"I don't like Palm Sunday," an early bird said, one of the cathedral's older regulars. I had never heard anyone say that before. I love Palm Sunday, especially in the subtropics, where it seems like recompense for the balmy incongruity of Christmas. (And, only one more week without chocolate.)
"You can't have Easter without Palm Sunday," said a fellow usher.
A T-shirted couple from Quebec City peeked in tentatively. I told them that I'd been to Carnival d'Hiver in the early '90s. "Il a beaucoup change," the woman said. I wished them "bonne journee" as they headed off to their cruise.
"Can I have two extras?" a man asked the giver of palms. "My friends always ask me to get them palms. They won't come to church, but they insist on having palms."
A woman visiting from Orlando walked in. I asked if she knew about the Kerouac house. "I live two blocks from it," she said. We chatted for a while, and I learned that she and her husband had a summer house in Normandy. I mentioned that David Sedaris also has a house there, which she knew. Then I told her that one of the chapters in my book is about Normandy, which she didn't know. She asked for my card and said she'd look for my book.
Eventually the choir arrived from the garden, and a donkey, ridden by a boy in an acolyte's robe, was led into the cathedral as the congregation rose and sang "All glory, laud and honor."
