Spain from a Backpack. Mark Pearson
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.
Barcelona
No Shoes, No Shirts, No Problems
jon azpiri
“look at where we are!” Patrick shouted to me incredulously as we sat on a patio on Las Ramblas in Barcelona. It didn’t matter to him that we were on the patio of McDonald’s, the only restaurant we could afford, or that we were sipping on gazpacho that tasted like watered-down V8 juice. He just couldn’t believe he was in Spain, away from his home in Sydney for the first time in his life. It wasn’t the first time he had said this to me. He did it so often, he’d named his trip “Patrick’s Look At Where We Are Tour 2000.”
I had met Patrick on Las Ramblas, not long after I had arrived. He’d spotted me trudging along with my backpack and asked me if I needed a room. He had an extra bed at his place, and I’d failed to get in at the overly popular Kabul Hostel, so I quickly agreed.
Patrick was a burly, hard-drinking Australian who had taken a year off to travel the world. Once you got past his rough edges, however, you’d find a contagious, childlike optimism. Although he often missed the main tourist sites in a city, he would catch the smallest things. Children playing in a plaza, a brightly lit water fountain, the fact that you could buy a litre of wine at the grocery store for less than a dollar—these things filled Patrick with wonder. And he would inevitably exclaim, “Look at where we are!”
Patrick’s open-minded approach to life often led us to new people. Men seemed to like him because he was always willing to buy a drink, and women were drawn to his rugged good looks and impish charm. Even though he couldn’t speak a word of Spanish, he managed to beguile several local girls. I, on the other hand, was too reserved to chat up women, despite the fact that I was nearly fluent in Spanish, and even knew a few words of Catalan.
Over the next five days, a pattern emerged. Unlike Patrick, who seemed to revel in small moments, I insisted on seeing all the big sights. I would get up early and visit places like Parc Güell, La Sagrada Familia and the Picasso Museum, taking photos and writing in my journal, as if my trip were some sort of homework project, while Patrick spent the day sleeping off his hangover from the night before. Each night around 9, we would meet in our room, head out for dinner, then hit the town.
Our final night in “Barca,” Patrick wanted to go out on a high note. We asked some locals what was the best nightclub in town, and they told us about La Terrazza, a giant monastery-turned-nightclub that was supposed to be the biggest party