t’s midnight, and I’m waiting for Nora to ring, to go and meet people for a drink in Carmen. They’ve just been out for dinner, table booked for 10pm, but I wasn’t hungry…so here I am. My bed is made up just across the room and I’m fighting recurrent blinking stage of sleepiness, but am determined to go out. I’m not sure why – do you ever have those nights out where you start picturing flopping down on bed before you’ve even left the house?
First of all, I’d like to apologise to Matthew for my lack of birthday message thus far. I apologise and hope your birthday was memorable in all the right ways. Unfortunately, the internet café appears to have been taken over by a set of feckless males, who do not often open up, so I’m suffering lack of connection. Happy birthday Matthew and massive congratulations for making it so far.
San Juan is my new favourite festival in Valencia, maybe because I’ve actually been. I’ve also decided we’re going, so here’s what’s going to happen when we go, based on the best and most improvable aspects of it this year. It’s held at the beach, and since every man, woman and child in Spain’s third biggest city is making their way to this one beach, we’ll go a little earlier. We’ll have a car, and pack it full of food, and alcohol and wood, and some variety of private portaloo. We will not wait until 11pm, when everyone’s trying to get the beach – rendering public transport impossible – all trams and buses were full to over-flowing by this point. The road to the beach was jammed far back – taking in whole jammed roundabouts and four lane roads. We’ll go at about seven, and save ourselves a good spot on the beach – quite near to the music stage and DJs, nearer the walk-way than the beach, where there are lights and good people watching opportunities, but room. There we will settle ourselves, maybe a barbeque with fabulous tasty items (rather than hastily stuffed sandwiches), and watch the sun go down. At the beginning of the evening the sand will be warm, but by the small hours, it’s smooth and soft and cool, and gorgeously satisfying to wiggle your toes in. To keep warm, all we will need is a cottony long-sleeved top. When it gets dark, we will, like all the small groups of friends or families, every few feet along the length of the beach, light the fire. It’s amazing to see – a beach with a small but fierce fires dotted here and there, lighting up faces. We will be slowly drinking. After the fire has been lit for a little time, we shall, as tradition goes, write down our regrets from the year on ripped out pieces of paper with a stubby pencil. We will shout and call suggestions for regrets for each other and laugh uproariously, and then become more contemplative. When done, we will screw them up tightly and burn them in the fire, whilst being slightly paranoid they won’t burn properly, and will remain readable and be read out loud to the group. But burning the regrets negates them. They never have to be worried about again. There will be children and grandparents and all ages everywhere – children playing football shockingly close to fires, and children wandering the beach looking for things to burn. By now there will have been a few sand fights and the sea and sky above will have been slightly obscured impressively by the slowing rising wood smoke, all along the beach. Then, another tradition for good luck will become highly competitive – jumping over the fire. The boys will probably do it first. Some people will jump straight across, some people will ‘accidentally’ miss the fire and just jump near it. Jumping backwards will be suggested, and someone, slightly pissed, will give someone a piggy back, whilst jumping. We’ll all fear and gasp, but it will be fine (and then other people will try and attempt in the name of manly competition, and will fail to find a volunteer to be piggy-backed). Someone will be slightly singed. We’ll be chatting and watching and singing and poking the fire, smoke in eyes and face. We’ll have a Frisbee and play it in the relative dark, and children will join in with more enthusiasm than skill (and then, at the end of the night, nick the Frisbee.) A few people will wander off towards the stage and music for a proper hard core dance, and the others will invent some primal moves in front of the fire (we tried to get the four kiwis to teach us the haka, but they declined.)
Others will go to the sea instead – another good luck tradition – jumping six waves. The sea will be warm from the day (and probably from the people suffering from drink and lack of toilet facilities). Some people will paddle suspiciously; others will jump in fully clothed and be only white heads bobbing on the surface of the pitch black sea – which means they do a Tanya spend the next few hours uselessly trying to dry their clothing over the fire (except of course we would have brought towels and a change of clothes). Or perhaps someone will do a Susan – jump into the sea fully clothed, twice, and then agree to be buried from the neck down – thereby having the appearance of a moving statue for the long one and half hour walk home. It’s now the wee hours of the morning – everyone’s at least happy, some are a little further gone – luckily when we go, we won’t have the horrible anticipation of walking home, which takes over an hour. Instead we will continue to chat and drink. We’ll have very light blankets. Some people will snooze through the music; some people will be awake all night. It doesn’t really matter what time of the morning we leave 5? 6? 9? But we will have bought the perfect amount of wood to make the fire last. We will watch people leave, and finally watch the sun come up, with the other stragglers. There will have been shouting, vomiting teenagers, weird people and a kid who stole the Frisbee, but it will have been fabulous. We will stagger to the car, and drift homewards, to a clean flat with enormous white beds and a shower each for everyone. We will gorge on breakfast and sleep. For days afterwards, we will find sand in our ears, or feel the grit of it oddly when we eat. Everything we took will be full of sand, and smell strangely of wood smoke.
By the way, my second of all, was love to Jen.
And it’s now 1am. I’m going to bed. 1am is too late to start a night out, unless you’re properly spanified. Two weeks is too short.
P.S. I´ve just transferred this to the GV and realised I´ve missed the most obvious item - the guitar.
First of all, I’d like to apologise to Matthew for my lack of birthday message thus far. I apologise and hope your birthday was memorable in all the right ways. Unfortunately, the internet café appears to have been taken over by a set of feckless males, who do not often open up, so I’m suffering lack of connection. Happy birthday Matthew and massive congratulations for making it so far.
San Juan is my new favourite festival in Valencia, maybe because I’ve actually been. I’ve also decided we’re going, so here’s what’s going to happen when we go, based on the best and most improvable aspects of it this year. It’s held at the beach, and since every man, woman and child in Spain’s third biggest city is making their way to this one beach, we’ll go a little earlier. We’ll have a car, and pack it full of food, and alcohol and wood, and some variety of private portaloo. We will not wait until 11pm, when everyone’s trying to get the beach – rendering public transport impossible – all trams and buses were full to over-flowing by this point. The road to the beach was jammed far back – taking in whole jammed roundabouts and four lane roads. We’ll go at about seven, and save ourselves a good spot on the beach – quite near to the music stage and DJs, nearer the walk-way than the beach, where there are lights and good people watching opportunities, but room. There we will settle ourselves, maybe a barbeque with fabulous tasty items (rather than hastily stuffed sandwiches), and watch the sun go down. At the beginning of the evening the sand will be warm, but by the small hours, it’s smooth and soft and cool, and gorgeously satisfying to wiggle your toes in. To keep warm, all we will need is a cottony long-sleeved top. When it gets dark, we will, like all the small groups of friends or families, every few feet along the length of the beach, light the fire. It’s amazing to see – a beach with a small but fierce fires dotted here and there, lighting up faces. We will be slowly drinking. After the fire has been lit for a little time, we shall, as tradition goes, write down our regrets from the year on ripped out pieces of paper with a stubby pencil. We will shout and call suggestions for regrets for each other and laugh uproariously, and then become more contemplative. When done, we will screw them up tightly and burn them in the fire, whilst being slightly paranoid they won’t burn properly, and will remain readable and be read out loud to the group. But burning the regrets negates them. They never have to be worried about again. There will be children and grandparents and all ages everywhere – children playing football shockingly close to fires, and children wandering the beach looking for things to burn. By now there will have been a few sand fights and the sea and sky above will have been slightly obscured impressively by the slowing rising wood smoke, all along the beach. Then, another tradition for good luck will become highly competitive – jumping over the fire. The boys will probably do it first. Some people will jump straight across, some people will ‘accidentally’ miss the fire and just jump near it. Jumping backwards will be suggested, and someone, slightly pissed, will give someone a piggy back, whilst jumping. We’ll all fear and gasp, but it will be fine (and then other people will try and attempt in the name of manly competition, and will fail to find a volunteer to be piggy-backed). Someone will be slightly singed. We’ll be chatting and watching and singing and poking the fire, smoke in eyes and face. We’ll have a Frisbee and play it in the relative dark, and children will join in with more enthusiasm than skill (and then, at the end of the night, nick the Frisbee.) A few people will wander off towards the stage and music for a proper hard core dance, and the others will invent some primal moves in front of the fire (we tried to get the four kiwis to teach us the haka, but they declined.)
Others will go to the sea instead – another good luck tradition – jumping six waves. The sea will be warm from the day (and probably from the people suffering from drink and lack of toilet facilities). Some people will paddle suspiciously; others will jump in fully clothed and be only white heads bobbing on the surface of the pitch black sea – which means they do a Tanya spend the next few hours uselessly trying to dry their clothing over the fire (except of course we would have brought towels and a change of clothes). Or perhaps someone will do a Susan – jump into the sea fully clothed, twice, and then agree to be buried from the neck down – thereby having the appearance of a moving statue for the long one and half hour walk home. It’s now the wee hours of the morning – everyone’s at least happy, some are a little further gone – luckily when we go, we won’t have the horrible anticipation of walking home, which takes over an hour. Instead we will continue to chat and drink. We’ll have very light blankets. Some people will snooze through the music; some people will be awake all night. It doesn’t really matter what time of the morning we leave 5? 6? 9? But we will have bought the perfect amount of wood to make the fire last. We will watch people leave, and finally watch the sun come up, with the other stragglers. There will have been shouting, vomiting teenagers, weird people and a kid who stole the Frisbee, but it will have been fabulous. We will stagger to the car, and drift homewards, to a clean flat with enormous white beds and a shower each for everyone. We will gorge on breakfast and sleep. For days afterwards, we will find sand in our ears, or feel the grit of it oddly when we eat. Everything we took will be full of sand, and smell strangely of wood smoke.
By the way, my second of all, was love to Jen.
And it’s now 1am. I’m going to bed. 1am is too late to start a night out, unless you’re properly spanified. Two weeks is too short.
P.S. I´ve just transferred this to the GV and realised I´ve missed the most obvious item - the guitar.
posted by Lucy at 11:17 am
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How do I write so much? I just can't stop myself...
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