Every story has its climax, a point where the main character has to make a critical decision that will tremendously affect the rest of the events in the narrative. For this story on my experiences during World Youth Day, Rio, the climax didn’t occur at any of the major events I attended – like Pope Francis’ opening address, or the Stations of the Cross on the beach at Copacabana, and it won’t be the quickly approaching Vigil Mass that serves as the climax for so many pilgrims – because my turning point came in a much more unexpected, perhaps even controversial, manner on the night of July 25.
On July 24, I got separated from the New Jersey group and wound up spending most of the day with a group from New York City. On July 25, I set my alarm an hour too late and missed the New Jersey group again as they headed for Copacabana for the Pope’s opening address for World Youth Day. I then tried to tag along with the group from Lafayette Diocese, but got stuck at the subway turn stall and lost track of them. So I headed to Copacabana alone, trying to make the best of the situation. I haggled with a beach vender to get him to sell me a beach umbrella and chair for $20 since I was all out of reals. Then I grabbed a spot considerably close to the stage as the crowd of well over a million grew all around me. I was surrounded by people, people who even shared my faith, but felt utterly alone because I knew none of them and didn’t speak their language. Then it started to rain, and I discovered holes in my umbrella.
As I sat there getting wet, questions began to rise within me, like ‘Why did I bother to come to World Youth Day? It has already been more of a hassle than anything else,’ and ‘What’s the big deal about seeing the Pope? Aren’t parts of this global event a bit overdone?’
I abandoned my coveted spot and even entertained the thought of leaving the opening ceremony all together, but as I was walking out the flags of U.S. pilgrims kind of tugged at my soul. I couldn’t leave without talking to them and making some connections. So that’s what I did for the entire afternoon while waiting for Pope Francis to arrive. As the sun went down and the Pope drove past the massive crowd on the avenue and beach, I was in the middle of the fray again, but barely hanging on. I wanted to leave. When the Pope’s address began in Spanish and no translation to English was offered, I did leave. It was a controversial thing for any pilgrim to do, considering the fact that we were there to see and listen to the Pontiff. Here I am at my first World Youth Day, and the first chance I get to hear the Pope speak, I leave before the talk even begins.
I got very lost on the way back to the hotel. This may have been Christ’s punishment for me for walking out on his vicar, but I cannot be sure. All I know is that I was tired, alone, wet and after at least an hour of being lost, I began to worry. Fumbling in my pockets for a rosary, I found one of the red, white and blue ones made by a group of women from Holy Innocents Parish, Neptune. They gave the rosaries to a few WYD pilgrims from New Jersey, with the request that we distribute them to the pilgrims we meet in Rio.
Being lost in a foreign city can ignite the flame of faith, especially when there’s nothing you can do but pray to God that he leads you in the right direction. After praying the Rosary by myself on some quiet backstreets, I came across a taxi driver who was taking a cigarette break. I asked him if he knew how to get to Rio’s Presidente Hotel on Rua Pedro I. He understood the location but couldn’t explain to me how to get there in English, so he offered to drive me to the hotel… for free. At first I was reluctant, thinking I really shouldn't get in the car of a stranger, but at that point I didn't have much of a choice. I figured, if he drives me to some abandoned warehouse to interrogate and torture me, at least I can say I suffered in the name of Christ.
The taxi driver wound up being a Godsend and led me right to the plaza near our hotel. I was at a tipping point in my faith that night, but getting lost in Rio made me think of the one thing that has saved me in similar desperate situations in the past. My confidence in prayer was restored as this magnanimous taxi driver pulled over to the curb right by our hotel. As I walked back I kissed that rosary and offered a tearful laugh to heaven. World Youth Day, Rio, once again, strengthened my faith in an unexpected way. All these unconventional experiences of faith on the old streets of Rio are God’s way of showing me that there is no escaping his love.
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