Skirt Party

There are many types of parties. Saturday evening was my first ever "skirt" party. The concept is this: drinking in skirts possibly could be more fun than drinking in other styles of clothing, for men and women alike. I believe the Scottish culture thrives on this very idea.

Unfortunately, the skirt selection in my closet is tragically limited, thus forcing me to borrow. What's more, because I was running late I could not be present for the choosing of the skirt, which resulted in me being presented with two options. The first, which I first saw while walking to the party, was a stylish and somewhat long-- down to my knees, at least-- jean skirt, complete with little pockets. The second was a little green thing which appeared too short and too small, but then I could still be under the effects of Mr. Pratt, the dollar bill carrying Dean of my Catholic High School. I'm positive the green skirt would not have passed the Dollar Rule, that ancient law that says that inappropriateness begins exactly a dollar's length up from the knee.

Apparently I'm a bit of a girl when it comes to skirts, but the jean skirt just didn't offer me enough mobility, so after about thirty minutes of uncomfortable fidgeting I stole into an empty bedroom and changed into the green one. Much better, albeit a little more revealing. The problem was that most of the guys at the party thought that "skirt" meant "kilt" or "man-cloth" or "towel", and thus I was left as one of three in an actual skirt, and of these three I was the only one without leggings.

Back

The spring has been event-filled, so much so that I am now dauntingly far behind in recording day-to-day life in this country that continues to offer surprises by the spoonful. I have taken my first real vacation, real in every way except of course the lack of vacation pay, and benefited from yet another holiday week to boot.

I'll try to start where I left off, sometime when spring was about to pretend to start for the first time (it had to start again after failing the first time). I headed to Valencia to see the end of a festival known as las Fallas.

I had heard many rumors of las Fallas. Generally people had one of two reactions when I told them I was going, either a widening of the eyes and a "you-lucky-son-of-a-bitch" look or a raising of the eyebrows and a "yeah, I was dumb enough to go one time, too" look. Descriptions of the event itself remained elusive, though before leaving I was sure of two things: fireworks would be involved and there would be lots of people.

I was not disappointed. There were indeed many people and many fireworks. An entire novel could be written on the differences of firework attitude between the USA and Spain. It's as if the only people who voted on the city safety and fire code were males below the ages of 12 and a half.

An ominous cloud of smoke ringed the city center. From the cozy regional train station on the edge of the city I could hear the irregular but frequent boom of fireworks all around us. They were mostly the low-pitch type that sound like a cannon and worry your mother that I could hear, but upon entering the city I found that the less powerful but more numerous Black Cat variety was also widely popular. Indeed, the big types were used for more well-planned projects like the blowing up of the large, dirt-filled tree pots, while people seemed to prefer the small ones for sneak attacks and surprising their enemies. A third variety was employed less often. Once the fuse was lit it would rocket about in all directions for about three seconds (a long time for rocketing about) followed by a short trail of neon-pink flame. The ideal location of placement was the location with the highest number of slow-moving individuals-- toddlers, the elderly, people with strollers.

Despite the apparent lack of any sense about the whole thing, I only saw one ambulance the whole day, and although this one seemed rather busy, it must have been for more minor injuries, as no tragedies were reported on the news.

Although the fireworks and the drunkenness (not me, at 5pm, but plenty of others) and the magnificence of Valencia's city center were greatly elevating my mood, I still really didn't have any clue as to what was going on. Huge statues stood every hundred meters or so, which I learned were made of paper mache and, according to my travel partner, were meant to be set on fire.

Throughout the day I gathered more and more information about this strange event. These Ninots, as the crazy paper mache statues were called, really would be set on fire. All but one, which would go into the Ninot Hall of Fame. There were all sorts, too many to show all of them, and everyone of them spectacular-- I liked the one of the giant banana especially. The artists work all year on them, so the people said-- some of these people were quite drunk-- and in the end their statues are destroyed. Even the Mighty Menagerie Ninot, which I thought would win without a doubt, it being the largest Ninot, was destroyed.

The artists create these works of art as a vehicle for political critique, and then they set them on fire. Quite a system of venting, and not one house caught on fire the whole night.