Fallas!!! [faijas]

Only a week after the Bayona trip my inside sources gave me a hint to check out this huge annal festival in Valencia called Fallas. The same day I heard two people talking about it on the bus to school, and later a guy mentioning it on his cell phone. Hmmm. Surely enough I had to find out what all the ruckus is about.

I hatched a plan to the get there, called my loyal sidekick Make-peace,

who took the first flight out of Nottingham where he had been re-enacting a modern version of "The Color of Money", whilst moonlighting as a student, and hired Kataya and BHF (Ella, the Big-Headed Finn) [she doesn't actually have a large head, that nickname was born out of thin air (and tequila) on the night that I told you about in Play Ball!!], just to avoid the gay honeymoon remarks. It turned out that renting a car was the best (read: hardest) way to get there. And by best I mean cheapest. So we rented one, picked up Make-peace at Santiago de Compostela, wandered around in the mountain roads surrounding it for three hours to shake off any followers, or because Kataya was behind the wheel, and headed southeast.

It took Make-peace 5 hours and two relatively strong vodka-lemon drinks to get over my beard, but that's the price you pay. By the time we were about 100 miles from Madrid we found ourselves hungry and stopped in a small town, which might, by the way, go to the Top 4 Saddest Things in Spain. Not the fact that we went there, but the place itself. I'm pretty sure air stood still in that town. And not in a good, romantic little village type of way where no one's in a hurry. But more like...you know, when you wake up in the morning after a rough night, go to the bathroom, maybe take a shower and have a glass of juice (when no longer in the shower), and then return to your bedroom, and that smell of no oxygen, old booze, drawl, sweat and sub-blanket farts hits you in the face like Roy Jones Junior's right hook. That way. We were desperate, so we settled for any food, which turned out to be just that. A couple of yesterday's toasts cut into smaller bits, some limp fries and a seashell that had surely died at least twice, and not in the recent past.

At the 9-hour mark the group's morale was declining rapidly. I was whipping the C3 like Spartacus at the Colosseum, but the 1,1 litre beast was at the edge of its capacity and I, together with the gas tank, decided it was time to stop again. As fortune would have it, the gas station also carried a commendable collection of vodka, which, when combined with the mix-tape titled "Epic" quickly got the party started.

With a respectable figure of 1170 kilometers behind us we arrived at the Port of Sagunto. It was an industrial area, and one could not even see the sea in the darkness. Minor setback. 5 minutes, 38 swear words and 16 roundabouts later we somehow found the right road and thusly also our hotel. However, as we had no key and the ringing the doorbell didn't do squat, we felt like a bunch of homeless people in Baghdad, largely because the Spanish fire"crackers" seemed to lack any kind of restrictions in amount, size or loudness. I have played with firecrackers every new year since I was 8, so I have some frame of reference, and these things were insane. The medium sized ones sounded like hand grenades (and were thrown around in a similar manner) whereas the Spanish "Thunder Kings" bore a close resemblance to the mortar of a 81mm grenade launcher used by our dear armed forces. Kataya saw an older couple standing around close by, but since they didn't really speak any language properly, it took us a while to find out that they too were trying to get in. Kataya had to use Spanish, English, French and some German and 15 minutes in acquiring this information, that later proved completely useless for us. (This is exactly why Esperanto will never be REALLY spoken anywhere.)

We kept ringing the bell and banging on the door, since that, and dodging the explosives were the only things to do, and finally the door opened. It was the concierge. And by concierge I mean a drunken retard with cotton balls in his ears. Vexed because he couldn't go to the party, he decided to get drunk by himself and damp the sound of the fireworks by sticking stuff in his ears, and it worked so well that he fell asleep/passed out on the counter. That's Spain for you. We, however, had a hard time seeing the obvious comedy in this at the time and didn't exactly high-five the guy on the way to our rooms. For the next hour and a half we hunted for food but it turned out that the locals don't eat, so there wasn't any. Seriously. Nothing. Nada. So we gave up and went back to the hotel to get some good old shut-eye.

Six hours later Make-peace and I woke up abruptly and almost ducked for cover when the Apocalypse started. Five seconds later we realized that the world wasn't actually ending, but instead the locals had started a brand new day of Fallas with a bang, or around 200 actually. Well, there wasn't much we could do but to get up. Chow-time. As men we were compelled to go hunt for food for the tribe. Even though ALL the town's streets were one-way we managed to navigate our way to a Golden Arches. But wait, it gets better. Opposite to the Mickey D's there was a Burger King. Our hunt was over. The women said that the coffee was bad and the salads limp, but we thought our hunt was a success.

We could see the beach from our hotel room and decided to give it a try. Although the weather wasn't too hot, the beach was quite nice. A foot bag, a couple of Coronitas, and some mildly gay wading (the girls chose to get some "real coffee" instead) in the freezing Mediterranean made for an extremely pleasant afternoon. We heard that there would be all kinds of events and concerts later in the evening so we stayed at Sagunto for that night. And it paid off: we stumbled upon a stage where a band was playing some Spanish and Italian! hits. We recognized maybe one or two of them but sang along with every chorus. Then, in the early hours of the morning someone thought of a game, which involved going through Make-peace's personal life in its entirety. Although somehow Make-peace ended up being the only one to tell anything about themselves, so the game wasn't really a classic, at least according to him.

The next day we slept late, partly because of the night before, partly to gather strength for the next night, for it would be the big one. After midnight all the Fallas in Valencia would be burned and there would be much rejoicing. Kataya needed a few more hours to gather herself, and here's why:


The rest of us were very impressed. (You can't see Make-peace because he's spraying vodka and lemon juice through his nose.)

And then there was three. We took the train because we wanted to still have a car to get us back to Vigo. At the central station in Valencia all hell was breaking loose. At least the organizers had been smart enough to prepare for the worst. Although I don't see how the first aid people could actually help anyone if they were all in one place, posing for pictures like a football team.

Oh, well. To get him to stop worrying and to get us energized, I introduced Make-peace to the wonderfully disgusting world of "churros", sugar-coated, donut-resembling sticks that are made by a Play-Doh fat factory.

We also got ourselves some original, traditional Fallas-scarves and even Kataya found the willpower to show up, albeit in a rather "poor oxygen", so to speak.

We walked around the hectic Valencia centre and found bigger and bigger Fallas behind every corner, until it was close to midnight and time to pick the one we want to see go down in flames. We picked a Falla with some Indian and Viking! characters that looked funny and more importantly were situated dangerously close to the surrounding buildings. And since it was Spain, anything could happen.

And soon enough, it was hammer-time. The spectacle started with a crescendo of beautiful fireworks that served as an appetizer before the Fallas were lit. It took a while for the flames to lick the figures to a suitable temperature (451 F, or thereabouts) but once they did..DAEMN! The blazing inferno was nothing short of breathtaking, and the crowd cheered as if the papier-maché and wood statues would have been the Berlin Wall itself being torn down. The flames climbed higher and higher and the firemen present were forced to wet the trees and the facades of the buildings over and over again to keep them from catching on fire.

As the contraption slowly crumbled we continued walking, hoping to find another one that would still be standing (much like Elton John). And so we did. This time the journalist in me urged me to climb into a tree in search for a better angle, and it paid off. Here's a free before-after sample:


After the event it was raining ash, paper, and water from the firemen's hoses, i.e. an excellent photo-op. Btw, I also have some video clips that are pretty sweet but I have no idea how to post them here, so if you want to see them, tell me how. (I think this one's a job for the Symbol)

When everything had burned to the ground, the people spread out quickly and we found out that the next day would be a completely regular workday in Valencia. The party ended faster than I could say "Well, what the **** are we supposed to do now?". Dumbfounded by this revelation we shuffled our way back to the train station. As there were a lot of trains and not too many timetables the girls went into an information office to ask for help. Unfortunately the dude didn't have a clue were Santugo was. Kataya kept telling him that he must be kidding, how can he not know where Santugo is, it's only about 25 kms away, is he really that bad at his job and so on, you get the idea. The problem was that there is no Santugo. There is a Sagunto though, the man said to Kataya, after she had been chastising the poor man for several minutes. Whoops!!

On our way back to the hotel from SAGUNTO's train station we figured we still have the car for two days so why not check out another Spanish city while were at it. When consulted on the matter the cab driver suggested either Toledo or Segovia of which we picked the latter, because it was on the way to Vigo and sounded groovier. And so, the following morning we loaded up the faithful C3 and pressed the pedal to the metal. But that's another story, coming your way soon..

P.S. Sorry about the delay, dear readers. I was searching for new stories in various cities in Europe, of which I'll tell you in the flashest of flashes.

Breaking The Waves

Every year on the first weekend of March the small town of Bayona sets aside its easy seaside town reputation and becomes a medieval village. The occasion is, of course, the arrival of Piña, the first of Cristobal Colón's ships to return from America in 1493. Having heard from the locals that this was something definitely worth seeing, a few of the American exchange students and myself headed towards that mysterious town, about 5o km south of Vigo.

As we stepped off the bus we could see the Piña,

or more accurately its exact replica tied to one of the long peers in front of the seaside boulevard. Obviously we had to take all the necessary Titanic and "land AHOY!" photos until we could concentrate on the history part of the ship. There was an older gentleman who was happy to enlighten us on the details about the vessel. For instance, it had a crew of 23 seamen (hahhahaah), which to my opinion is a lot, because the ship wasn't as big as one might think. Below the deck we found the captain with a worried look on his face, some nets for fishing, and chests filled with gold from America, probably paid for by glass pearls or lead, delivered into the natives breast pockets with an extremely rapid velocity. There were coins, nuggets, and all sorts of jewellery, which was also made to look as it would have back then, said the ship guide.

After the Piña we picked one of the narrow alleys that led towards the town square. A lot of people were wearing medieval clothing, there were blacksmiths, ladies with their cavaliers, jesters, wizards and monks. On both sides the were small tables and stands where the Bayonans were selling local delicacies, arts and crafts, clothes and beverages. At times there were men walking around with some sheep, pigs or a pair of bulls or cows, some real, some made of plastic for security reasons. At the main square musicians with medieval instruments, some of which I had never seen, were entertaining people while the latter exchanged compliments about each other's costumes. And no medieval fair would be complete without an extremely street-credible blacksmith, casually puffing on a Cuban.

Mingling with the locals paid off, as we were soon able to extricate some inside information about a traditional joust or a medieval tournament, that would take place on the beach in short order.
On our way there we were faced with a rather peculiar sight to say the least. There was a large tent next to the beach area, with several pedestals or columns inside. And on those columns were live birds. Well, birds isn't actually a very accurate depiction, for these geezers were from the badass-end of the bird gene pool. There were owls, hawks, a vulture and the don of the group: a huge eagle. This noble creature was tied to its pedestal with a rope so thin, that if it would have felt like it, it could have surely ripped anyone's eyes right out with it's nasty talons. So I decided not to pet it. Plus, it seemed to have eaten some spicy bees, hornets or even june bugs earlier, so it just concentrated in looking cool.

The joust was actually quite impressive. I feared it might be really lame, since there aren't really that many knights hanging around these days, but I'll tell you, these guys had some serious skills. The black knight (also a crowd favorite cause he was yummy, I was told), with his black stallion took the rest to school....two times. Although he had only one horsepower (ouch!), its engine seemed to have some extra pistons or something, because he made the green night, for example, his bitch, and made him look bad. Sadly his outstanding maverick was not enough to beat the purple knight in the thrilling final, and had to settle for second place. The silver lining was that the queens and kings in the audience were merciful, and he got to keep his life.

After this unforeseen and extremely entertaining event we decided to walk around some more since the weather was really nice, at times it was so hot that it felt like there would have been be two suns shining on us. There was a peninsula that looked interesting with a seashell-covered small beach,

huge waves crashing on the rocks and a breathtaking view of the sea and the nearby islands. Ever the adventurer (read: idiot), it didn't take me long to come up with the idea to go as near to the waves as possible, in hope of getting some nice and dramatic photos.

Well, we all know how that turned out. I spotted the most dangerous-looking rock,

over which every eleventh wave crashed, when the rest only came really close. The first photo was a success.

After that, however, I tried to leave that rock, but failed critically. The "every eleventh wave"-thing didn't really apply and I saw a huge wave rising above me, so I put my head down and grabbed the rock with everything I had. It washed over me, after which the second photo was taken.

(notice the water running down the cracks on the right) By now I was extremely sure that this had not been a very clever idea and tried to leave again. Unfortunately "every eleventh wave" had turned into "every other wave" so I had to take two more of those on my back. After taking about 8 tons of water in my face I finally managed to get to the shore. By an insane coincidence I was wearing my Fjällräven wind and waterproof jacket (top 4 things that rock, remember?), so my torso had remained dry. My camera still worked, because it had been in the jacket pocket, but my phone and mp3-player had not been that lucky. (After having tried everything else, I actually washed them both under running water once I got home. The mp3-player came back to life a couple of days later, but the salt had short-circuited something inside my phone, so I had to let it go.)

So there I was: pants, socks, shoes and head completely soaked and salty, feeling like a true winner, while the Americans laughed their asses off, repeating the mantra: "I can't believe you did it, you crazy Finnish bastard!!" I regained my cool, reminded them that they are fluent in only one language against my five, AND I could beat them in any sport they could think of, so they shut up. Three hours later I had had it with my wet clothes and marched into a chic seaside boulevard boutique that had a sale. The two female attendants were clearly a bit surprised to see a soaking wet Finn with an arguably awesome beard walk in like he owns the place, and ask to see their collection of pants. Oddly enough, I found a pair of jeans that weren't half bad, and walked happily away, going commando due to the lack of (well-chosen) briefs. I also found a pair of OK sneakers for 14e and the day took a turn for the better. The heat from the sun allowed me to remove my salt-covered [F-jail-rave-n] jacket and things could not have been dandier.

Just before we muscled ourselves into the last bus to Vigo that day we caught a glimpse of the epic play about the Pinta's travels,

its brave trail blazers and its celebrated return to Bayona. The rockets from the over-the-top fireworks properly culminated the somewhat eventful, and almost a magic excursion to this adorable little town.

P.S. How many NBA teams can you find in this story?

TOP 4 Nastiest Things So Far (not for people with weak stomachs..)

4.
This girl in the school's cafeteria on Friday.
She obviously didn't either own a mirror or believe in them. Or maybe she had one of those distorting mirrors from amusement parks. Possibly even the Magic mirror from Snow White. At least I can't think of any other explanation for her clothes. She wore the type of jeans that Britney introduced to the larger public.

She also had a tiny top with a very generous decoltée. Nothing wrong there, albeit a slightly offensive outfit for school, perhaps. However, the problem was that her clothes were size XS. She was an XL (to be nice). This made her look like a Play-Doh fat factory, if you know what I mean. Furthermore, she had decided to complete the look with high heels AND she spoke really loud. So, as she went to the counter, her shoes went CLIP-CLOP-CLIP-CLOP and she just shouted useless crap to her "friends" in a table on the other side of the cafeteria, forcing everyone to look at her.

BUT WHY?

I'm not saying that fat people should only wear tutus and be quiet in the corner, but I honestly cannot understand what she was trying to achieve. There is no way in hell that she could have thought she looked hot, or else she had very serious issues. So again, WHY? And trust me, I was not the only one wondering this. There were dozens of girls staring at her with emotions ranging from disgust, via pity, to utter confusion. I still don't get it..

3.
Pigs. They're everywhere. And they're all dead. I have yet to run into a good steak, or any steak for that matter. All they have is pork. I think it might be a conspiracy to keep the Muslims away or then the people are just simply too poor to afford beef. And it's not just the cutlets with 85% fat and 15% meat, served in any restaurant and sold in every (super)market. They have dried pig's HEADS in stores, next to the meat and cheese section, just casually hung from hooks on the wall. Their dried eyes staring at you as you try to order some cheese. Also some snouts, ears, eyes and other body parts, that are so not meant to be eaten by humans. NOT COOL.

2.
Stretchy pants on dudes. Again...WHY? Almost everyone is wearing them while doing sports. With jogging I can sort of understand that, maybe, but gym? You don't have to be aerodynamic whilst doing bench presses. You don't have to show everyone to which religion you belong, whilst playing soccer. The few who wear shorts, wear really nifty ones, AND LONGER STRETCHY PANTS UNDER THEM. And then these guys don't even do useful stuff while working out like biceps, back muscles, or squats. They do a 101 different types of abs, inner and outer thighs and buttocks. For a macho nation, most guys that I've seen are fantastically gay. They even call it:


I rest my case.

1.
Number One with a bullet. The Witch. Here's what happened. At some point during the first few days in Vigo Kataya and I got on a bus. Right after I took my card out of the ticket machine the smell hit me like a wet sledgehammer. You know how you sometimes forget your gym stuff in the bag overnight.

Now imagine that a leprechaun (why not?) sneaks in and puts a rotting fish
in that same bag, and then urinates on it after eating a lot of asparagus. Then he hides the bag in your closet, where you find it a week later. Then you open it and stick your head inside. It smelled like that. Well, that..plus crap.

We sit down, and I start scanning the bus for the source of the stench, while my eyes water. No fluids on the floors, no jabbering drunkards, no gym bags.. Then I spot the witch. It's sitting next to the window on the other side of the aisle. It has a long woven coat, that's covered in cat and dog hair, white feathers!!!???, and questionable stains. It's hair has turned into dreadlocked lump for lack of washing and it has 7 long, curly hairs on its jaw. The teeth...oh the teeth. Well, remember the beggar/prisoner (later turns out to be Jafar) in Aladdin. It had similar teeth. After a grueling 10 minutes it gets off the bus and the air starts to flow, as two other women quickly open some windows. I look at the witches seat. It has a darker, large stain. I feel my stomach pressing rewind, but I pause it (la cucaracha) by some Zen-like breathing. And here's the best part: at the next stop, a really cranky-looking upper-class woman gets on and approaches the seat after giving the driver some crap about absolutely nothing.. Everyone in the bus holds their breath, but no one wants to warn to cocky harp. And she sits right smack in the middle of the stain in her fur coat!! A universal feeling of hilariousness and disgust fills the bus.

Finally we get off and I feel like doing what Ace Ventura did, when he found out that Einhorn is a man.. Hands down one of the nastiest things I have ever witnessed. Possibly sharing the title with the masturbating homeless guy in Burger King in London.. You just can't make this stuff up.