Читать книгу Spain from a Backpack - Mark Pearson - Страница 12

Valencia

City on Fire

cara nissman

Saying that Valencia in March is a blast is like saying Times Square on New Year’s Eve is crowded. Every March 15 to 19, this coastal Spanish city bursts with raucous noise and vibrant colors for Las Fallas (“The Torches”), ending in a wild final night of fireworks. After months of living in Madrid and backpacking around Spain, I had heard enough about Las Fallas to know I didn’t want to miss it.

The Valencia version dates to the 15th century, when craftsmen took the torches used to light the city’s streets during winter, and burned them in bonfires on the feast day of San José, patron saint of workers. Over the years, the day has expanded into a riotous week of bonfires, parades and fireworks explosions, celebrated by several million people.

Today, each barrio in the city spends up to a year building a falla that’s 20 feet tall, and dozens of smaller ninots to surround it. These startlingly lifelike statues satirize current events and lampoon public figures. Meticulously built of cardboard, wood and plaster, the fantastic constructions are displayed during the week of festivities.

Then, on the last day, called La Crema (“The Burning”), men with axes chop holes in the figures and fill them with fireworks, to be set ablaze at midnight. At 1 a.m., the largest, most extravagant falla is ignited in the city’s main square, Plaza Ayuntamiento, followed by a spectacular fireworks display called Nit de Foc, Night of Fire.

Before I left Madrid, everybody assured me that nobody reserves a room during La Crema, because everyone’s out carousing. So I threw a few things into a small backpack, brought a minimal amount of cash—I heard slimy pickpockets liked to prey on roving revelers—and planned on staying up throughout the festivities.

The moment I stepped off my crowded bus and into the blazing sunshine of downtown Valencia, I knew I had entered a rambunctious realm. It was 1 p.m., and people of all ages were ambling around, chomping on street vendors’ salty olives and roasted nuts, and sipping from bottles of beer or wine. Tired and thirsty, I bought a refreshing horchata, the milky, partially frozen Valencian drink made from chufas (earth almonds).

I strolled along, inspecting the enormous, grotesque papier-mâché statues of famous faces, such as Steven Spielberg, and silly scenes, such as a pudgy chef standing waist-deep in a huge pot of spaghetti. As I walked, I sensed the energy building around me. Then, a ground-trembling explosion shook me: Huge piles of fireworks burst into slate clouds of smoke and color not more than 15 feet away. I had stumbled upon Las Mascletas, a daily competition among neighborhoods for the loudest, most impressive display. For 10 minutes, everybody covered their ears, dogs barked wildly, and traffic froze. A bit rattled, but grinning irrepressibly, I expected an exhilarating demonstration for Nit de Foc.

I walked around for hours, marveling at the fallas and ninots, as well as the city’s architecture, a mix of art nouveau and medieval. Crowds cheered for elaborately dressed men and women parading through the streets. I whistled and chanted, following the masses past the huge iron, glass and tile Mercado Central to a 17th-century church. There, people brought amazing floral arrangements to La Virgen de los Desamparados, the church’s statue of The Virgin of the Forsaken, virtually covering her with thousands of flowers. I spent a lot of time taking in their aromas.

After the sun set and the men placed the fireworks inside the fallas, revelers throughout the city grew even more restless. Crowds of young people had been dancing obnoxiously in the streets for hours of unabashed debauchery, but the real party was about to begin. Just after midnight, fallas and ninots standing on various streets went up in flames, and I could feel the heat from 20 feet away. I made a game of running from street to street, guessing which star athlete or revered artist would be ignited next.

With the number of fires smoldering around me, I wasn’t surprised to hear that, in 1851, the city’s mayor outlawed the ritual. But the spirit of Las Fallas was irrepressible, and the ban didn’t last.

In the main square, I jostled my way through hundreds of Spanish families, international tourists and local policemen to behold the largest falla, the vivid visage of Gulliver, hero of Jonathan Swift’s scathing novel “Gulliver’s Travels.” He was several stories tall, staring at the crowd as if cursing such a grandiose display of frivolity. When the first round of firecrackers went off, the entire square erupted, whistling and yelling, jumping up and down with almost as much energy as the fireworks themselves. Showers of brilliantly hued sparks filled the sky from the barrios, echoing the blasts coming from the falla. Then, in a bittersweet bow, Gulliver sizzled into oblivion, releasing bright orange flares and plumes of smoke above the emptying square.

I worried that, after the final explosions, the celebrants would feel burned out. But no—this was Spain! As the fires fizzled, the heat of the people grew.

People feverishly spread throughout the city streets, billowing into local hot spots as though seeking a release.

On Calle de Caballeros in the Barrio del Carmen, a neighborhood stocked with cool bars and discos, I squeezed my way into a multi-story bar in a converted house, perfect for dancing. Soon, I realized my feet were throbbing more than the music. After nearly 20 hours awake, I had to sit down. All the plush couches were occupied by similarly exhausted young people, so I picked a corner on the floor near the bar entrance. I was nearly dozing off when a slim Spaniard spotted me, took my hand and said, “You can’t be tired already!”

I was nearly dozing off when a slim Spaniard spotted me, took my hand and said, “You can’t be tired already!”

He promptly helped me up, introduced me to his two pals from Madrid, and invited me along to explore la madrugada—the dawn. My aching feet protested, but the rest of me wanted to continue celebrating. Spanish children ran wildly in the streets, leaving firecracker explosions in their wakes. We dodged them and ducked into a little bar decorated with posters of old actors and movies. As we sucked down drinks and listened to laid-back tunes, the guys told me this was their first Fallas, too. We compared impressions of the festival, and they toasted my bravery for traveling alone to it.

Then, curious about what happens after such an extravagant event, we went back out and walked around Valencia. It was a city asleep after a night of abandon. Despite warnings that thieves ruled the streets after Las Fallas, we glimpsed only workers determined to clean up. Amazingly, the place seemed spotless after just a few hours, and scant remnants of the night’s decadence remained.

When we finally parted company, I boarded a packed bus headed to a reputedly quiet town with a serene beach. Sitting in the back of that bus after more than 24 hours of sensory overload, quiet was pretty much all I craved.

CARA NISSMAN is a West Palm Beach, Florida-based writer who has contributed to Seventeen, Teen Vogue, Salon.com, The Palm Beach Post and The Boston Herald. Nissman, a past contributor to Europe From a Backpack, has traveled solo around Spain, Portugal, Ireland, France and Italy. She saves her pennies so she may explore more of the world.