Holy Week

So this past week was, not surprisingly, kind of taken over by Holy Week. I had Wednesday off - thank God; I don't think I could have functioned productively so soon after the seder - but had to jump back on the horse for Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, the Vigil on Saturday night, and Easter itself. So. Holy Week:

For some reason I really like the Maundy Thursday service; I don't get my feet washed, but I find the ritual very intimate and comforting. Even devout Christians aren't better human beings than anyone else, so it's somehow reassuring to watch them delicately pour water over a stranger's feet and then dry them, gently and caressingly.

Good Friday: I never minded the three hour service at the Cathedral, but that's probably because we always did amazing music. As a reward for not doing music that was terribly inspiring at AmCath, we got to leave at 1:15. Okay, I'm not being entirely fair; we sang William's "Were you there?" and performed better than we ever had, so that's a good thing. I almost walked out in the middle of the service, though, because the bishop-in-charge (whatever that is) preached a sermon that I found really offensive. His point was that today we are all prey to the banality of evil, which I get and which I agree with. However. he started the semon by discussing Adolf Eichmann, and then moved on to the involvement of the [Jewish] chief priests in Jesus' murder. Maybe I was looking for it, maybe I extrapolated, maybe whatever, but I heard the bishop - the bishop! - comparing Jews to a nazi war criminal. I'm sorry. That is NOT okay. I usually don't give a damn about political correctness, but he should have been much more cautious about attaining his point; I shouldn't have been able to find offence, whether or not I was searching for it, in his sermon. Seriously, I almost walked out.

Anyway, the Easter Vigil was beautiful. I know it's theatrical, but I love how the service always starts in darkness, with the congregants holding candles, as if, in the bleakness of death, there are still pinpricks of life and hope, which will eventually conquer the night.

Easter Sunday was notable not for the service or the music - neither of which got me hot and bothered, but for fashion, a celebrity sighting, and the afterparties. (That's right, afterparties. We know how to do things in gay Paree.) Fashion: I love how women bring out the hats on Easter Sunday. Wearing two different fur coats to the two Easter services is a little over the top (bonus points to the old-school Nat'l Cath people who know what I'm talking about), but seeing Easter hats makes me happy. Celebrities: a very old and frail woman did most of the readings yesterday, and, as I was on the end of the choir row, I helped her down the steps and made sure she was comfortable walking to and from the lectern. She was lovely, with soft white hair done up in a chignon and a pale blueish green suit. Her voice was seductive and comforting and enveloping all at the same time; you wanted her to be both the voice narrating softcore porn and the voice giving you instructions in the nuclear bunker after a Soviet attack. Turns out, she's Olivia de Havilland. Yes. Olivia de Havilland. Melanie Hamilton. Two-time Oscar winner. Olivia de Havilland. (She'd beat a Marky Mark sighting anyday.) Yikes.

Afterparties, woohoo! Creighton, the man I desperately want to be my gay boyfriend, threw an Easter brunch yesterday. I hightailed it to his stunning apartment - terrace and full, beautiful kitchen included - right after the service to help him set up. The party was so much fun! First of all, he's an amazing cook; we had carot soup and gigot and roasted potatoes and asparagus and cheese and there was a chocolate cake for desert that I didn't get to eat and and and and. We all helped out a bit with salad and bread and wine and fruit, but this man is a hosting genius. I want to sit at his feet and learn the secrets to making perfect hollandaise sauce. The guests were all - except for me, the lone but unwavering source of estrogen - boys from the choir, most of whom I adore. (I think Harry got a bit jealous of my butterflyness. Oops.) Couldn't stay as long as I'd have liked at Creighton's, though, as Nellie was throwing her own Easter brunch in response to my seder. Harry and I [party]hopped over to my apartment, where we caught the tail end of Nellie's yumminess. It looked like she really outdid herself; she made two cakes, a cheesy eggy crouton casserole, and pancakes. There was also cheese and store-bought baked goodies and, from the look of it, a lot of wine. We moved the party outside soon after we got there, taking blankets and wine and chocolate eggs to the Luxembourg Gardens. It was a stunning spring afternoon, and the lawns were packed. We managed to grab a spot, and luxuriated there for a while. Jed, in true paparazzi form, took tons of pictures; if any turned out well I'll post them. In the meantime, rest assured that there the leaves were full and sun-dappled, the company vivacious, and the wine flowing.