The Parade
When the bus drops me off near the center of town, I am immediately struck by the activity around me. It is late, and yet the square is abuzz with the anticipation of what is to come. Even as the late hour beckons, shops are streaming with patrons and bartenders begin to prepare for the busy night ahead. For here, even though it is late, the night has not yet begun. Everywhere, preparations are being made; families eat their dinners, ice cream is handed out to children, and the strolling of the promenade begins. This is what I have come for, to be part of the night long stroll.
It is an old custom and one in which everyone participates. Everyone is here: the young, the old, and the in-between. Whole families roam about, grandparents pushing strollers while parents hold hands or admonish older children. Packs of teenagers roam like wild animals, sneakily stepping off the path to inhale a forbidden cigarette or else they sit giggling together, bottles of beer and wine in their midst. They dart in and out of the parade, feigning indifference as they preen for one another while their elders cluck in disapproval, silently smiling at these age-old rituals when they think no one is looking.
I am not dressed in the short skirts and low cut blouses so favored by my Spanish counterparts, young and old, and as such, receive no special notice from the crowd. Indeed, my attire would most likely pass muster at mass tomorrow morning, were that my plan. Because of this, I am free to weave in and out of the people, undisturbed in my observations. No one notices when I stop to stare at the parade as it goes by all around me.
For indeed a parade it is, a cacophony of sights and sounds, glitter and gold. No one is in a hurry because there is nowhere to go; everyone is already where they are supposed to be. For it is the walk, the stroll, that is the destination. Sure, some will stop along the way, for an ice cream cone, a glass of wine perhaps. But soon enough they will return to the flowing river of people, to once again join the swell. For the goal tonight is to see, and be seen. And as the July heat fades away into the night, opening the way for fancy clothes, high heels, and well-pressed trousers, seen they will be.
I walk for miles, seeing variations of the revelry as I go along. In one spot, a family sits around a table set up by the beach, wine bottles in the sand, plates cleared, and candles lit. In another, a young family walks by, the young boy pulling his sister by the hand as they run to catch up with some imaginary friend. Music is coming from every direction, and the air is awash with anticipation. For it is barely midnight and the night is still young. Ahead of me I see an elderly couple, pushing a stroller and stopping to chat with neighbors as they pass. No doubt the child’s parents are somewhere else on the path, stopping to gossip with friends or to sit and wait for the rest of the family.
By now, I have walked further than I wish and it is time to return home. For while I have been allowed to stroll along with band, there is no one for me to meet, no gossip to be shared. Indeed, I have eaten my ice cream, drank my wine, and thus concluded my rounds. Even when I get home, to the furthest reaches of the promenade, the excitement is still obvious all around me. Those who did not join the stroll tonight sit on their balconies, yelling out to those below.
The building is awash with lights, despite the late hour, and the fun is just beginning. But me, I’m ready for bed. And so I wash the paint off my face and crawl between the covers, content to have had but a bit part in the night’s grand production.
It is an old custom and one in which everyone participates. Everyone is here: the young, the old, and the in-between. Whole families roam about, grandparents pushing strollers while parents hold hands or admonish older children. Packs of teenagers roam like wild animals, sneakily stepping off the path to inhale a forbidden cigarette or else they sit giggling together, bottles of beer and wine in their midst. They dart in and out of the parade, feigning indifference as they preen for one another while their elders cluck in disapproval, silently smiling at these age-old rituals when they think no one is looking.
I am not dressed in the short skirts and low cut blouses so favored by my Spanish counterparts, young and old, and as such, receive no special notice from the crowd. Indeed, my attire would most likely pass muster at mass tomorrow morning, were that my plan. Because of this, I am free to weave in and out of the people, undisturbed in my observations. No one notices when I stop to stare at the parade as it goes by all around me.
For indeed a parade it is, a cacophony of sights and sounds, glitter and gold. No one is in a hurry because there is nowhere to go; everyone is already where they are supposed to be. For it is the walk, the stroll, that is the destination. Sure, some will stop along the way, for an ice cream cone, a glass of wine perhaps. But soon enough they will return to the flowing river of people, to once again join the swell. For the goal tonight is to see, and be seen. And as the July heat fades away into the night, opening the way for fancy clothes, high heels, and well-pressed trousers, seen they will be.
I walk for miles, seeing variations of the revelry as I go along. In one spot, a family sits around a table set up by the beach, wine bottles in the sand, plates cleared, and candles lit. In another, a young family walks by, the young boy pulling his sister by the hand as they run to catch up with some imaginary friend. Music is coming from every direction, and the air is awash with anticipation. For it is barely midnight and the night is still young. Ahead of me I see an elderly couple, pushing a stroller and stopping to chat with neighbors as they pass. No doubt the child’s parents are somewhere else on the path, stopping to gossip with friends or to sit and wait for the rest of the family.
By now, I have walked further than I wish and it is time to return home. For while I have been allowed to stroll along with band, there is no one for me to meet, no gossip to be shared. Indeed, I have eaten my ice cream, drank my wine, and thus concluded my rounds. Even when I get home, to the furthest reaches of the promenade, the excitement is still obvious all around me. Those who did not join the stroll tonight sit on their balconies, yelling out to those below.
The building is awash with lights, despite the late hour, and the fun is just beginning. But me, I’m ready for bed. And so I wash the paint off my face and crawl between the covers, content to have had but a bit part in the night’s grand production.
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