Before moving to Soria in September of 2010, I'd found my roommates-to-be via a Facebook group for other Language Assistants in Spain. Erin, Simon, and I, by sheer, awesome coincidence, had all booked flights that were getting into Madrid within hours of each other. We all took the same bus to Soria but had separate seats. I got the honour of sitting next to the guy who chose to take advantage of the free Wifi by watching various pornographic clips on his tablet. ¡Bienvenidos!
We were greeted by the wonderful Candy (a true savior (like her namesake), a Jesus [or Moses] figure for all foreigners who come to Soria every year) upon our arrival to our new home city, and she led us to our hostel. Later that night, we were sat around a table in the plaza, drinking tinto de verano and having our first real conversation in castellano with a couple of Spaniards. It wasn't long before the topic of conversation turned to the Fiestas de San Juan. I took in most of what was being said, but my Spanish was not yet good enough for me to understand the complicated, intricate details of the celebrations they were describing. All I gathered was that every summer in Soria, a week-long fiesta takes place, and its main purpose can be summed up by one simple term: inebriation.
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Insert 9 month period that can be summarized by the following gerunds:
Traveling, Eating, Drinking, Laughing, Learning, Growing (in weight... and, I suppose, as an individual. But mostly the former.). And, just as often: Hearing About Those Damn Fiestas.
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The fiestas have been around for hundreds of years. The original celebrations took place in honour of the summer solstice. Nowadays, they seem to honour alcohol, but they still take place on Midsummer. To start them off, everyone gathers on a Wednesday night in the city's main square, Plaza Mayor. And I do mean EVERYONE: newborns, their great-grandparents, and anyone in between. My friends and I showed up in our matching t-shirts (traditionally, all the teenagers get matching overalls for their group of friends to wear for the entire 6 days of the fiestas), 1L plastic cups of sangria in hand. After a while, everyone ends up squished together due to overcrowding. A personal highlight for me was when one of my students shoved his face in front of mine suddenly and unexpectedly, shouting "ESMADAR!" in typical Spanish greeting, causing me to spill sangria all over myself. Luckily, people were still (somewhat) sober at that point, and so, no one tried to lick the booze off of my body. The inaugural speeches and parade took place, after which, while most dedicated Sorians stayed up for the remainder of that night to drink in the streets (tradition is tradition!), we retired to our piso to take a nap before waking up at the crack of dawn the next day so we could catch a bus to Valonsadero, a big field 8km from the city.
In Valonsadero, people continue drinking, dancing, and eating in expectation of the day's events. Meanwhile, some individuals can be found lying around in the field in a state of complete and utter schnockerhood, passed out, taking a quick nap to let their liver break down some of the alcohol they'd been consuming all night long. Trying to prove to myself my acclimatization to the Spanish way of life (BE DRUNK AT ALL TIMES!), I proceeded to start off my nutritional intake of the day with a 1L serving of calimocho (a grossly delicious (deliciously gross?) mix of red wine and Coca Cola). Being drunk at 8am was fun, for about 5 minutes. Then, it wasn't.
So far, I've made it seem as though the only activity of San Juan is drinking. Do not be fooled, dear reader, for these fiestas are a culturally significant affair, showcasing the most important and sophisticated of Spanish traditions! The ultimate purpose of gathering in the field is the Running of the Bulls. At noon, all the drunkards stumble off in two main directions: the course of sanity, up high (on rocks, trees, car roofs, or the tops of port-a-potties), where one can observe, from a safe distance, the bulls being released from their pen and chased by the picadores (horsemen wielding lances with which to jab the bulls in order to keep them running) back to Soria; or, the course of madness, straight in the line of fire, where one can run among the bulls and horse riders in a show of either valiance or drunk idiocy, depending on the perspective of the observer. There are always a couple of ambulances on standby, because someone's bound to get trampled. A helicopter circles in the sky to capture the shenanigans on live camera for the few people who've chosen to enjoy the events from the comfort of their living room. Party music emanates from the makeshift 'dance floor' in the field (a graveyard of wine and beer bottles and plastic cups), where some people dance until the last minute, in spite of the imminent stampede. It's the kind of scene I'd had described to me over and over throughout the year, but being in its midst was surreal. At noon, 3 shots are fired, and everyone gets to their feet in excitement. Down below: bulls, horses, people... the ground is shaking... lunacy. Moments later, a tall cloud of dust engulfs them all. They're gone, off in the distance, running towards Soria.
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To Be Continued.
Coming up in If You See a Bull, Whatever You Do, DON'T RUN! ... Part 2: An Englishman, an Italian, a Canadian, and two Israeli-Canadians, walking on a path parallel to a field, the sun beating down on their pale, foreign faces. Suddenly, people: running, screaming. The foreigners turn around. 4 massive bulls... are running straight towards them.
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