Fiesta’d out

I’m propped against the bar set up for the village saint’s day fiesta in a one-horse town in the province of Teruel. If fact, it’s probable going over the top to say the place is one-horse because other than the odd feral cat wandering the streets in the heat of the day, this place usually shows as much life as an embalmed and entombed mummy. But this weekend is fiesta, when the world and his brother, sister, cousin and uncle all come to the dead-end place of their birth to celebrate their Fiestas Patronales. No-matter how much you hate the place, or what a rotten childhood you had here, there’s never an excuse good enough not to be here for this weekend of weekends.

As I look out over the night-time throng, watching girls with big arses in tight white pants promenading in front of ogling pubescent boys, I wonder what on earth I’m doing here drinking watered-down beer.

The music system in the bar is playing good modern Spanish rock, but step away a couple of metres and you walk into a walk of sound from the band at the far end of the park, who are playing really bad Spanish rock, mixed in with English songs they’ve obviously learned from a CD because, if it weren’t for the tune and the odd recognisable word, they might as well be singing in Hindustani.

If you would like to know more about Spain, visit my web site, www.derekworkman-journalist.com , and Spain Uncovered.

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