Fiestas del Norte: Vitoria

30 08 2011

Friend Iñaki invites us to his hometown of Vitoria for what’s known as el chupinazo, the first day of its week-long citywide fiesta. We are to cart a bottle each of bottom-of-the-barrel cava, along with standard kalimotxo provisions. Upon arrival to the Basque capital, we stash our backpacks and are ready to bolt out the door, bottles of bubbly in tow, when Iñaki stops us, incredulous. “¿De veras vais vestidos así?” What, in jeans and a t-shirt? Iñaki laughs, rummages through his drawers, and presents us with tacky sports shorts coupled with electric lime green t-shirts.

We show up to a local buddy’s house in high style; the rest of the group is sporting similar duds and furiously smoking cigarettes. Through the tobacco haze hanging in the loft apartment, I’m proffered tequila. “Tenemos prisa,” they tell me, “Ya casi son las seis.” Portable kalimotxo is splashed together in oversize plastic cups, and we take to the street, where absolutely everyone is heading in the same direction. A dull roar grows fur and fangs as we approach one of Vitoria’s central plazas.

Immediately we lose track of our new batch of Vitorian friends, but manage to hold on tight to Iñaki – quite literally, by his shirt sleeve. The crowd throbs in intoxicated anticipation, mouths already stained the royal purple of Don Simon. We claw our way through to where Iñaki thinks we’ll have a good view of the action, and we  form a three person shell around the nucleus of precious cava bottles. The shot of tequila is making its merry way through our systems, but even more infectious is the frenzied determination of the crowd to party, and party hard. Shortly we’re wildly whooping with the rest, and at the stroke of six the climactic sequence begins: a figure dressed in traditional Basque garb is hoisted to the top of the plaza’s clock tower, and the mass of humanity breaks out in song:

¡Ceeeeeledón ha hecho una casa nueva!
¡Ceeeeeledón con ventana y balcón!

Iñaki’s yelled explanation reveals that the lofted figure is the Celedón in question, that he’s been opening the fiestas of Vitoria for as long as anyone can remember, and that apparently he once built for himself a new house (with both window and balcony, even).

Cava explodes gleefully across the sea of ecstatic revelers, and it takes all of five seconds for everyone to be utterly drenched in effervescent booze. We violently agitate the bottles before popping the cork, proceeding to douse everyone within spraying radius. Undeterred by the alcoholic downpour, plenty of the crowd lights up fat cigars, and all continue warbling the ode to Celedón’s swank new pad.

Once the cava runs out, the festivities have truly begun, and the crowd disperses down the spiderweb of streets accordingly. As we tenaciously stumble towards our chosen meeting spot for the rest of our group, we beg water from observers residing in the top floors of the apartments lining the streets. “¡No seas rata! ¡Agua es barata!” They’re too happy to oblige, and cleansing redemption comes careening down in buckets.

We reunite with the rest of the band of heroes and seek merriment, which is to be found absolutely everywhere. Bars erect stalls in the streets vending enormous cups of kalimotxo and assortments of bocatas. Revelry spreads itself to each and every possible cobbled corner, marching in screeching brass bands parading from calle to calle, flowing off tongues to form excited proclamations amongst excitable new friends. The positive energy is palpable and immersive; it sucks you in, and it doesn’t stop, not for days – we end up staying an unexpected two more nights.

Advertisements




Fiestas del Norte: Azpeitia

29 08 2011

’round these parts, each city designates at minimum one day a year as its local day of fiesta – more frequently four days to a full week, from what I can tell. Being up north this summer has had me privy to three distinct city-wide celebrations:

AZPEITIA

The trusty Renault traipses across windy winding Basque coastline from our walking tour of Bosque de Oma all the way to Azpeitia, home-pueblo of friend Maider. It’s the final day of fiesta here, and the streets are spotty with refuse and revelers alike. We’re famished from the jaunt and gorge overflowing bocatas de albondigas – similar to cheese-less meatball subs.

The goal here is a concert that begins at 1.30 AM – and no, I didn’t forget a digit – so we spend the interim lollygagging, enjoying bottles of bitter-tart sidra and grooving to imported mariachi beats. About a quarter past, we mosey towards the stage, squeezed in-between apartments and streetside shops, currently surrounded by alternative-style stalls of beer hucksters. I spy everything from anarchist Basque nationalists to Palestinian solidarity, but we end up acquiring cañas from a feminist bunch just to the side of the stage. The group is Canteca de Macao, and they emerge with a roar. The act is flamenco inspired, but with elements of rock and circus thrown in; a dude with remarkably lengthy dreads swirls checkered fabric and natty hair in the background of each set. Our feet move to the point of pain and then some. The Basque sky characteristically opens up, drenching the dancers – and there’s no sign of stopping. Canteca de Macao continue for a good two hours into the night, ensuring well-earned calluses for the morning after.





Mascarada! – fotopost

4 10 2010