On Sangria, Cruzcampo, Europe, and War

Spanish people have a unique ability to transform even the most solemn situations into celebration; their culture and everyday life pulsates with a ferocious festivity. The streets of Spanish cities stay alive until the wee hours of the morning. At peak times, bars and restaurants are a sight to behold. Even the Spanish word fiesta, is used to denote much more than what Americans consider a typical party. It indicates vacation, a gathering of friends, or a night out on the town.

When I arrived abroad to study in Salamanca, Spain, last spring, I chuckled at my academic calendar _ it showed almost three full weeks of fiesta. But it didn't take me long to figure out why. I loved Spain. To me, the entire country epitomized a vibrancy I have yet to encounter elsewhere.

And so it happened that I found myself enjoying a rare moment of spontaneity last week, as I boarded a plane for the south of Spain. I anticipated good food. I couldn't wait for Flamenco. I craved Sangria. And above all, I desired fiesta.

But what I got was so much more.

As protestors marched on Washington and made their case in San Francisco, Europe exploded with a unified voice tantamount to continental revolution. The protests dwarfed those here in the US. Not only in numbers, but also in spirit.

In Spain, as Prime Minister Aznar made his way to the Bush ranch in Crawford, TX, close to 300,000 protestors in search of peace gathered in the streets of Sevilla _ a city of just over 700,000. Because of journalistic tendencies, because of a chance to watch history unfold, and because of a cloudless day, I found myself right smack in the middle of it all. Armed with a camera, a liter of Cruzcampo cerveza and a strategically placed anti-war sticker plastered to my American chest, I witnessed a gathering of voices I had never seen before.

And like almost everything else Spanish, that same vibrancy, that feeling of merriment, that same sense of fiesta, ran through the mass of protestors with unrestrained gaiety. Amidst the defecation of our President's name and cries to end the killing of innocents for petrol (oil), I realized the parade was full of the same sense of festivity that makes me love Spain and its people so much. Only, on this occasion, they weren't celebrating a victory for a home f??tbol team or cheering on a local flamenco dancer. They were asking the leadership of the most powerful country in the world to slow down _ to look before it leaps.

Despite Donald Rumsfeld's assertions that the "New Europe" is bent on ousting Saddam and following America's lead, one thing is for certain: the "New Europe's" leadership may be with us, but its people are not. As I faithfully followed my duties as the Travelling Lush by meandering in and out of bars for an occasional glass of sangria or a copa or a ca?±a of the brew on tap, I took note of my surroundings. Spanish people everywhere shouted signs of solidarity. Left and right (or, more accurately, left and center) joined young and old to voice their opposition to the looming war in Iraq.

Some formulated their cries as insults, claiming that Prime Minister Aznar was groveling at the feet of a would-be emperor, an outright imperialist. Some even portrayed their leader as a homosexual subordinate to our President (a clear sign that Spain still has a long way to go to overcome age old stereotypes and a lingering euphoria of Machismo). Others, however, were less harsh. They carried signs and shouted slogans urging the United States and Great Britain to pause, to let the inspectors do their work _ to let conscience prevail over pride.

No matter the form it took, Sevilla was united for one goal: stopping the coming war in Iraq.

As I began to feel the cumulative effects of alcohol and the Spanish sun, I drifted off into thought about my column, about my responsibilities as the Travelling Lush. How could I document what I saw? I had woken up that morning with the intention of providing readers (if you're out there) with a humorous story of a day of bar hopping in Spain. Was it even appropriate to use my column to bring Sevilla and the protest a little bit closer to home? Without the creative genius of Norman Mailer, could I even remotely come close to portraying a sense of what I saw?

As I pondered this, I caught sight of a two-year-old Spanish ni?±o crawling his way along a ten-foot high metal gate. His face partly covered by the thick black design of a bull, I could just make out a slight smile brightening up the little guy's face. Behind him a mass of Spaniards continued their parade through the center of the city. They shouted, the smiled, they drank, they sang and they marched, all the while carrying their signs and voicing their message. Smiling back, I snapped a photo and sipped my now warm litro of beer. I love the fiesta of Spain. And then I realized: if I really do have readers out there, I just had to let them know about it.