I grew up in a family whose idea of fun is waking up and falling asleep surrounded by books written by people who became worm fodder centuries ago. You must therefore excuse me if I still find fiestas a bit jarring. This particular fiesta isn’t anything like the city fiesta I wrote about a year ago. This one is right smack in the middle of the little village I live in and I have no choice but to be in the line of fire.
Oh, I love the saint in whose honor all this uncontrolled eating is encouraged. I learned to love him because I found out that I have been given the license to keep on eating non-stop too. I do think though that eating loads of free food is really just a method of fattening the cow before the kill. Oh, yes, the hours after all the eating is done has a way of gradually killing you. The dishes can pile up faster than you can burp. There is also of course the floor to ceiling devastation to clean up after the tail of the hurricane has left. I suppose, it will take another week before everything is set right.
The most irritating aspect of fiestas however is the countless alcohol-saturated undead populating every street, corner, nook and cranny. It feels like being right in the middle of the set of I Am Legend with a couple of extras that really did get infected with a virus. If you aren’t careful, they’ll get you and force six liters of beer down your throat until you become an infected one too. Nightfall during fiestas is never the time to venture out of your steel reinforced fortress.
I’ve written too much. My batteries are running low cleaning starts in a couple of hours … must save… gasp… energy…