowed and whispered ‘Your Holiness.’ He looked at me and moved on.”

What a dork. (Pardon my French.)

Speaking for myself, I was thrilled to be there. Being a non-celebrity and having interned for a professional football team in my early 20s, I long ago memorized the basic rules of quietly coexisting as a nobody in close proximity to a world-famous celebrity: don’t stare, don’t approach them (let them approach you), don’t ask for autographs and selfies, don’t take their picture, and so on. In addition, my friend told me not to take pictures of my room, not to post details on social media, not to comment on things Pope Francis said or did. In other words, respect that it’s his home and I’m a guest.

Out of an overabundance of caution and respect for Pope Francis’s privacy, I have kept the following story off the record for three years. “In pectore,” if you will. Yes, admittedly I do use it as a conversation starter from time to time, and when I posted a teaser on X the other day, Rachel Amiri asked me something like, “Is this that story you’re always telling?” Okay, fine, I didn’t exactly treat it like the confessional seal.

The other day I spoke with my priest friend to inquire if it was okay for me to share the story. “Why wouldn’t you?” he asked. I brought up the rules, and told him I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk about what goes on in Santa Marta. “Not at all,” he replied. “You can’t take photos!”

Well don’t I feel silly.

Anyway, here’s the story.

(Prepare to be completely underwhelmed, and apologies in advance:) 

As I said before, I found the staff at the Domus to be incredibly competent and friendly. From the Swiss Guards to the front desk to the dining room staff, once I’d checked in they all seemed to know who I was and where I needed to be. When I arrived at the dining room every morning for breakfast, one of the attendants would welcome me, tell me where I should sit, and asked me if I would be present for lunch and/or dinner. Pope Francis had his own table, which he shared with a group of priests during each meal. When I saw him at his table, I didn’t dare do more than glance and think to myself, “I’m having lunch just feet from the pope!!!” It turns out that an old friend happened to be staying in the Domus as well, so I was happy to be seated with her at breakfast the morning after I arrived and at a few other meals.

More typically, I would be seated by myself or with a handful of people who didn’t speak English. Guests sat at the rectangular tables in the center of the room, and Domus residents sat at the round tables on either side. During one meal, I was seated by myself and Pope Francis was directly behind me with a clear view of my bald spot from 20 feet away. (How cool is that???)

Anyway, one morning at breakfast, I arrived a bit late and was working my way down the breakfast buffet. It was a fairly standard Italian hotel spread, strictly continental: yogurt, deli meats and cheeses (under what I just learned are called “clear roll top chafing dish lids”), bread, Nutella, dry prepackaged breadsticks, a bowl with apples and bananas, pitchers of milk and fruit juice sitting in a shallow ice bath, and two cereal dispensers that resembled gumball machines (one filled with corn flakes and the other with muesli, of course).

I worked my way down the line until I got to the muesli dispenser and started fiddling with the crank. Maybe I turned it the wrong way or maybe I’m just used to getting my breakfast cereal from a box rather than a bingo hopper, but I couldn’t get the stuff to come out. As I tried fruitlessly to liberate the cereal from its acrylic prison, my glaucoma-afflicted eye caught an off-white man-sized blurry mass in my peripheral vision directly to my left.

The next half-second felt like an eternity as I turned towards him: It’s him! He’s right there! What should I say? What language should I say it in? His English is bad and I can’t think of any Spanish words — maybe I’ll try Italian? Then the word came out —

“Buongiorno!”

Standing there was Pope Francis, small plate in hand with two slices of provolone cheese on it, and he was just finished closing the clear roll top chafing dish lid that protected the cheese from sneezes, flies, the elements, and who knows what else. He turned towards me.

Our eyes met.

His chin went up about three millimeters, his face poised to receive whatever words I had to share with him. My mind went through the deliberations again: English? Spanish? Italian? Then the word poured from my mouth as if it was the very word I was born to say:

“Formaggi!”

After I said that (the Italian word for cheese) and effectively exhausing my Italian lexicon, Pope Francis continued to stand right in front of me for about 2 seconds, considered me a little more, made a half smile, nodded at me, turned, and without a word went back to his table. I returned to the Muesli dispenser and — perhaps miraculously — I filled my bowl in mere seconds. I ate my breakfast wondering what might have been, if I’d only tried harder in Spanish class.

Epilogue

When I visited Rome in Spring 2022, Pope Francis was beginning to lose his mobility. He still walked unassisted, but with a terrible limp. It was painful to watch him walk around, but he always pushed himself physically. That’s just who he was. But given his difficulties walking, Francis eventually began to gain weight. So his doctor put him on a diet. His meals were brought to him at his usual table, but I am told that at breakfast he would often get up after he’d eaten and take a couple of half-slices of cheese from the buffet. His unhealthy habit.

As my priest friend said to me, “Great story. He loved his cheese.”

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Featured Image: Adobe Stock. By Caitlin.