The bells of St Peters

"Auguri."
"Auguri." My path crosses that of a neighbour in front of the church of Our Lady of Lourdes, and we exchange seasonal greetings.

Neapolitan pastiera 

The night before Easter I had been surprised to note that the church had set up a speaker system so powerful even those not attending Easter Mass could hear it. I'd been startled walking my dog round the block by the indistinct murmur of the faithful as they chanted the liturgy. It was a creepy sound which made me think of mindless brainwashing sects where people chant words without knowing what they mean. It was all very Village of the Damned by way of The Stepford Wives. My dog didn't think much of it either,
More prosaically it meant no one could sleep before midnight as the priests voice boomed the mass into the night. Though I noted that my hard-of-hearing elderly neighbours who had listened to the via Crucis report on their TV  at the usual too-loud-volume the night before weren't tonight among the local faithful. By the sounds of it there was something better on TV.

Easter dawned rainless which was something after the storms of the day before with their dazzling flashes of lightning and hail stones pelting down. Children could enjoy their Easter egg hunt albeit on damp ground or unravel the miles of cellophane that enveloped their gigantic eggs. I figured Easter was an early lesson in disappointment for Italian children. They received their gargantuan eggs, impressive to behold, dressed to the nines, but once the wrapping was discarded all that remained was a large chocolate shell either empty or filled with the type of rubbish found in a popular chocolate egg (banned in the USA) one eighth of the size. And the odds were that after a timorous bite of the usually commercial brand chocolate the mega eggs would be whisked away by anxious mothers, never to be seen again - at least not in egg shape. You wouldn't want to ruin your appetite now.
The alternative to these mega eggs were teeny tiny ones sold per grams, also largely commercial brands. There are few artisan chocolatiers in Rome. 

So after the anti-climactic chocolate egg there is the Easter brunch or lunch. The Pope this year decided to confuse everyone by saying that lamb wasn't traditional, it represented the soul of Jesus, so, come to think of it, maybe the faithful shouldn't be eating it. He undoubtedly saved a few lambs. Of course, he then decided to compound the confusion by telling people that hell didn't exist. I guess there is no logic in religion.

Fortunately not everyone pays attention to the Pope and prefers just to enjoy the Easter break for what it is: a few days off work. Once the weather cleared it was fun to ramble through the various parks. 
On Pasquetta (Easter Monday) this meant keeping a tight hold on the dog as people set up their barbecues. Never mind the cold breeze, tradition was tradition: Pasquetta was picnic-in-the-park day.
All good things come to an end. The break is over. No more holidays til the summer. Secretly, I still like to think that chocolate eggs come flying in on the bells of St Peters - the chocolate eggs of my childhood.