A ROYAL WEDDING AND A ROMA PARADE
Just Another Saturday in Granada
On May 22, 2004, Prince Felipe de Borbón, son of King Juan Carlos I and heir to the Spanish throne, was married. It was the first royal wedding in Spain since 1906, when Felipe’s great-grandfather, Alfonso XIII, married Victoria Eugenia of Battenberg, granddaughter of Queen Victoria. This was not just another cultural/tourist/television spectacular. In fact, the couple had even requested that spectacular celebration planned by the city be cancelled, and that the money budgeted for the event be donated to the fund for the victims of the March 11 terrorist attacks. Both historically and politically (in Spain, the crown is part of the government) this was an important event.
First, a little background. For almost 400 years, from the reconquest of Spain from the Moors by the catholic monarchs Isabel and Fernando, through the Hapsburg dynasty and the Bourbons, Spain was a monarchy. In 1837, a weakened monarchy led to the first Spanish republic, which lasted till the 1920s, when General Miguel Primo de Rivera assumed dictatorial powers. In 1931, King Alfonso, in disgrace for supporting Rivera, fled the country, and Spain became once more a republic.
This progressive, left-leaning Second Republic was short lived. In 1936, Generalisimo Francisco Franco seized control of the army and plunged the nation into war. The Spanish Civil War ended in 1939 when Franco’s Fascist Falange forces took Madrid. Although the war was over, the bloodletting was not. Many republican leaders, artists, scientists and intellectuals fled; those who did not were assassinated or imprisoned. Thousands were slaughtered all over Spain. There followed forty years of harsh dictatorial rule, now called The National Tragedy.
Juan Carlos I was reinstated to the throne by Franco, who hoped to resurrect the monarchy. Franco died in 1974 and Juan Carlos took the throne in 1975. He chose instead to cede power to the state. In 1978, Spain adopted a new constitution, creating a parliamentary monarchy. The king, who had been married while in exile, also abolished the court, earning the continuing resentment of those who would have been a member.
The King is not a ceremonial figurehead. The constitution of 1978 delegated to the Spanish crown certain fundamental duties. He is the highest representative of the state to other countries. He may disband Congress, call for new elections, or postpone them in the case of a public emergency. He is also commander in chief of the armed forces. In 1981, during the attempted coup, he ordered rebellious troops back to their barracks. They obeyed. Juan Carlos is widely respected and seen as a unifying figure in Spain.
Now back to our story. Felipe, 36 years old and never married, is tall, dark and handsome. His fiancée, Letizia Ortiz, a 32-year-old divorced journalist and news anchor, is blond and beautiful. He will be king of Spain. She is a commoner who will become Queen. This could well be THE ultimate princess story.
Kay planned to devote her entire Saturday to watching the event, from the first arrivals at the cathedral to the final toast. It was going to be better than Bridget Jones’ Diary, Sex in the City, Love Actually and Pretty Woman all rolled into one. The day had all the making of transcendental experience, better by ten than the best chick flick every made.
Kay was stationed in front of the television by nine. Half of the 10 channels we receive would be covering the event. Although the commentary had already begun, the arrival of the wedding guests at the Cathedral began at nine-thirty. Five thousand citizens, who had been admitted on a first-come basis, lined the plaza to watch the arrivals. First came the invited guests. Most were young and outrageously beautiful. They were followed by distinguished guests (30 heads of state were in attendance) and royalty (40 royal houses were represented). The men wore tails, the women lovely dresses and fabulous hats. Many of the titled men wore metal- and ribbon-decorated uniforms and carried swords. The royal family arrived last, walking the 200 meters or so from the palace to the cathedral. Felipe escorted his mother, Queen Sofia. Letizia arrived with her father after everyone was in place.
The United States was represented by its ambassador, the president having declined to attend. Some attribute this to presidential pique at Spain’s pulling out of the so-called coalition (“If they won’t be in our war, we certainly aren’t going to be in their fancy dress ball.”), others to sartorial concerns (“What do you think, Laura? The snakeskin cowboy boots with a string tie, or my fraternity jacket and penny loafers?”).
The arriving took two hours. Then the ceremony began. It was very high church, a good time for me to run errands. Leaving Kay misty eyed and moon struck, I walked down to Grand Via, one of the city’s main boulevards. The street was lined, block after block, with Romeria wagons.
At one time the Roma, or gypsies, lived and traveled in such wagons. These little houses-on-wheels were originally pulled by horses. Each of the 50 or so trailer/wagons was attached to a very large, enclosed tractor, John Deer being a favorite. The wagons were brightly covered and decorated with flowers. Many had windows and small front porches; all had roomy balconies on the back with wrought-iron railings and fold-up steps. They were furnished like living rooms, with couches and chairs, photos on the wall, lamps and tables.
There was, however, no lack of horses. At least 100 horsemen rode through the street, which was, as usual, blocked off. (I think Grand Via must be closed once a week). The riders wore traditional Andalucian black or gray collarless suits and large-brimmed, black hats. The horses were magnificent, prancing and high stepping down the streets. The sidewalks were filled with women and children dressed in flamenco dresses and suits. The children seemed happy to pose for photographs.
I cut short my errand and returned to the apartment to tell Kay. Fortunately, the wedding ceremony had ended and the procession from the cathedral had begun. Kay, confident that the event would be shown afterwards on television (which it was, in its entirety, over and over, on almost every channel), left her tiara and magic wand on the coffee table and joined me.
What was happening, I found out, was not a parade as such. It was simply the gathering for the annual journey to a small town near Seville. Similar caravans were forming all over Andalucia, all beginning their multi-day journey.
A little before noon, they headed out. First came dozens of horsemen, followed by a two-wheeled, silver-gilded, flower-covered cart pulled by two massive, flower-draped oxen. Next came a large crowd of marchers, most in costume, who sang loudly to the accompaniment of guitars and tambourines. It was my guess that the walkers, as well as many of the horsemen, were escorting the caravan as it passed through the city and would not continue the journey. Next came more horsemen, then the fifty or so trailer/wagons. Mini-street sweepers roamed up and down the street cleaning up after the horses.
We decided to follow the procession to see which way they were going. They proceeded right through the heart of Granada. It was early Saturday afternoon, and every street through the commercial district was closed.
We noticed that one wagon had left the main procession and was moving down the side street by Granada’s main promenade. Just over half way to the river the wagon stopped in front of the basilica, where a large crowd filled the sidewalks and promenade. The oxen-pulled cart was also there, as well as 20 or so horsemen. We thought that perhaps a wedding was taking place in conjunction with the procession.
The doors of the church were open, and we could see that a service of some kind was taking place. Being tired and thirsty, we adjourned to a sidewalk café opposite the church and waited. Suddenly the bells (and these were awfully big bells) began to gong. The crowd in front of the church broke into song. The horses neighed and pranced. People applauded. Then the horsemen, followed by the cart, slowly moved on. The crowd thinned. We never saw a bride and groom. It was not a wedding at all.
That evening we watched the highlights of the royal wedding on television: the arrivals at the cathedral, the ceremony, the procession through Madrid and the royal family waving from the palace balcony. We talked about all that we had experienced during our seven and a half months in Granada: the celebration of the 25th anniversary of the Spanish Constitution, the terrorist attack in Madrid, the election of a new government, the enlargement of the European Union and the first royal wedding in 100 years.
I don’t know how much more excitement we can take. Princess Kay is still smiling with pleasure.
NEVER A DULL MOMENT IN GRANADA
It was ten-thirty on a Thursday night in late April when we heard the drumming. To hear drumming – or guitar playing, singing, chanting, even shouting ? is not unusual on Calle Elvira, so at first we tried to ignore it. It took only seconds for us to realize that this was not the usual street drumming. Something was going on. Kay opened the doors to our small balcony and stepped out. You’re not going to believe this, she shouted.
Coming down Calle Elvira was a parade of sorts. First came a police car, so we guessed that whatever was happening was sanctioned. Next came a flatbed truck, on the back of which five African drummers in colorful African dress and masks pounded away. The truck stopped just below our balcony and they waved up to us.
The truck was followed by twenty or more dancers dressed in a black leotards, who swirled and pranced from curb to curb. Next came three costumed stilt-walkers dancing to the rhythm of the drums. They wore masks identical to those worn by the dancers and the drummers. Their heads came up almost to the level of our balcony. A large crowd followed, perhaps a hundred or more, then another group of drummers, these on foot.
The parade continued with a half dozen costumed and masked people running wildly back and forth across the street, literally leaping up and pushing off the buildings. They waved bright torches which flung white sparks over the crowd and high in the air so that sparks rained down on our balcony, sending Kay fleeing momentarily into the apartment. But only for a moment, as she returned to see one more group of drummers, a tailing police car, and a few hundred who seemed to be tagging along for the fun of it.
Just down the street, the procession paused for some minutes, and through our open windows we heard the sound of the drums echo off the buildings of our narrow street. Then they moved on.
We’ve been unable to find out who they were, or why.
Two days later, we walked down to the cathedral where the city was putting on a series of evening concerts. The plaza facing the entrance to the cathedral was lined with chairs, and a microphone and stool were placed on the landing just below the steps into the cathedral itself. The concert was to begin at nine, and although it was 8:35, the chairs were sparsely filled. We took two aisle seats on the third row.
While we waited, we looked up at the cathedral. The sky was a dark blue and the top of the bell tower glowed in the sun. We watched the cathedral slowly change color as the sun dropped below the horizon. A quarter moon emerged from behind the adjoining buildings
By nine, every seat was taken and the rest of the square filled with standees. The concert featured three, guitar-playing singers, all very good and all enthusiastically received by the large crowd. Sitting there listening to Spanish songs on the balmy spring evening, the cathedral as a backdrop – well, what can I say?
We left early (arriving early does make for a long sit) and walked for a while, visiting our favorite plazas to experience a bit of nightlife. On the way home, we passed by the cathedral. It was after eleven and the music was still going on and the plaza was still filled. The streets were far busier than they had been when we began our evening. Saturday night and Granada was just revving up. It was time for us to go home.
The following weekend was a three-day holiday. Saturday, May first, was Labor Day, and there was a large march down the city’s main boulevard. The two-day festival, Día de la Cruz, Day of the Cross, began the following afternoon.
It seems that every Spanish city has a festival a few weeks after Semana Santa, or Holy Week. In Granada it is Día de la Cruz, which officially takes place on May third. The festival has two manifestations: the day and the evening.
By Day: Outdoor Arts Festival Meets the County Fair
The festival is actually a citywide celebration of the cross and a community fundraiser. Each of this year’s 35 participating organizations erected a large cross, almost always in a plaza. They were coated with flowers, usually red carnations. The cross itself, which can be as tall as ten feet, was the centerpiece of a carefully arranged display of traditional and symbolic items: over turned urns, local ceramic pottery, flamenco dresses, shawls, guitars and a pair of scissors piecing an apple. The displays were judged and the results shown on television Monday night.
In addition to the cross, the fundraising organization mans a food and drink booth, some as large as twenty-five feet square. The booths and the surrounding areas were covered by enormous canopies to protect customers from the rain, which often falls during the event. Even though it sprinkled both days of the festival, by day the plazas were filled with families. Many of the children were dressed in flamenco outfits. Traditional, and very loud Spanish music is played, and around the plazas people dance the Sevillanas, a flamenco-inspired folk dance.
The idea, we think, was for people to stroll from plaza to plaza, viewing as many crosses as possible (and some were quiet remarkable constructions), all the while taking a bit of refreshment for a good cause. The food and drink booths, which were not allowed to open for business before 2:00 p.m., sold beer, wine, mixed drinks and an assortment of sandwiches, sausages and regional specialties.
By Evening: Spring Break Meets Oktoberfest
By six o’clock the families and “persons of maturity” began to drift away and rivers of young people flooded in. Not by the hundreds but by the thousands. Almost all carried plastic bags filled with bottles of wine, beer, rum and mixes. Some pushed grocery carts filled to the brim. They had come to party.
All the major downtown streets were now closed. Central Granada had become party central.
The small food stores which dot the city had lines of young people waiting to get in to buy booze. Some stores set up counters across the doorway in order to handled the customers. Sidewalks were stacked with cases of beer and wine; the stores simply didn’t have enough room inside. Independent entrepreneurs sold beer and wine out of car trunks.
One large plaza we visited was filled with at least a couple of thousand kids. It was so packed we could only circle it and observe. There didn’t appear to be one person over 21. Each plaza seemed to attract a specific age group, the under 20s, university students, mid-twenties, late-twenties, and so on.
Our local plaza, one of the city’s largest, was packed to capacity. It had three beer booths. As the canopies could protect only a small percentage of the people, most revelers stood in the rain and drank and laughed and sang. It didn’t seem to bother them at all.
At eight-thirty we walked home against a steady stream of party-goes, all smiling and carrying their plastic bags as they headed to the plazas in the rain. How long, we asked ourselves, could this go on? Can they drink for eight hours? Ten? Although the night did become one the noisiest we had experienced, it was not the longest, to which we can probably thank the rain.
The garbage trucks and street sweepers began their rounds before dawn and by afternoon it was almost as if nothing had taken place. The entire event was repeated on Monday, another holiday, except the crowds were not quite as thick (the kids were probably still sleeping it off), and it rained heavily in the evening.
Another festival week, “Corpus Christi,” takes place in June. Although it sounds like a “religious observation,” I’m sure the stores and cafes are probably already stocking up on beer and wine.
