Saturday 5 November 2011

Les fires de Girona

Ah, it's that time of year again....chestnuts roasted by gypsies on an open fire by the side of the road, bedouin-style tents pitched in la Devesa, fairground rides churning the stomachs of those unwise (or masochistic) enough to dare the hurtling heights or spinning wheels of doom having had a few vodka and cokes.

While most of the western world is celebrating witches and werewolves, ghosts and ghouls, and probably having eggs thrown at their front doors, Girona is celebrating its own festival: Sant Narcís. Sant Narcís is the patron of this beautiful city and I give many thanks, mostly because - since the schools are closed - I get a holiday.

A little background information: legend has it that Girona owes something to the humble fly because it saved the city from being overrun with French troups. No, I'm not perpetuating the stereotypical difficult relationship France has with the rest of the world, honestly... (we all love to hate them). It is said that when the French started ransacking the Cathedral of Girona and forced open the tomb of Sant Narcís, a swarm of stinging flies was unleashed upon the unfortunate French soldiers. They apparently had no stomach for fighting these ninja insects so surrendered and fled, which in no way supports the 'cheese-eating surrender monkey' theory. So at this time of year it is quite common to see chocolatiers make their confectionary in the form of flies, perchance nursing the tiny hope of scaring away the people across the border by traumatising them from a hidden historical memory.

But alas, the serious business is not to purge Girona of the French; in fact, I believe there are many French citizens who rather like to come down for les fires (pronounced 'feeras', not as in English 'fires' that burn). They no longer fear the flies - a great pity, for all one would have to do to get rid of a Frenchman is either start buzzing like a giant bluebottle or send Jeff Goldblum to Paris. Anyway, all manner of people come from far and wide to see what impish mischief they can get up to and blame it on the copious supply of reasonably cheap alcohol: this is the serious business. The barraques are the tents set up in the park, each supporting a different club or cause and as a means of making money they play the kind of music they like and sell alcohol in plastic cups of different colours (that can be recycled throughout the night and exchanged for your 50 cents). Over the years, I've built up a small collection, thus contributing to several good causes, using my drinking for the good of mankind.

Around the city of Girona run the devils. And I'm not talking about my little students. There just so happens to be a correfoc, which means 'fire run', where professionals run amok with flames leaping and dancing from various implements. This is a pretty amazing event if you haven't witnessed massive crowds following these devils on stilts dressed in carnival clothes with gigantic catherine-wheels that threaten to sear your skin into crackling. People should certainly beware the dazzling promises of fire, however. Look where it got Prometheus - chained to a cliff awaiting dawn and vultures (or an eagle, depending on the source) to peck out his liver. And you thought breakfast at Little Chef was bad.

The point of les fires is to go, meet people, drink and be merry, and quite possibly hurl the contents of one's stomach from 30-feet on one of the rides. People here are fascinating: I met a boy from the next town from me who was absolutely lovely, and a woman who was absolutely psycho - she stole my hat and wouldn't give it back until her friend told her to stop being a prick. In Catalan, obviously. Two nights after, I went out with my group of friends and managed to temporarily not find my phone. This sometimes happens, and I'd given up hope of ever finding it in the Mr Bean House of Fun. Somebody somewhere must love me though, for it was found. In the sofa of my friend's flat where we'd been previously guzzling chicken legs and beer.



The barraques stand proudly for a week ending in an apparently spectacular firework display. I have always been too dead from tiredness, and probably minor alcohol poisoning, at this point to appreciate it. Maybe this year. Or perhaps I'll stick to tradition and claim that fireworks are against my religion. It is on a Sunday night after all.

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