One Last, Noisy Festival

It turns out that Thursday night was the shortest night of the year.  And how do the Catalans celebrate it?  By staying up all night and shooting off as many fireworks as possible, of course.  It’s called the Festival of Saint John, although for the life of me I can’t figure out what a saint has to do with the equinox.  No matter.  The big party happens on the beach in the Barceloneta, where people stake out their spots early, drink a lot, and participate in the fireworks happenings.

A hot, crowded beach with drunken people setting off explosives—not my idea of a good time.  Alec, who was born on July 4, was tempted.  We had talked about a compromise, maybe going up the castle at Mont Juic to see everything from afar and above.  But by the time Friday night rolled around, we were all completely exhausted.  I had left all of my energy on the court and it was gone by the time the last child left.  The kids were fried from spending all week in a nonstop play date, and Alec had a cold coming on.  There was no way to drag the kids out, and I was perfectly fine staying home.  I suggested that Alec go out by himself.  So he did, for a bit, walking around Sarria to see what folks were doing.  In that neighborhood, people had set out tables on the streets and sidewalks, full of candles.  People walked the streets, stopped and chatted.  It sounded lovely, and civilized. 

I was still up reading when he came home, the sound of M80s piercing the usual quiet of our street.  That’s the sound I fell asleep to, and I still heard them when I woke briefly at 6 am.  So our year in Barcelona really has gone out with a bang.

Of course Saint John is a holiday here, but Manuel wanted to send the paper we were working on in to the readers before he left for Paris on Sunday.  So Amalia, Manuel and I met in the office at 10 am and worked straight through until 9 pm, stopping only for a potluck picnic of tortilla (mine), bread (Manuel) and salad and fruit (Amalia).  Manuel also broght a “coca de Sant Joan,”  a traditional sweet bread sold only for this holiday—we had a tea break and ate that during the late afternoon.  Around 6, Alec came by with the kids on their way back from Tibidabo to see how we were doing and to say goodbye to Manuel.

We were focused and worked hard, although we were all ready to leave by the time we piled into Manuel’s car to go home.  I came home, opened a bottle of red wine, and flopped onto the couch.  That must be the first 11 hour day I’ve worked since I arrived here.  I don’t miss them.