Village life, Palm Sunday in Sardinia. Spectators begin to gather in the town square from mid-morning. Others look on from cafes and sip cappuccino. By 11 a.m. a noisy, boisterous crowd is pressed against the barriers on both sides of the Via Nazionale. A steel grandstand, built to give the best view of the big procession through the village, is full. Everyone is here. Everyone is having a great time. We participate in this show as both spectators and players. Poses are struck. Cheeks are kissed.
Garlands are scattered onto the route of the procession before it leaves the village church and children in traditional costume gather outside to watch it set off. As it moves through town, white robed and dignified, the faces of the younger boys taking part as chalice and mace bearers betray their feelings. Bravado, pensiveness, pride, a little fear; the entire town looks on.
When it's finally over the crowd quickly disperses as families gather for lunch. All that's left to do is clear up and maybe text a friend.