yea... i partied with Spanish anarchists.

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Yesterday was the commencement of Corpus Christi. I have no idea about the religious meaning, or even the traditions that go along with it. Wikipedia describes it as ‘a Christian feast holiday, or solemnity, commemorating the supreme gift of the institution by Jesus Christ of the Holy Eucharist on the Thursday following Trinity Sunday, or on the Sunday following that Thursday’. Yea, I have no clue what that means either… but here is what I do know. I don’t have class Wednesday- Friday. I’ll give eight Hail Mary’s just for that. I love commemorating supreme gifts if it gets me out of class. A component of Corpus Christi is la feria, or the fair… but don’t start thinking about doing the Puyallup, because this fair is like nothing I have ever seen. Don’t get me wrong, there are rides, like ferris wheels, and a merry-go-round where actual ponies walk in a small circle for hours with children screaming Spanish at them. I wanted to tell them to stop yelling, that ponies don’t understand Spanish, but I think that was probably the alcohol talking.
Alcohol. This is the real determining factor between Spanish and American fairs… (and talking to my roommate, Mexican fairs more closely follow the American style). By now, does it surprise you that booze is involved in a religious holiday? If I have done justice through this blog about Spain at all, then you shouldn’t be. Anyway, most women are dressed in traditional flamenco dresses, usually black and red polka dots, skin tight and poofy (for lack of better word) at the bottom. Organizations, usually political parties have their own caseta, or tent, where they can smooze clients or reel in new members. The tents are hardly tents, and more like restaurants and people dance and eat and drink. Dance and eat and drink. And dance and eat and drink. These were the classy casetas so obviously we didn’t go. At the back of the fair, which looks on to the freeway and where all the carnies hang out, is the real party. I was (of course) with a crew of German guys, me being the only girl and the only American. So we were looking for the cheapest place to drink which happened to be… en la caseta de las anarquistas… the anarchist tent, of course. They were playing loud Spanish punk, most had half the hair on their heads shaved off, some bottom, some top and there were mangy mutts wandering around.
So after we devotedly signed our names in blood on the Anarchist clipboard (which was actually a piece of wood because clipboards are too official) we continued. I did finally meet one girl. She was from Latvia, spoke no English and since my Latvian is somewhat lacking, we met in the middle and spoke Spanish. I know this is a simple concept, but I cannot express strongly enough how rewarding it feels to be able to talk to someone that you would normally not be able to communicate with. Neither of us spoke each others native languages, but we got along just fine without them. Plus, its amazing talking to someone who speaks no English because you really have to use your communication skills that, if you’ve studied a language as long as I have, are there, but you never get a chance to use them because the person you are talking to fills in all the blanks.

So last night was crazy. This morning I am, of course, still in bed at 11:30, unable to move, but also unable to sleep due to the excessive amounts of caffeine when my roommates pound on my door, tell me there’s a parade at noon and to get my sorry butt out of bed. Even though they are only 20 and 21, they intimidate the shiza (new German word) out of me, and during the cities last processions during Semana Santa, I vowed never to be caught in the sea of Granadinos again, but I went anyway. We weave through thousands of people that the city has yet again been infested by, and exactly at noon start to hear drums and see strange figures heading away from us. We curse and start sprinting. By now I know where all the side roads go, and the fastest route everywhere, however the city is packed with people, Spanish people, who wouldn’t be in a hurry if a tornado were coming. Thankfully we turned up on Gran Via right as the parade was to pass and caught the whole thing. Once I start explaining the details of this event, you are definitely going to think I am drunk, but here goes…
First is a small band, young and dressed in jeans and t-shirts, playing uppity music and clapping their hands. Very different from Semana Santa already. As they play, they bob back and forth and the children on the street copy them. People dressed as ironic royalty walk on stilts, followed by people with huge paper mache heads that have balloons that they hit children over the head with. To keep the giants head from falling off, they keep their hand in their giant mouth which gives an even more bizarre appeal.
I’ve decided its best to stop wondering how all the traditions of holidays tie in with religious references, because the more I think about it, the less conclusions I come to. There is nothing religious about tents that you people drink excessively in, and although my biblical skills are lacking these days, I’m sure the bible wasn’t the brain child for the crazy fuck who decided to make people wear huge paper mache masks and walk around beating children in the arms of their mothers with balloons. I’m going out on a limb, but I would have for sure remembered this sermon if it was in there.
More to come soon!!

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