A SENSE OF PLACE
Part One: The Festival of San Somebody
A couple of weeks ago our friend Alex called to ask if we’d like to join her, Manual and Pablo for the festival of San Cecilio. The festival, she told me, took place in the Sacromonte, about a 20-minute walk from their house. Not being busy that particular Sunday, and not wanting to add San Cecilio Day to the list of celebrations, festivals, parades and holidays we’d already missed, we accepted.
We left their house at noon. The day was mild, and although rain had been predicted, there were only a few clouds. The Sacromonte barrio is located on one side of the Rio Darro. Once the home of Granada’s gypsy community, its population is now considerably more diverse. The only road runs down by the river; the hillside itself is honeycombed with cave houses and crisscrossed with stone walkways and stairways. After walking for ten minutes or so, we went down a stairway to the road below. Foot traffic was unusually heavy and vehicle traffic non-existent, as the road had been closed for the festival. Manuel told us that we were ahead of the crowd and that within an hour or so, the street would be packed.
The festival took place on a large, dirt-packed field located below the huge, very old and long-abandoned abbey. A short, paved drive led from the street up to the field. At the foot to the drive, there was the inevitable beer and tapa booth. The beer booths, which also offer wine and spirits, are operated by fundraising organizations, so one is always drinking to a good cause. The festivities had already begun when we arrived. Along one side of the field there was a large stage, where a 12-piece Spanish-Flamenco orchestra and a constantly changing cast of costumed and very accomplished dancers performed. Most of the dances were of the folk variety, couples swinging and passing back and forth with lots of fancy footwork. I don’t know if the dances were influenced by flamenco dance or visa-versa, but you could see the connection.
There were also large beer and tapa booths on both sides of the entrance to the field and another on the other end. Across from the stage was the festival’s official food-and-drink booth dispensing the traditional — and free — San Cecilio repast: a plate with bread, huge green beans from which you extracted the pods, along with a glass of red wine. Standing in line for the traditional offering was part of the tradition, Alex told us, and we walked over, eager, as always, to participate. Kay has long dreamed of free wine.
There was, of course, a catch, that being that the line ran the length of the field two and a half times. This did not seem to bother the Spanish; perhaps waiting in line was also part of the tradition, but it’s not part of ours, even for free wine. So we opted to pay €1.50 for a drink.
After a while, Kay and I decided to check out the action up the hill, which, by that time was blanketed with people. Some were picnicking and others just taking in the show from above. We climbed the narrow service road up to the top, where we found – yes, you guessed it – another large beer booth, hundreds of people and the municipal band playing bullfight music. From the abbey (the views were fantastic), we could see a river of people heading towards the already packed field.
San Cecilio, we were informed, is the patron saint of Granada, though Manuel thought that he was yet another of those saints whose existence was in doubt and who were no longer listed on the official saint’s roster. I don’t think that it matters to the Spanish; you could declare the festival in celebration of San Somebody and the people would come, the music would play, beer and tapas would be consumed, and everyone would have a fine time. In Spain, the requirements for holding a festival are minimal.
Part Two: There Will Always Be An England
Ten days after the Festival of San Cecilio, Kay and I took a few days off (from what, I know you’re asking) and returned once again to Nerja, a small, relatively unspoiled town located on the cliffs above the Mediterranean. Nerja has a large population of English, both residents and visitors, and there are a number of pubs and restaurants offering English food. There being no shortage of Spanish food in Granada, we went once again to Big Al’s Pub where we ate on the terrace under a sign declaring “A Little Bit of England in Spain.” Kay had the steak and ale pie and I the liver and onions, which comes with bacon, mashed potatoes, boiled cabbage, carrots and peas. The portions are so large that I don’t need to eat again until the next day.
While walking around town, we saw flyers advertising An Evening of Noel Coward, presented by The Nerja Players. The theater was nearby and the price was right, so we went.
The theater was almost full, probably four or five hundred people. We saw perhaps five younger than ourselves. Not one of the cast, four men and five women, were younger than 70. What, I thought to myself, have we gotten ourselves into?
The show, which was written and directed by one of the actors, was an overview of Coward’s life interspersed with music numbers and skits. The setting was a large salon where an after-theater party was taking place. The guests had just seen a Coward play and were talking about it. Two of the men – all the men wore tuxedos and the women party gowns and feather hairpieces of the era – stood on either side of the stage and read about Coward’s life and work. The readings were informative and enjoyable. Songs were introduced, about 15 in all, their context explained, and then they performed by the cast members. Among the songs were “The Stately Homes of England,” Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” and “Mad About the Boy.”
Although their voices were not as strong as they’d once been, there wasn’t a dud in the cast. Several of the cast were, in fact, quite good and obviously had some singing experience.
The highlight came at the end of the production, when I had an out-of-time experience. On the back of our programs were the lyrics to “I’ll See You Again,” which was performed about three songs from the end. It also closed the show; the cast stood across the front of the stage and led the audience in singing it. Suddenly I was in a WW II movie; the bombing has stopped and we’ve come from the bomb shelter to gather in this miraculously undamaged theater, where we’re singing to keep our spirits up, knowing that someday it will all end and we’ll see our loved ones again and that there would always be an England.
We emerged from WW II England onto a narrow, cobblestone, Spanish street. One week later, I was still suffered disorienting moments of dislocation.
