Palm Sunday 2002
Five years ago, I was studying abroad in France. I had chosen a program run by a very “artsy” college, and the nature of our field trips reflected this.
One trip brought us through Normandy, mostly looking at churches, architectural sights, and art museums. None of the D-Day tourism that I would have liked, but still fulfilling. Walking around Rouen was eerie since I had taken Joan (of Arc) as my Confirmation name, and we were able to get off our tour bus and wander over to the spot where she was executed.
I’m a little off track, though. One of the towns we visited was Honfleur, which is a lovely port town where many of the early trips to New France set sail. My own ancestors might have passed through that port.
Honfleur is mostly interesting for architectural reasons, and the most unique feature is its church. Built in the 17th century, and the largest wooden church in France, the interior looks like a boat. I tried to dig up pictures online that do it justice, and I can’t find any. I was shooting on film back then and running low, so I didn’t take a lot of photos in Normandy.
Our art history teacher guided us around various sights in Honfleur as she did in the other cities we visited. When we reached the church, it must have been around 10 AM, and there was the entire congregation outside, receiving their palms and singing. It was Palm Sunday.
Part of me wanted to stay for the entire Mass, but the structure of the tour meant that I couldn’t. I dutifully followed the tour group into the church, instead.
When my eyes adjusted and I got my bearings, I recoiled in horror. I wanted to walk out. It wasn’t until I saw elderly people sitting in the pews and noticed the organist playing that I realized we were wandering into their church to gawk at the architecture during Mass. Even though most of the congregation was outdoors, it felt like an intrusion to me. I looked at what we were supposed to see, admired the unique ceiling, and then bolted out of there to wait for the rest of the students.
As I stood there, someone handed me a program and a palm. The people of the town were used to having random groups of foreign tourists wander into their services. Still angry hours later, I tried desperately to articulate exactly why I was so angry to my friends, but I couldn’t put it into words. I still really can’t.
