I'm in Portugal, Porto area. The Pope is in Portugal too, Fátima. He's leaving now though. It's on TV. He's walking onto the plane—the plane. It's a bit ridiculous. His robe is spotless white, probably all silk. There are maybe 30 Cardinals with him. He jumped out the car to walk to the plane—the plane—the car!
I'd have spit on the ground if I was there. Because I'd have walked there. I could have made it too, from Biarritz, France to Santiago de Compostela, Spain to Fátima, Portugal, all walking, no alburgue, hotel, or hostel, just camping, all I own in my bag on my back, carrying, spending what little money I have on food only.
I could have made it with regards to time at least. It would have been nearly perfect timing actually, if I'd have continued walking from Santiago de Compostela, I'd have just made Fátima. But physically I'd not have made it—that quickly—nor mentally. I had to stop.
But if I had continued, I'd have been at that airport spitting all over that runway watching this guy the Pope—who I'm supposed to recognize as almost a god on Earth really, or the holiest human, or something superior at least—travel in such luxury. But what is he really? He is cheese. He is an idol robed in gold—a God among men, he pretends. I spit. He is cheese. He is a peregrino, a French tourist.
I have a picture of all Gandhi's worldly possessions. It's 2 pairs of sandals, 2 pots, his robe, a book, a watch, some eating utensils. E tudo. That guy did it right, Gandhi.
What is this Pope? He is a fake, un imposteur. He is cheese. And back to Rome he goes. Adeus, Papa.