Funeral for a Fish

Given the title of this post, you are probably thinking that Fishy followed Cyclone out of the tank and that we are dealing with our second fish suicide.  But no, the fish I’m talking about is a sardine.  Like much of the world, Barcelona has spent the past week celebrating Carnival.  In truth, Carnival is not so big here—it’s much bigger, for example, in Sitges, which is about a half hour away.  But the kids dressed up at school last week and had a parade, and there were festivities throughout the weekend.  We did not attend any.  But when I learned that the end of Carnival and the beginning of Lent is marked by a sardine funeral—well, I couldn’t stay away.

I heard about this sardine funeral through the grapevine, and did enough research to learn what it was all about.  From what I can put together, the funeral part signifies the end of all of the partying that has taken place during carnival, and the sardine part reminds people that they will be eating a lot more fish in the weeks to come.  Why do they bury the fish?  This seems to be the missing link. 

Still, I couldn’t figure out how one could attend the funeral.  Was it an invitation only affair?  I emailed a couple of local contacts for help.  Iu, a Catalan friend who lives nearby, replied quickly with all of the information I needed, including the times and places of a couple of neighborhood funerals. 

My favorite yoga teacher had invited Lois and me to a class she was teaching in the Born with live music, and I figured we’d have just enough time to finish class, have a coffee at El Magnifico on Argenteria, and get to the funeral in Poble Sec.  On the way to El Magnifico, we passed the chocolate/pastry shop Bubo, which had a display of bunyols de quaresma  (sweet Lent fritters) in the window.  These bunyols are miniature sugar-coated donuts, and I figured we had to have some given the occasion.  So we bought a small bag of them and had them with our coffee.   Not too sweet, with a hint of orange, and a nice crunch from the sugar.  Really good.

We hopped two trains and found the Plaza del Surtidor, a small square tucked into Poble Sec a few blocks off of Parallel.  It was about 5:15, and the ceremonies were slated to start at 5:30.  Some folks were futsing with a large charcoal grill, and a large black “casket” rested on a table nearby.  On it was a large fish, a rose, and a cross.  Several people clustered around a woman with a clipboard.  She was handing out long bamboo poles, each with a colored balloon tied to the top.  As we got closer, I noticed that the poles had not only balloons, but also a big sardine—about 6 inches long.  I went up to the woman, figuring I should have a sardine pole, too—but since I had not signed up ahead of time, she told me I’d have to wait and see if there were any left once the parade got started.  Children appeared with fish poles they had made in school or at home, with paper fish.

Two drummers showed up, the pall bearers took their places, and Clipboard Lady handed me a fish pole with a green balloon.  I took my place among the mourners, the drummers began to drum, and we were off.  We were led out of the square and into the streets of Poble Sec.  They wound us up one of the lower hills of Montjuic behind a soccer field, where someone had dug a shallow hole.  We all pulled our fishes off of our poles and threw them into the hole.  The Hole Digger unceremoniously shovelled dirt in the hold until the fish could no longer be seen.

Then we all paraded back down the hole and into the square, without drumming, where the smell of charcoal filled the air.  The Fish Grillers had been busy filling up metals pans with grilled sardines and the paraders were beginning to line up to get their sardines and perform another kind of burial.  We came home to eat the shrimp curry Alec had fixed instead of chowing on sardines.

And thus ends another eventful day in Barcelona.  Amen.