by Gina Cariño
Home >> The Way to San José: Fallas
Do you know the way to San José? I didn’t know March 19th was St. Joseph’s Day until I came to Spain, where San José is a holiday in some places. And when I did (I mean come to Spain), I also learned about the popular Valencian festival that came about when local carpintero guilds began to burn their wood shavings on the feast of the Holy Carpenter. I itched to see for myself what had been described to me as one of the most exuberant and consuming, literally consuming, fiestas in all of Spain. I had seen pictures and videos but I wanted to see those ninots in person, those constructions of papier-mâché, rags, and wood filling the streets and squares. Something in me wanted to witness the spectacle of an enormous toyland being set on flames at the strike of midnight and getting reduced to rubble, to the accompaniment of massive fireworks and the euphoria of tipsy crowds. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
I hopped on a very early bus to the Mediterranean capital with three other young foreigners from “ex-colonies.â€? We reached Valencia at mid-morning and wandered around town. I wasn’t exactly awed to finally see the vast figures at close range, but they were conversation pieces, perfect for practicing my then still elementary Spanish with my Latin American companions. Some were fanciful, some were naughty or risqué, some just plain corny or kitsch. If anything really impressed me, it was the idea that they were built up just to be burned down.
At an intersection they were cooking a giant paella a la valenciana, the paellera reaching all four sidewalk corners. That whetted our appetites. We knew what we would have for lunch. Not in town, though, where prices seemed unsuitable to our student budgets and all restaurants were filled to the brim anyway. Someone told us to taxi to the seashore and have our rice in a beach-tent sort of eatery, which is what we did.
Then back we were in the city to resume our wanderings, take pictures, sip horchata, peel Valencian oranges (for a needed dose of Vitamin C), hooray the parades, rest our tired backs, legs, and feet at locked storefronts, gaze up at more ninots…
An hour before midnight we rose to ensure ourselves a decent view of the imminent burning, which was no simple task because we were told that one had to guard against getting trapped between panicking mobs and immobile buildings in the event of a wind blowing the holocaust astray. The clock struck twelve, Cinderella time. All I can remember, today, is a lot of fire around me but none inside of me.
The conflagration still in process, we inched our way to the bus station for the journey back to reality, reality being the ephemerality of fiestas and siestas. We arrived in Madrid about 4 am, so could count on at least a three-hour bed sleep before our alarm clocks went off to start us on a new regular work or study day, for it was March 20th and no longer a holiday. At 26, your body can do these things. At 46, quite less.
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My comment is an anecdote about my first experience with a “fiesta,” which also had a lack of fire within. It was San FermÃn, the epitome of all fiestas…at least in my 19-year-old American mind. Some of us students went to Pamplona one evening after class. We got there, ready to party away until the next morning at eight when we would see the bulls run through the streets of the Old Town.
We saw the sights (rubbish), smelled the smells (urine, rancid wine, vomit) and heard the glorious music (loud Australians) of tradition.
The two lovebirds decided to go to a bullfight. The rest of us waited for them outside. And waited. And waited. Eventually, they came out, covered in cheap wine and excited about having seen some bulls be stabbed to death.
I’ll sum up quickly. We slept in a park on pizza boxes. We drank warm beer. I got sick (not from drinking, I assure you). We found the perfect place to see the bulls. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Then the police told us that we couldn’t be there. We were too close. It was 7:45 a.m. The Australians had already taken their places and were willing to kill to keep them. We got to the end of the route and, exasperated, took the 8:00 bus home. I did not see the bulls run. I did, however, get to see the running of the bulldozers, which cleared the streets for another night of revelry.
I have not been back to Pamplona.
Hooray! I never went back either! At least not for “sanfermines.â€? What a relief to find another “guiri” who won’t claim to have loved the riau riau riau of the fiesta and the death in the afternoon, an American who doesn’t pretend to be Hemingway. Oh yes, those stinking alleys! And the patxarán-Robitussin! Welcome to the club of “aguafiestas”!
Hello Gina!
I think that from now on you are going to be my tutor. I am glad that you wrote the weekly letter so that we all have a chance to know a little bit about you.
I have also been to Valencia during Fallas and it was really crazy. I remember that weekend because we didn’t sleep at all, we drunk a lot of sangria and beer, we almost wen’t deaf in the “mascleta”, we saw the burning castle at midnight, we went out all night, throwng “petardos” all the time.
I really had fun that weekend…but if I was to repeat that again, I think I wouldn’t resist awake that long, or I wouldn’t be able to drink that much.
I think that as I get older my priorities are changing: partying hard and going out are not the most important thing in my life, as it used to be.
Best regards,
Cristina
Thank you, Cristina!
Hello Gina,
I have enjoyed a lot with your story in the Fallas. I have never been there in Fallas, I was last year the week before the fiestas, and I could see the beautiful art that they burn later. It upsets me!
I agree with you, when you tell that when you grow older you don’t have so energy, and you need rest more, you can’t take all the night without sleep.
About the sentence the clock struck twelve, Cinderella time, I think it is a magic hour in which you come back to the harsh reality, and they burn the ninots!
St. Joseph’s Day is a commercial day in which the society try to convince you of buying something to your father. I think the father’s day is all the days in the year, you have to enjoy your father, as long as you can. unfortunately, my father died 5 years ago and I miss him everyday.
Regarding St. Patrick’s Day, I know he is the Irland patron, isn’t he? I was two years ago in Ireland, to be precise in Dun Laughaire, Dublin, Carlow … it is the paradise!!! I would like to live there!!! but I don’t know how irish people celebrate this fiesta, do you know?
Thanks a lot,
Dónal and Eamonn are the ones to tell you how Irish people celebrate St. Patrick´s Day. But, Gema, I don´t think I´d be very wrong if I told you that they do little more than drink a lot of alcohol. And the worst thing is… they´re proud of it!!! :-)
Here in Heidelberg, Germany, the most important night event is Walpurgis Night, which takes place on the eve of May 1st. When it´s nice and dark, people (especially young people) walk up a mountain called “The Holy Mountain.” Obviously, there are no streetlights in this mountain, so you have to bring your own source of light. As most Germans are as romantic as Beethoven, they don´t bring flashlights. How dull that would be. Instead, they carry around these huge torches (antorchas) that create a very, very dramatic effect.
On the peak of the Holy Mountain is an amphitheatre that was actually built by the Nazis. Hundreds of Heidelbergers gather here with their torches, percussion instruments and bottles of alcohol to await the arrival of spring (remember that it reaches Germany much after it reaches Spain). In the end, Walpurgis Night is very much like a macrobotellón. But it´s allowed because it has its taste of history, tradition, supersitition and culture.