New Orleans is so medieval.
How medieval is it?
New Orleans is so medieval that I learned of the pope’s death on Saturday afternoon not from the television, not from the world wide interweb, but from the church bell, ladies and gentlemen.
I heard the bell strike once, like it always does on the first quarter after the hour. Out of habit I looked down at my wrist, just to see if I was keeping accurate time, but my watch read 2:20. And I thought, “Well, that’s odd. Someone’s slow today.”
A few long seconds later, the bell rang again. Not being a Catholic myself, I called out to Jonno, “Hey, what’s up with the bells? Is this some kinda post-Easter thing you Romans do?” Then the bell rang a third time, and I said, “Oh, nevermind, someone must’ve…OMIGOD, THE POPE’S DEAD!”
Jonno dove for the computer, and sure enough, there on the cover of the New York Times was a stunning pic of JP2, decked out all in white like he was opening for Mariah Carey at the Viking version of Lollapalooza. On site after site, inevitable phrases followed, like “For millions of young Catholics, John Paul II was the only pope they’d ever known.” Ding, dong, the pope is dead.
That’s how medieval New Orleans is.
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