29 march 2005

Tuesday morning we were back at Talley’s apartment recovering from our time in Seville. Seville where the celebration of Semana Santa was so surreal (the most overused word ever, but what else can I say?) that I can’t write about it yet. There were 2 a.m. processions of hundreds of men in cloaks and pointy hats stooped under massive black wooden crosses and are you getting the idea here? This will take me months to untangle.

In any case there we were at Talley’s in Cartagena. Eleven in the morning she gets a call from Jean Francois. He is calling to find out where we are, since we had planned to take the one hour bus ride to Murcia to join him for the spring festival.

“It’s only eleven in the morning,” I point out, rewrapping the blanket around me.

“He says they’re already drinking,” replies Talley. “He says they have a cart. I don’t really know what he means. Maybe they have a car?”

We puzzle over why anyone would want to have a car during a festival, but push these thoughts aside and pack our bags. I will go directly from Murcia to the airport the next morning.

In Murcia we swing by the apartment that Jean Francois shares with Jean Michelle. We drop off our things. Jean Michelle, home for siesta, rallies to join us. He leads us into the streets, which are filled with large groups of drinking, laughing people in historical dress. Mind you, not dress from a particular period of history. Dress from any period of history. There are older women in peasant dresses and young hip men in rope sandals and lots of funny hats.

Americans don’t like to dress funny. They feel self conscious, and they tend to only dress up in ways that are flattering. As Rachel pointed out one Halloween in NYC, most people’s Halloween costumes are a flimsy excuse to dress provocatively. No one ever just dresses like a cat for Halloween – they dress like a sexy kitten. Or a sexy maid. Or a sexy whatever.

But the Murcians in the street were dressed in all kinds of ways, and many of them were not especially flattering. They certainly weren’t hip and stylish. This was surprising in a country that seems, in many ways, particularly obsessed with appearances.

We wove through the streetparties and emerged in one of Murcia’s public squares. At this point the earlier telephone conversation took on a sudden new meaning. The park was packed with groups of friends and families, celebrating together like a Fourth of July picnic. But instead of each group congregating around a barbeque, each group congregated around a shopping cart. A stolen shopping cart loaded with ice and alcohol.

We found Jean Francois’s cart, surrounded by Brazilians. Most of them had just met in the past few days, yet they were celebrating together like family. Does anyone want to go to Brazil with me?

For the rest of the afternoon and evening, our routine, like that of the other revelers, went like this: Push the shopping cart to a desirable spot. Park it. Hand out a round of beers, supplement with shots of vodka and absinthe, chat with neighboring cart groups, flirt with neighboring cart groups, harass the slow drinkers, pack up the cart, repeat.

I didn’t sleep until I was on the bus to the airport. And that was my last day in Spain.