A rather religious day on Sundries continues, as I remind everyone today is Epiphany (and Los Dias de los Reyes in Spain, when all kids receive presents in honour of the Magis' gifts to baby Jesus).
Since the 5th of January marks my beloved maternal grandmother's death anniversary, I normally go to church two days running this time of the year.
And as in most churches around America, Miami's Roman Catholic churches still have their outdoor cribs very much in evidence.
I went inside the church, attended the Mass said in my Oma's name, and then as we were heading back -- what do we encounter coming out of one of the modest homes around the area?
A brand-new yellow Lamborghini Murcielago.
Sure, in South Beach they are a dime-a-dozen, and I don't even blink anymore. But not in Silver Bluff!
The Reyes must've been especially generous to a lucky someone this year. Just as my grandmother was unbelievably generous to me the whole of my life.
So in her name, I wish you all a very blessed Epiphany.
The last absolute sovereign in Europe, Prince Albert II of Monaco, son of legendary American actress beauty, Grace Kelly, decided to don a Santa Claus outfit on Christmas eve -- just before taking it off to go swimming.
No, the Grimaldi-crazy-genes are not acting up.
In fact, the Prince took a dip in the (no doubt still cold) Mediterranean sea in order to raise money for charity.
Prince Albert may not be royal, but his impulses were still noble.
P.S.: Incidentally, I had planned a longer, and weightier post about Grand Duke Henri of Luxembourg's remarkable decision not to sign a bill put before him into Law -- dealing with euthanasia. He refused, citing his Catholic faith as reason, and the Prime Minister stripped the (largely honourary) powers the Grand Duke had as sovereign.
I will try to post on that soon, as it is not the first time in history a royal head-of-state has put his conscience before his constitutional duty. It is a very fascinating topic to explore.
When I saw this photo of a statue of the Virgin Mary at a fire-engulged trailer park in Sylmar, California...
...it so reminded me of having seen photos of cathedrals in Germany, after a bombing raid destroyed whole cities. Take the famous Dom in Cologne, seen below just after a devastating bomb run.
There it stands, defying all odds, amidst the utter destruction all around it.
I tell you, sometimes there is no explanation. You just have to believe.
It's been a while since I spoke about my beloved, Benedict XVI. Here is a small blogpost to rectify that.
One of the best things about Pope Benedict, is that he has continued the warm relationship forged by John Paul the Great towards the Jewish community. In fact, the Chief Rabbi of Haifa became the first rabbi to speak before a Vatican Synod this Monday.
Don't think he had only honeyed words for the assembled clergymen. He chastised the Roman Catholic Church and Pope Pius XIII, for their restraint in speaking out and not helping to prevent the Holocaust.
Rabbi Shear-Yashuv Cohen was unflinching in his criticism:
Cohen said that in his speech he planned to make an indirect reference to Jewish disappointment about Pius as well as an appeal to all religious leaders to denounce Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.
Last month Pope Benedict forcefully defended Pius, saying he "spared no effort" on behalf of Jews during World War II.
Some Jews maintain Pius did not do enough to save Jews while the Vatican says he worked behind the scenes to help because more direct intervention would have worsened the situation.
"He may have helped in secrecy many of the victims and many of the refugees but the question is 'could he have raised his voice and would it have helped or not?'" Cohen said.
"We, as the victims, feel yes. I am not empowered by the families of the millions of deceased to say 'we forget, we forgive,'" said Cohen, who is chief rabbi of Haifa in Israel.
Pope Benedict's very religious parents were adamantly anti-Nazi, and his father even suffered as a consequence of this attitude -- one which was owed almost entirely to his strong Catholic faith.
Nevertheless, I am sure Pope Benedict understood the pain many Jews feel about this time, and as you can see, there were no hard feelings after the address.
This made me laugh. I found this saint card via the surprisingly titled "Italian Blogs for John McCain" (written in Italian). The blogpost was called, "Santo Subito" or in English, canonise him now. Heh.
As a curiosity, let me ask the Catholics on Sundries, who does he resemble here?
For me, Saint Martin de Porres of Lima (his mother was a Panamanian black slave, his father a white Spaniard). It's uncanny.
Grad of Johns Hopkins and Georgetown Law. Lawyer. Ex-Lieutenant Governor of Maryland. Roman Catholic (in fact, ex-seminarian). Republican.
I love Michael Steele, and though I think his is too gentle a nature for the rough-and-tumble world of Presidential politics, if Senator McCain gets into the White House, I would love to see Steele assume a position of prominence in his Cabinet.
That the future of the Republican Party includes Palin, Jindal, and Steele should tell you everything you need to know about how varied, and deep we are as a Party.
For whatever reason, all I have to do is remember this story, to start laughing uncontrollably.
Ahead of the World Youth Day conference in Sydney, Australia, comes word that Pope Benedict XVI will be sending out his first ever mobile phone sms to the assembled youth.
It reads: "Young friend, God and his people expect much from u because u have within you the Fathers supreme gift: the Spirit of Jesus - BXVI."
I think it's a combination of imagining the Pope furiously texting with both his thumbs, like any Crackberry addict; his snappy usage of "u" for you; and his casual signoff, "BXVI".
(It's like you almost expect an extra little something after it, like maybe "BXVI Diddy")
Believe me, I am not just being irreverent, so much as pleasantly surprised at how sweet this man is -- how much he tries in his own shy little way, to be relevant, and to engage the youth he so evidently loves to interact with.
Far from being the cold, reactionary, ex-Nazi intellectual ogre he was predicted to be (mainstream media as ever misreading a Conservative for their own ends), he has quietly established himself as his own man with his own endearing qualities, which are human and therefore, excusable.
Today, after 3 years of sometimes seeing a photo of the late John Paul the Great and having to catch myself, as my throat constricts and I suddenly feel a wave of weepiness come over me, a similar phenomenon is occuring with Benedetto the Good.
It's like every time I see him, I just want to hug the guy, you know?
One thing is a preacher who doesn't represent my religion, but not one little bit in the name of Jesus Christ, saying abominable things from the pulpit.
But it's quite another thing to hear this foul-mouthed hate-speech from a Roman Catholic priest.
I'm livid.
Words cannot describe how I feel about this man. I merely laughed at Reverend Wright, the clown of Trinity United Church.
But Father Michael Pfleger, a supposed shepherd of my Church...well, it's done gone personal now.
Disgraceful.
There is a serious problem at the church where the almost certain nominee of the Democratic Party, Senator Obama sat for 20 years, listening to similar "sermons".
Never mind that. I am not a fellow Christian or a fellow human being in their eyes, due to my skin colour. I'm just another oppressor.
But I am a Roman Catholic, and it is to my fellow co-religionist that I say:
Cardinal George of Chicago, how can you allow this man to represent Catholics everywhere? You should be ashamed for all of us. Have the guts to defrock him, now.
(Welcome Ann Althouse readers! One of the most neutral, pithy blogs around. A joy to read and welcome her readership. And welcome Kelly Clarkson Express fans! Saying hello to the Dawn Patrol readers!)
Having been absent until now for the Pope's visit, allow a spur-of-the-moment Live Blogging of His Holiness' Mass at Yankee Stadium.
My style, as ever combining the reverent and irreverent, will no doubt not be a surprise if this is your first meeting with it. Just know that beneath the blogger-cynic, is a faithful and very enthusiast Catholic penitent.
I start after Cardinal Edward Egan's speech (in both English/Spanish).
14:55 PM EST
Speaking as many languages as I do, I am hyper-conscious of accents. So let me ask you, what accent does Cardinal Egan have...in English?
He slurs his words at the end of every syllable, like an Ealing Studios actor launching into an one-liner.
The Pope was given use of the home team locker room. The band has the honour of the visiting team locker.
It is not known where the musical "acts" will be given sanctuary. They include, according to the NY Times Blog:
"The Harlem Gospel Choir, the Irish tenor Ronan Tynan, the Italian tenor Marcello Giordani, the Puerto Rican singer and guitarist José Feliciano, the Brooklyn-born rhythm-and-blues and soul singer Stephanie Mills, and the jazz and pop singer Harry Connick Jr."
José Feliciano gets around. I just heard him (or someone using his trademark guitar-driven songs) play at an Obama rally, last week.
At 5'5", he's just one inch shorter than the present Pope, one of the few who won't be towering over the Pope (I noticed he gets extra shy around very tall people).
Speaking of musical acts, not being an AI fan, I had no idea who that girl who launched into a very impressive Ave Maria was, yesterday. It was at the end of the St. Joseph's Seminary visit in Yonkers.
It was Kelly Clarkson. Not bad. The Pope himself looked pleasantly surprised.
The Homily has started. Everyone has noted how fluent the Pope is, perhaps remembering the halting, oft-times slurring efforts of John Paul the Great.
Perhaps, but the latter always had the ability to convey a lot with the few words at his disposal, often re-shouting the last line to great effect.
Who can forget, when during a youth rally thousands of voices shouted at him, WE LOVE YOU!
"And John Paul LOVES YOU!"
Pope Benedict is a teacher, not a showman. And like a teacher, often you have to rely on his eyes to convey his innermost thoughts.
Usually that would be the case. During the America visit, he's had a smile from ear to ear. I've never seen a man enjoy himself so much. It's like he's come home.
Back to the Homily, he's mentioning how in the country where personal freedom is so valued, obedience to faith are not easy words to utter. Good. Not by ignoring this American tendency will you get people's attention. Grab it, embrace it, challenge it.
If you know only one thing about Americans, it's that Americans love nothing more than a good challenge and plain-speaking.
Benedict XVI, from the moment he stepped on the ground, in fact, even before it, with his impromptu remarks on the plane, laid the foundation for just that during his visit.
15:35 PM EST
He mentioned the 300-pound gorilla for the first time, that I recall. Abortion. Short words, "child in his mother's womb", but the audience stopped him and clapped.
In fact, the audience is now into his Homily. This speech, more than any other so far, reminds me of his monumentally approachable speech during his Inauguration.
He has successfully engaged the audience, and broken the fourth wall.
Now in Spanish.
It's curious how his Spanish remarks are a little more formal, less personalised, and even a little perfunctory. I'm glad he's doing it. But it lacks the brio of the English ones, as he races through it.
The crowd launched into "Benedetto! Benedetto!" for the first time. A little tentative, but I fancy that'll change by the end. It is, after all, a Mass and not a baseball game.
The Profession of Faith is in full swing with a long queue up a ramp (in several languages).
15:54 PM EST
The dishy young Father Jonathan Morris, of Fox News, has said something very true.
Suddenly, people are starting to separate this Pope from his predecessor, by getting to know him better.
Although he mentioned how this Pope's idea of fun is holidaying whilst writing books/speeches/encyclicals, whilst the latter had "a lot of help" in writing his speeches, the fact that perhaps this Pope might have his own brand of charisma is being spoken of, at last.
I myself heard it from my mother, and her friends (some Jewish), who were surprised at how much they liked this new Pope. "He's not as scary as I thought he would be", said one lady.
That goes to show what happens when you look at him on your home ground, and excise the media's opinions of him, via their unrelenting bad coverage of the Catholic Church, vis-a-vis the sex-abuse scandals.
Take him for what he is, not what you believe him to be. At the ripe age of 81, he has so very much to offer.
16:08 PM EST
Resuming the comments after the Liturgy of the Eucharist is over.
16:25 PM EST
The Hymn: This is the Feast. Situation: Holy Communion is in full swing. The Scene: 550 priests giving Holy Communion to 58,000 to 60,000 Yankee Stadium congregants.
16:37 PM EST
The Prayer after Communion has been broken with shouts of love from the crowd. The Pontiff looks very amused.
Two items are being blessed on the altar, by the Pope. A cross and a cornerstone intended for St. John Neumann's chapel.
16:41 EST PM
Closing Remarks, as the Mass is officially ended.
I wish I could capture this little man's smile at the end of the Mass.
In the field where so many ghosts are said to inhabit, and where so many dreams have come true, it's almost as if the Pope has finally shed the spectre of John Paul II, and fulfilled some childhood dream.
You know there can never be a piece about New York without those words, "If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere" rabble-rousing their way unto it.
But it's true.
There are many United States of Americas. Most are not Catholic, most are not even religious.
But in this one place and time, people in this stadium are bursting forth with a simple, and may I say, very palpable feeling of joy at being Catholic.
I hope the nightly newscasts will show this, but the cheers are unlike any I have heard (and I've heard many kinds for all types of people around the world).
These cheers are less about the man, as was the case with John Paul II, but more about the feeling of happiness to be Roman Catholics.
Don't think the public are any the less enthusiastic about the slight man before them. That smile is a living testament that he is astonished at the outpouring of love towards him.
The visit to America can be summed up with the words:
He's surprised. He's surprised others. And surprisingly, we all liked it.
Fox News' Shepard Smith is mentioning one viewer's email asking a very human question.
"Wherever he goes, people want to touch him. Isn't this oppressive to him?"
I'll tell you, shy people often crave physical touch without being able to say so. The German angle also gets overplayed too much. Germans are HUGELY emotional people, and hardly the automatons people take them for.
Given all these characteristics, stereotypes, and misunderstandings, isn't it wonderful that we got to see the man for almost a week -- without others telling us what to think about him? That includes people like me.
Take a good look at this guy. He's special. But come to all conclusions on your own.
I'm not sure what if anything will follow, or if this event is over, in which case I am closing the post -- but let me wish you a Happy Passover, should it apply.
This is one world, but there are all kinds of people in it. Let's be happy for our differences, as surely as we are happy for what we share in common.
IN THE COMMENTS: The aptly-named commenter, The Drill SGT, points Sundries to this beautiful rendition of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic", sung by the US Army Chorus in the White House for this music-loving Pope.
The words "stirring" were invented for this Hymn.
Small wonder the half-American Winston Churchill bade it sung at his funeral, at the top of Kings' and Queens' voices.
ADDENDUM: Photos of the Yankee Stadium event.
Waiting for the "4" train to Yankee Stadium, a sight which a mere 30 years ago, wouldn't have been remarkable -- a nun waitin' for a train.
Just outside Yankee Stadium, at a sports bar, a guy is doing what I would've done. Take a photo of the plasma, showing Pope Benedict on telly. You take what life gives you.
Sports shop nearby closed for the day. I think we know where the owner'll be.
I was really impressed by the crowds. Perhaps because the event was free, a lot of minorities ESPECIALLY black Catholics were able to attend gratis. Awesome!
Yankee Stadium, as the Pope Mobile entered. What a cheer.
They're calling it "The Sermon on the Mound". Hehe.
You know when attitudes and enthusiasm are both relaxed? When Bishops in their mitres are waving frantically towards the Pope, at the same moment, whipping out their cameras just inches away from him -- just like the rest of us.
Instead of lacking dignity, I find that refreshing.
Have you ever gotten a shock of surprise, when reading a particular passage in a book?
It so happens that the current book I am reading, the late Sir Steven Runciman'sThe Traveller's Alphabet (sadly out of print), was not the book which gave me this start of recognition.
But when he got to the bit about his trip to Roumania, I suddenly remembered this remarkable lady's book of later memoirs, and that very reaction which they produced about a location, at one point, which I had been meaning to tell you about for a long time.
First, let me transcribe the exact passage so you can get into the right mood.
During the famous Versailles Conference, where she played such a dazzling role for her adopted homeland, she was lionised socially, and literally invited everywhere.
One day, in the middle of the treaty-making, she just decided to play tourist, and did what many of us would do -- went to visit one of those enormously grand cathedrals, of which France has an embarrassment of riches.
Namely, Notre-Dame de Reims.
"A moving sight, indeed, that mighty cathedral rising like a ghost of unimaginable beauty from a grey mass of formless ruins.
Because of its many wounds, its lines and angels had become blurred, softened as seen through a veil; its glassless windows paint a tracery of lace against the sky, and, like so many decapitated martyrs, its statues seem frozen with pain.
Yet there the great building stands invincible, having defied the modern means of destruction and with them the spirit of hate. A vision of another age, of a stronger faith, ascending above the surrounding chaos, more sacred than ever because of its mutiliation, more supremely stately because all around it has been laid low, and today the sky is its only vault.
Such it appeared to me that early spring day, when we stood, mute, gazing up at its perfect majesty. Somehow one became speechless or spoke only in whispers."
Ladies and gentlemen, in my short lifetime, I have read hundreds, thousands of books, but never have I read a paragraph which so impressed me for its perfect descriptive powers.
This lady, vainglorious, slightly absurd, and magnificent, had the power to see something as it was, and yet to describe it flawlessly so that at the end, you felt as if you yourself had drunk of that imperial cup in Moscow, had viewed that ravine in Malta, and had quadrilled with Winston Churchill until your clingy dress brought down two partners on the dancefloor with you, by mere conjuring of her pen.
In short, that woman was one hell of a writer.
--
We arrived in Luxembourg's tiny airport, my father, mother and I, via the Bahamas on Icelandic Airways that December morning, ready to make a run to the car rental counter, but first had to pass through the custom's window.
Despite the three of us being "European", it was my newly American citizen mother's passport that the lady behind the guiché fawned over, practically falling over herself to welcome an US citizen to her little land -- an attitude which has forever stayed with me, because it was repeated a dozen times that following month on the continent.
When my dad and I presented our passports next (I was a dependent in his passport, as was the custom in those days), she took a look at that blue UK booklet of travel, and wordlessly, stamped it and bade us no farewell.
Arriving at the car rental office...no counter as thought, but actually a little wooden office located outside the airport...the lady there took one look at us three, and starting speaking in rapid-fire Letzebuergisch, though none of us were Luxembourgers.
Not sure what this baptism of linguistic fire was about, but her surly demeanour was not improved even when we tried German and French, as a courtesy, before my dad opened his mouth and finally said, "Do you speak English?".
The paperwork was still to be done, despite long-standing reservations Telexed from the States (remember Telexes?).
There were International Driver's Licences to produce, on old-fashioned paper with stamps and black-and-white photos, long since gone today.
And again, those passports, since you can't do anything in Europe without documentation up the wazoo, something Americans and British both should be happy their cultures are by nature, against.
Finally, we had our keys to the Opel Kadett in dad's hands, since of course, he drives.
He may have paid for my mother's medical education because as he said, "I don't want to live the next 50 years beside a stupid woman", he may have encouraged me to stay away from the kitchen, and paid for riding lessons when other girls were learning how to do laundry and sweeping up, but he was still macho enough to always insist on being the driver in any car he was in.
He drove.
It was December, and of course, there was snow all over the ground.
Being British, he is a trusting sort, who still never checks what a person behind a counter gives him, because he always assumes the bag will contain exactly what he paid for (to his chagrin, when he arrives with two Big Macs, instead of the Fish sandwich I requested).
He turned on the windshield wipers on the Kadett, and...nothing. He got out of the car, jiggled them, and...nothing.
We were on our way to Paris, with no windshield wipers working, and with snow threatening to bear down on our party of 3.
He turned on the headlights...nothing. This can't be happening!
(My mother immediately blamed the surly Luxembourger woman who obviously "had it in for us", which is a common assumption between most women about each other, by the way)
With no windshield wipers, and no headlights, and a starving child, we rushed from Luxembourg to Metz, then on our way to Nancy when it started to snow.
With mittened hand, my intrepid father cleared the snow from the windshield, as he tried to speed ever faster in the direction of Paris, convinced he could make it before it got really dark.
(Fortunately that American nightmare of coppers pollulating the highways just when you least need them, doesn't really apply on the continent. We were safe from tickets defended in awkward French, as long as we stayed on the highway)
Daylight now was a mass of dark greys, and menacing inky blues.
Whether by design or complete and utter misdirection, we turned into the nearest big town, since we obviously were not going to get to Paris by nightfall.
We three of us, cold, hungry, and lost, were in Reims.
With a child's concept of time and space, the ride might have taken 8 hours or 80 minutes, for all I knew.
And looking at a map today, I have no idea how dad took that exit that led us to Reims, since clearly Nancy is well below it.
Mother was asleep in the front seat, but I was very awake now, having decided that if she were sleeping, I would be on duty as co-pilot for my father, still doing the mitten jig every minute.
The thing with family car trips is that they are not tour guide jaunts, who get announcements in 5 languages like, "Turning your heads, you will now see Reims approaching to your left", whereupon docile tourists in coaches do as they are bid, and suitably enlightened, they open their green Michelin guides to the Reims section.
No.
Dad and I simply, and with expert economy of speech, looked at the passing signs and wondered where we were.
Théâtre this, Republique that, and Musée the other.
A million towns in France are exactly the same, but undaunted, dad kept driving, no doubt on the lookout for a nice, but not too costly hotel to kip down his tribe.
That's when it happened.
Imagine me, a child in warm earmuffs, and a little cute beige Christian Dior coat, leaning over my father's shoulders as he drives, suddenly turning in slow motion (why are unforgettable memories always in slow motion, as if in a dream?) and seeing a long foggy avenue to my right.
In that exact moment, in fact, as dreams tend to be, with perfect timing, the fog lifts slightly and to my right is an enormous edifice, in more shades of grey that I have ever seen in my whole life then, and even now.
Reims Cathedral loomed to the right of our car and thus stunned my father and I into submission, as it had for over 1600 years to families the world over, come to pay their respects.
I prod mother awake.
Years later, she said the sight that she beheld as she opened her eyes was like in a gothic nightmare, all jutting spires, and overly imposing saints staring at her, no, through her very being.
Wow, I am so happy my memory is one of shared awe, not fleeting, devilish terror as hers.
And now I must confess that I love Reims. And I'm very scared of it at the same time.
What was it that Queen Marie said?
"...that mighty cathedral rising like a ghost of unimaginable beauty from a grey mass of formless ruins".
I was seeing it a good 70 years after she had, and yet that description SIMPLY cannot be improved upon.
With fog spiralling around us in the massive square in front of the cathedral, my father held my little gloved hands, approaching to pause to look at the august doors, and their weirdly carvings.
I was a stoic little kid, and would never confess to fright or discomfort, but he must've sensed me quaver through our joined hands as I looked up and up and up to the reliefs of saints in Christian agony.
He hurried me along, and there before us, stood the most enormous cavity of a nave you have ever seen in your life.
When, years later, I read that armies had lodged themselves in that self-same cathedral, including possibly (disreputably) a German ancestor of mine, or two, I understood.
Yes, a child has a memory of bigness that is by its very nature, exaggerated. Anyone who has ever tried to visit their grade school as an adult, will know exactly that feeling, "...was my desk really that small?".
But Reims cathedral defies magnitude.
First, though I've since seen photographs of its interior which shocked me for its brightness, the Reims I knew was as dark as sin, and nearly as welcoming.
I cannot remember the layout exactly, but never will I forget the dazzling statue at the centre of Saint Joan, yes, that Saint Joan, who is not buried there having had her ashes thrown into the Seine, but who we British had selfishly put to death.
But Saint Joan HAD been inside Reims, as she witnessed the fruit of her battles in the coronation of that duplicitous king, Charles VII.
In fact, Reims cathedral for centuries fulfilled the same function Westminster Abbey did in England -- not only the last resting place of the august Elizabeth I, and a slew of other kings, but also the place of their crowning before God.
I have been to both, and I have to say, Reims is the place where even a king can feel humbled (or indeed, a queen), not the dear old spinsterish Abbey.
I am not sure if all parents do this, or it was just mine, or even, if it was the knowledge that we were "just" in a church, for all its jumped up grandiosity, but my parents let me wander all alone for a good 15 minutes.
Tombs passed me by, as I inched my way around the littered chairs in the middle of nave -- which then, as now, I found a little awkwardly-placed.
I saw him.
He must've been middle-aged, but to me he was old. A man wearing a black overcoat, holding a candle in his hand, praying with his lips moving, but in French, so that the sound was like a gushing stream in soft flow.
"Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce. Le Seigneur est avec vous...
(Je vous salue Marie, pleine de grâce...beautiful, just beautiful)
I stood there, transfixed, for seemingly hours.
But even so, I was careful not to be seen by him, conscious that I was intruding into a very private moment, one that fascinated me, because I had never seen my own father in such a position.
Children's ultimate yardstick being all things parental, of course.
And just like that, my parents reappeared. In their eyes I saw my marvel mirrored back at me, so I knew that, veterans of many cathedrals themselves, this was a special one nonetheless.
I turned back, as we left, having yet to learn the lesson of Lot's wife. One last look, one last frisson.
Even its very name suffuses me with a chill of majesty that I believe we mortals were bade by God to know as the word "awe".
We went inside our car, and drove now in the darkness, carefully, with hand on the horn.
The streets were empty (and I've been told by many Frenchmen, that Reims at night, is nearly dead), so whatever blessing we had been given inside the cathedral, followed us on our way to our lodging.
Neither my parents nor I recall the name of the ENORMOUS hotel we ultimately found to lay our weary heads, but I do remember one thing about it.
My dad mentioned what a wonderful cathedral her city had, and the concierge lady, who sported a manly blond haircut -- a French Gertrude Stein -- took about 10 minutes to teach him the right pronunciation of said city, with such a gutteral accent, emphasising that nasally sound, that even a German would be proud of.
REIMS!
"Reims"
NON! REIMS!
"Reims?"
REIMS! REIMS!! REIMS!!!
As long as I live, I will never forget Reims' farewell impression on my childish eyes, my tall father towering over this tiny corpulent Frenchwoman, as she schooled him (tired, dishevelled, in need of bed not elocution lessons) as to the correct pronunciation of her town, Reims.
If only Audioblogger were still around. Wouldn't we have fun listening to me saying REIMS! over and over again, just like that lady concierge did over 20 years ago.
And no, I don't ever want to return to Reims again, despite my love for it. Some places do not need a repeat visit. Let them haunt your reveries until all your hairs be white, until you die.
Best sight during the Easter Sunday telecast from the Vatican, as Pope Benny gave his Urbi et Orbi speech?
Why, this precious munchkin, of course!
Although I must say the Esperanto-poster-wielding crowd at the back were a hoot, too. Did you notice how the Pope smiled and waved at them, when he said his Easter greetings in Esperanto?
I thought the Aramaic crowd looked particularly vexed, though.
P.S.: In harder news, it turns out that the Pope MIGHT have been the lynchpin statement which forced President Mahmood Ahmedinejad to release our British military personnel from their illegal imprisonment in Iran.
Just a few hours before the President gave back the servicemen (and one rather portly, disgustingly overfriendly servicewoman), the Pope sent over a message saying that releasing them would be taken as a great sign of "goodwill", especially notable if was done before Easter Sunday.
And so it was done.
Who knows what the reason was, or what prompted the disgraceful behaviour of the released prisoners of war, to act as they did.
No one in Colditz would have behaved like that, that's for sure.
No matter where you are, chances are that if you're a Roman Catholic, like me, you're not far away from a church celebrating the resurrection of Our Lord.
For today is Easter Sunday, and on this special day, Sundries is taking you on a very special travellogue...a trip around 3 of the many Catholic churches in South Florida!
Yeah, a little church is good for you, for me come to that, ya hear?
At least, every once in a while, if only to hear some of the most beautiful voices singing their little hearts out for you, doubtlessly after many heated rehearsals all week, in the name of the Lord.
And it goes a little like this:
Young, old, woman, man, every section of society is represented in this humble church choir.
It also is your first introduction to one of our featured travellogue churches, which debuts this blogpost quite nicely.
STS PETER & PAUL ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH
You've been to the Silver Bluff-Shenandoah neighbourhoods before with me, on Sundries, even if you don't immediately recall. That's where the cutest little house in Miami is located, remember?
And where Robert of 26th Parallel held his wedding, at this very church, the much beloved, Saints Peter & Paul, which also features a school of the same name. In fact, all 3 churches pictured in this travellogue, have schools attached to its parish, one of the imprimaturs of a healthy and successful Catholic community.
You know, I don't know about you, but I've yet to know of a Catholic school that didn't have a yard long waiting list for its school, a fact which has always made me smile.
For the world says that the Roman and Apostolic Catholic Church is in frank disarray, with dwindling membership, and an embittered and suspicious faithful -- which I don't doubt is true for many.
But this opinion is also an exaggerated view, often culled up by secularists who in repeating this, hope to seed doubt in people's minds. Catholic Church is dying! No one is attending Mass! Catholic priests are all paedophiles!
Indeed?
Well, in these three churches, ranging from working-class to elite status are anything to go by, perhaps all what we Catholics really need is a little more faith...in our faith.
By the way, did you see, "Sts Peter & Paul -- Panthers"?
How MANY schools have "Panthers" as their mascot in America?? It must be the single most popular mascot animal in this country!
Why never "Home of the Chihuahuas", hmm, hmm?
Holy Week started with me deciding to be a little more devout than I usually am, so on that note, I told my parents that I would be accompanying them to Mass, whenever they went. They have never forced me to do so, and for that, I've always been grateful.
In my own way, I'm rather religious, but man, am I lazy.
But anyway, mother rejoiced, and dad snickered, but then he would, old agnostic that he used to be.
So off we went to Sts. Peter & Paul, since that's my mum's favourite church.
Look at that neighbourhood. PACKED, totally packed. Not even a spot to swing the proverbial handicapped parking space cat.
We walked from two blocks away, where we had finally found a space, having first left a sign in my car window saying that I was at Church, so irate owners wouldn't have me towed away.
Oh, in two languages, of course! After all, that area is almost completely Cuban-American.
...and 50 years after their exile began, some of them don't even speak ni un pepino de ingles. Ah well.
That's St. Peter to the left, and St. Paul to the right. Or is it the other way around? I forget.
Either way, as you can see from the wide wooden doors, and aged sconces outside, it is a modern church (built in 1939), but still not an ultra-modern mega church, just another barn-like edifice masquerading as a house of worship, which frankly, I've never liked.
I just never have found the presence of God inside those modern, Protestant-looking Catholic churches which seem to abound in the US (sadly), you know?
But Sts Peter & Paul doesn't have that problem. It is very elegant, with all that implies -- understated colours, muted stonemasonry, and yet stately lines.
If I had to describe this church in one word, that word would be SOLID.
I always enter this church by the left-most door, and you know why?
Because the right-hand door leads you immediately to a statue of St. Joseph, holding as is the custom, our baby Lord, Jesus Christ. I like me some St. Joseph, it's not that, but I LOVE ST. THÈRÉSE OF LISIEUX.
And that's where the left-hand door leads you to: to her beautiful statue, in those Carmelite robes, holding that famous spray of roses with which she is so closely associated.
When I was a little girl, my maternal grandmother made me read her famous autobiography, Story of a Soul, and like millions of Catholics after her death, I instantly fell in love with this saint, who preached a Catholicism we could all do -- The Little Way.
Whichever church I go to, she's always my first port-of-call.
Like many churches, Sts. Peter & Paul has two little side rooms, an antechamber of sorts, where you can pray quietly and give a few dollars to help the church meet its expenses.
Right next to St. Thèrése, we have just such a room where a wonderful, unadorned crucifix of Our Lord hangs.
I'm not too keen about this newfangled modern candle thingie, where by a mere push of a little button, it lights up an electric "light" in memory of your loved one, and so forth.
Yeah, the old versions were fire hazards, but if the Vatican doesn't mind being engulfed in a conflagration to preserve the custom, with its holdings which are beyond price, why should a more modest church not do so, too?
Bring back the real candles!!
Every Catholic country has its particular Saint this, or Our Holy Virgin Mary of the other, and Cuba is no different.
Next to the prie-dieu above, there is a tiny little space for the Cuban "Nuestra Señora de la Caridad del Cobre" (Our Lady of Charity, which a Cuban friend once mistranslated as Our Lady of Sweet Charity with a totally straight face).
The French have Lourdes, the Portuguese have Fatima, the Mexicans have their Guadalupe, and the Brazilians have their Conçeicão, but the Cubans revere the story of this apparition of Our Lady for many reasons.
Three fishermen, one white, one black and one indigenous (the first totally Politically Correct santico crowd in the world, and to think, Barbara Walters had nothing to do with it...), chanced upon a statue of a lady in the waters where they fished. Attached to her was a little wooden plank with the words, "Yo Soy La Virgen de La Caridad" (I am the Virgin of Charity), which is some calling card, boy.
Her legend grew in Cuba, to the point where both Catholics and voodoo priests worship her with equal fervour. Interestingly, she was appointed patroness of Cuba by another Benedict, Pope Benedict XV in 1916.
I've never seen this little statue without some little old Cubana senior citizen praying reverentially under her.
(Ooh, I don't like the look of that panel in the ceiling, all peeling and yucky, which isn't noticeable when you're actually there, though. Never mind fire. What is the church doing about its damp and rot?)
Obviously, a cute little sign in brass asking parishioners not to use calculators inside church.
Sucks for the 6th graders cramming just before an exam.
Jam packed for Holy Week services, this elegant lady had to stand up, and do her devotions on the floor.
Mother turned to me and whispered, "I think that's Catherine Deneuve".
Oh totally, mum, definitely.
Catherine Deneuve flipped the bird to La Madeleine and Notre Dame and chose to attend Mass in an obscure Cuban-American Miami neighbourhood church, Sts Peter & Paul.
Anyway, is she even religious? Belle du Jour, indeed.
My favourite chorister is the lady allll the way to the back-right, who looks like a Cuban Barbara Bush. Que nice.
And what a booming alto! She's the topmost voice you hear singing "La Gloria Del Señor" in the Youtube clip above.
(In case you wondered, many of the Masses we attend are in Spanish, but neither my parents nor I, mind. Dad just pretends it's Latin, and mum sings in a mixture of French and Italian, much to the amusement of the viejitas around her)
A lovely, long view of the actual interior of the church.
You can get a fair idea of what kinds of people attend services, although I do have to say this is most probably 100% Cuban-American (minus stray gringos like myself, or other Hispanics).
Funny thing about it, is that some of the kids actually wore their school uniform, I noticed! It had the logo of the school on their yellow polo shirts, and blue trousers. You couldn't have paid me to put on my school jumper after hours, back in England...
Lastly a word about the "cura", the priest.
He's from Spain, apparently, and has a wonderful voice. Mass and services around the world are made or broken by the voice of its vicars, priests, imams, rabbis, etc.
Get a really boring, monotone chap, and that 1 hour of devotion will inch second by second, until all you do towards the end, is count the moment when you can bolt out the door.
But this guy? He has charisma, and a lot of presence.
Mum says she doesn't understand a word he says, because his Spaniard accent is too thick, but she loves going there at nights, just to listen to his voice.
If only our Church had more like my dear old mother.
EPIPHANY ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH
Our next church is located in upscale Pinecrest, the old neighbourhood of ex-Governor Jeb Bush, and in fact, used to be his and his family's local parish.
Yes, Pinecrest is a very wealthy area, with million dollar homes strewn all over Old Cutler Road, but for all that, its citizens are not to the manner born, like in Coral Gables.
Epiphany Church (yes, with school next door) reflects their non-fussy attitude, where Catherine Deneuve would never deign to appear.
It's actually a fairly new, ginormous church, resembling a cathedral in size and import, but still just a church.
It's not exactly to my taste, since it has a hint of that modernist architecture which I told you I greatly dislike, but their services ARE mostly in English, so my family and I sometimes go there just for that.
Makes a change to understand what's actually going on, you know?
Massive doors frame the entrance. It's not as minimalist as it seems, though. It's just a bit new, and hasn't grown into its character, like Sts. Peter & Paul.
Give it time. 60 years, which in Miami-time, is 300.
Not too sure I approve of the wicker ceiling (I think that's what it is). But at least the stained glass windows and depth of the transept give Epiphany a nice glow in daylight.
This is the Good Friday liturgical Mass, which was preceeded by the Stations of the Cross devotional.
(My favourite part of the whole Easter calender is Good Friday, when the Passion takes place. And yes, I was first in the queue when Mel Gibson's movie came out some years ago)
The priest in this church was a young, American chap, and very nice too, I'm sure. But he just doesn't have the gravitas the other Spaniard priest had, best illustrated by the lack of timbre in his voice, which he used to RUSH through the Mass (40 minutes flat, in what usually takes 1 full hour!).
My parents and I kept looking at each other, wondering where the fire was?
A Winchellesque performance, which I hope he will grow out of, as he ages gracefully into his role -- just like Epiphany church itself.
The paddles for the "offerings", or what you heathens know as the "begging for money" baskets.
I took a photo of the open door because it reminded me of an Oxford boatrace, when the oars (blades) are lined up just like that.
Fitting, because the service was over faster than an Eights Week bumps race...
Yes, there are poor folk in Pinecrest, which is like saying the poor of Kensington or Park Avenue, heh.
And here is the proof.
That's my mother opening up her purse and putting in a whole 3 bucks into the poorbox, one dollar for each minute of the Mass...
I'm very conscious that I'm taking pictures of reverential places for this travellogue, so I make sure I never catch anyone in actual prayer, which would be wrong.
I break this rule of mine, only once in the travellogue, and here it is.
Mother, child, looking up in devotion to Our crucified Saviour. Every photograph I have shown you has been taken with the joy of sharing my world with you.
But here, in this one photograph, I am showing you what my religion means to me, through the faceless body of a devout mother introducing her child to our faith.
What can be more beautiful than that?
If you guessed that I wasn't particularly bowled over by Epiphany church, you would not be wrong.
But I'll give them this -- that's the best church bell tower in all of Miami, bar none. On a fine day, you can hear them clear across Coral Gables, calling its faithful to pray in their Grand Prix.
CHURCH OF THE LITTLE FLOWER
So far, you've followed me to upwardly-mobile working-class Cuban-American Silver Bluff. Then you've traipsed with me to services in flexingly nouveau-riche Pinecrest.
But now, we're in the heart of the elite world of Miami -- Coral Gables!
Mum and I lost the armwrestle match with the old lady you see emerging triumphantly from the illegal parking space just in front of the church, so we parked three blocks over.
I'll say one thing for my newfound religiosity. What with the genuflections during Mass, the ups, the downs, the hiking of miles from parking space to church, I must've lost at least 3 pounds.
Catholicism is not only good for the soul, but it tones your abs, too.
I'm not exactly sure whose bust of a saint that is -- frankly, it looks not a little like Machiavelli or Savanorola.
(Just behind it is the requisite school of the Little Flower, which is $$$ to get into, as can be expected)
Keeping up my tradition, I always enter through the left-hand door of the church, though since this whole CHURCH is dedicated to my Little Flower, I don't do so to encounter her statue, more of which anon.
It's just that I like the view from the left, as one enters.
High vaulted ceilings. Flouncy alcoves, and a massive cupola above the Altar. I love it.
Yeah, a little ornate, but ornate is better than a modernist Costco Warehouse. Who can find God next to the Rice Crispies?
The only thing I found a little disappointing, was that the crowd was almost all older, and not very enthusiastic, as at least the Epiphany crowd were.
And I tell you what else disappointed me, now that I am in quibble-mode.
The outdoor statue of St. Thèrése, my beloved saint.
Nooooo, that's so totally not her face! She looks like a young Mirta de Perales! Look at that nose. Cubanaza and a half!
That's another thing about us Catholics -- we're fussy about our faith, and we each of us have in our minds, how certain things should be relating to it.
Take me, for example.
I can only worship in a church I like, which gives me the right "feeling" inside, when I enter it. If there is a priest I don't care for, or a statue which rubs me the wrong way, I may shun its comforting purpose, because I can always find another church which suits me better.
Sure, many religions have that peculiarity too, and furthermore, I do so because I have a wealth of choices around me -- but Catholics are notoriously sentimental about their churches, their priests, and their saints.
Anyway, just because the Church of The Little Flower has a snub-nosed St. Theresa outside, who looks like she just came out of the ring with Leila Ali, doesn't mean I have to look at her all day.
That's why I bring my Little Flower rosary box with me, so her more recognisably beatific face stares at me, whether the priest be boring, speedy or folksy.
Ahh, that's more like it. The Little Flower looking at me, for once a good little Catholic girl, observing her duties to her faith, and sharing it with all and sundries. But now, I must say...
This travellogue is ended. Go in Peace!
And Happy Easter, everyone!
UPDATE: Blogger colleague, Class-Factotum, makes an amazingly similar observation for the "workout" portion of the Catholic ritual. Read the blogpost here.
I know I shouldn't be sacreligious on such a day, but that's never stopped me before.
Why, I ask myself, hasn't a priest ever realised he could treble his parish numbers, if he instituted step classes in CYO?
Just a thought.
Please also read Benning's Easter post on the Resurrection. Very moving!
