Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Italian landlord of my Australian friend told her about a festival happening this weekend in Puig, so I looked it up on El Puig's website. The website is in both Castellano and Valenciano, but the flier with all the information about the celebration was only available in Valenciano which I can normally read decently, but not today. So, yet again, I drug my family to an event knowing almost nothing about it. Really, the only thing I knew was that at some point there would be dancing.
We arrived and parked. Every entrance to the city center both by car or foot were "blocked" by boys in camo pants and green shirts labelled "Quinto 2010" standing at car windows or pushing coin heavy bandanas towards passers by asking for donations. What for exactly, I never really figured out, but I think it was for the soup.
We neared the Ayutamiento to see a group of men and women traditionally dressed standing in small groups, talking, fixing up their costumes, and waiting. Musicians walked towards them as we made our way towards the monastery. The crowds weren't heavy yet, so we were able to stroll casually through the little street market set up with Peruvian music, knock-off purses, toys, scarves, and other random things. In front of the monastery was a huge carnival complete with rides, loud music, and all varieties of fried and sugared foods. I asked a policeman where and when the dancing would start. He pointed to where we came from and said "about" 1230. It was supposed to begin at 12 (that I could read on the flyer).
We walked back the way we came and I asked another policeman. Where would the dancing be. "Here, along this street," she said. We stood for a minute, but the sidewalks were empty. Surely if there was an event about to happen, people would be preparing for it? So we walked down to the Ayutamiento and waited there, Kirk and the girls on a bench talking and me standing taking a few photos.
With no apparent signal at no precise time, a handful of musicians started playing and walked slowly towards the monastery. A handful of dancers followed. The spectators around us started walking and we followed as well. Just walking. There were dancers in front of us and behind us. Musicians beside us. We were all in one large procession as the music played, then stopped, then played again. We stopped just before the end of the road. The music finished then 20 feet away two dancers began to dance. A circle of people formed around them watching. We walked over and the girls got squeezed in so they could see. Soon a few more dancers joined in and the crowd expanded to allow it. And a few more dancers joined them. Soon there was a long line of couples facing each other dancing along the narrow street, spectators thick on either side, inching their way slowly back to the place they started. The music had already made it to the beginning and continued to play as the dancers moved along. It was simple and beautiful, yet so unlike anything I've seen. I expected a stage, some semblance of organization. A clear start, a clear finish. This was a narrow street, an impromtu crowd, and a dance that started abruptly in bits and pieces and ended the same. No fanfare at all and away from the noise and chaos of the carnival on the other side of the monastery. I think those things made it all that much more special really. I stood there inches away while these ladies in all shapes and sizes smiled, clicked their castonettes, and swirled this way and that down the old street. As we walked away, I observed that the dancing was much like the local roundabouts with no logic or semblance or rules, but somehow, it just happens and works.
Through the noise and crowds on the opposite side of the monastery we found these pots. This is the core - the basis for the entire festival and something I so wish I could have participated in. Here, along the wall of the monastery above, these great big cauldrons streamed over wood fires. Every year they make this stew with pork, vegetables, and rice. People walked by with small covered pots in their bags. At the end of the day I saw many people leaving the festival grounds carrying full pots in their hands. It's a Valencia thing, I was told. All the small towns in the area will have their own Sant Pere festival and make a big stew for their own village. If I had a pot with me, I could have taken home some too and oh, it looked so delicious. One of the older men cooking invited me over the fence to take a photo and see what was inside. The steam was so thick, the photo I took of the stew itself showed nothing but a hint of yellow through the steam. He stood there smiling with his long wooden paddle that looked more like a boat oar than a spoon. Other men stirred the other pots and some came with big bags of rice over their shoulders. All the pots are inscribed either in Valenciano or Castellano with a title and the date. One said, "Los Clavarios de San Pedro Nolasco Ano 1977." My friends had told me before of some smaller villages making a community paella. This was the community stew and it is really special. Next year we'll bring a pot.
We told the girls they'd each get two rides. That was changed to one after I got off the Alcatraz feeling as green as the cage I'd been tossed around in. That and the noise akin to a bomb blast in my ear. The Spanish are loud. Events here make my teeth hurt. That cage in front of the old monastery is a lot more intense than it looks. Luci wanted to go on it, but needed an adult - me. That box swings down so fast that you're lifted up in the cage and thrown around. It took all my strength to keep my feet planted so that I could watch out for Luci and the other flying kids in the cage with us. Blech. I'm not as young as I used to be. The Spanish girls were sweet though. One asked Luci in English if she was scared. Not my Luci, she's not scared of anything. She was calm and enjoyed it. I stumbled out queasy. The good/bad thing about this carnival is that the rides last at least 2-3x as long as rides in the US. Great if you love it, bad if you're ill. Thankfully, the next ride didn't need adult supervision, so Arianna and Elise could go round and around in circles on the dragon roller coaster without me. The really cool thing is that the dragon came with balloons. The attendant tied big punching balloons to the sides before each ride and at the end each child got to take one home. Extra long rides with souvenirs, very cool.In Spain, there seems to be quite a disparity between the upper class and the lower class. At least here in Valencia, that is true. And if you are upper class, you want everyone to know it. Here at this carnival with crowds, noise, trash and sticky greasy foods, were women in $300 designer dresses, full length fur coats (yes, real), spike heals, silk blouses, and all the accessories to match. They dressed their children the same. Tiny girls in stockings, boots, frilly dresses, and fancy wool coats going on rides and eating cotton candy. I suppose in my $2.50 Old Navy flip-flops, I was a bit out of place. Must remember that I'm in Spain and not Seattle. Here, women dress very nicely just to walk outside. There is no casual in public and even blue jeans are worn with stilletos. This is why I dress up now to pick up my girls from school birthday parties.
Festival food = Churros regular or extra fat, plain or filled with custard and chocolate cream, buñelos (like New Orlean's beignets), palmolitas (popcorn), french fries, hot dogs, hamburgers, and cotton candy. I had amazing churros in Germany made by a Spanish friend. So far all those I've tried here have been crunchy, greasy, and flavorless. Next time we'll skip the grease and just get the soup.More Photos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=186520&id=674507268&l=d71202b94f
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