Surviving one of these is quite a science
It all starts when you decide that, after a few years pretending to be interesting the economic crisis condemns you to escape the suffocating heat of the asphalt by going to the always cheap town. And what better way to do it when it's in full swing, that is, at parties and processions of some religious idol. That's when you find out your appearance, your attitude and your memory are stunted and decontextualized. Do not panic! The best is that every time you hear these phrases heed the advice of the experts so as not to end up in the pylon.
"YOU ARE MADE A BRUSH"
The safest thing is that, poor you, you have pulled the most trending of your wardrobe to mark territory. “Let it be known that I come from the city” you usually think looking in the mirror even if at the same time you pull a disheveled hairstyle so as not to attract attention. Big mistake. The official attire of parties outside the city is usually a white overalls full of blemishes that in the end the festivities acquire a color that sums up the excesses. Basically, it ends up being dyed red-calimocho or red-calimocho-Rives de mora, depending on your social status.
Another garment that is not usually missing is the t-shirt of the rocks , an effective badge that serves to mark territory and that usually has a manual drawing-logo (why Photoshop?) accompanied by the name of the group.
Oh! The names of the rocks they require a separate anthropological and etymological study but, broadly speaking, they are classified into:
- light insults: Names such as 'the unfortunates', 'the delinquents' or 'the noisemakers' that in other contexts tend to cause ridiculous tensions but that during these dates acquire an almost tender connotation. The reason, most will assure you, is because that is what their aunt Maria called them when they were young and intrepid.
- letter games: the 90s cried out for a new language. Yes, before SMS appeared, ways were invented to reduce words to mere letters or numbers. In this way, names like the Q3 (read crappy) or the A2A2 (read the semi-detached) emerged that saved T-shirt ink and that, during the first 3 decades of their existence, were even funny. Not today.
The solution is simple. Your fashion look can work at the aperitif, but when night falls, the best thing is to grab the distant cousin on duty and ask him for a t-shirt from his group. Of course, you have to be quick because that stupid garment that is useless for 358 days a year becomes a more coveted object than ice at 3 in the morning. Call ahead and you might even win a matching scarf.
Etiquette is not the same at all parties...
**“HOW COLD IS IT IN THIS * TOWN” (Substitute * for an insult) **
Climate change is nonsense, at least in the middle of the plateau. But of course, one who is delusional forgets the mythical geography classes in which they told you that the continental climate was extreme both during the day and at night. And he arrives in town with a fine sweater, to take a little fresh air. What he doesn't know is that starting at 2 in the morning, Quintajurásica del Minglanillo assumes a Siberian climate typical of Vladivostok that cannot be tolerated even with all the region's brandy accompanied by regional dances. It's not the end of the world.
It always remains to go up to the attic, dust off the old trunk and get your grandfather/father/mother a fat wool sweater that smells of camphor. Eye, always putting it under the shirt of the rock , that for that you have paid a real millionaire for her. The first two hours you will want the earth to swallow you. The next three, you will begin to take a liking to your uninhibited appearance and at the end of the parties you will consider that this garment is vintage and that to drink some wines on a winter Thursday it is even chic. Nothing could be further from the truth: the aroma of a good red wine never goes hand in hand with the eternal and inevitable halo of mothproofing.
"THAT'S YOUR COUSIN"
Warning: no matter how much one considers that the film 'Cousins' is a benchmark of the Iberian costumbrist romantic comedy of the 21st century, love is not usually found at village festivals . And less when, after three dances Georgie Danescos giving everything with "that brunette" comes the relative who has got you the shirt of the rock to tell you a "don't you remember her? If she is Sarita, your cousin ”. There, just at that moment, is when you don't care about wearing a wool sweater from the year 56. It's the moment when your spider sense of ridiculousness breaks down due to overload. It doesn't matter if it's a second, third or seventh cousin. At that moment you can only imagine the scene of the next morning, when your mother introduces you (this time during the day) to cousin Sara reminding you of things like that you used to bathe together naked in the same tub when you were 3 years old.
And of course, Danza Kuduro may have given a lot and that the basin was not the only place of common intimacy in your existence. To avoid it, the best thing is to keep pulling summer song dance repertoire and mark 3 choreographies with all the girls in the gang who had witnessed your musical dalliance with Sara. Yes, the safest thing is that you will end up with a hat to join cheek to cheek and with laces in the navel, but you will have gone from being the perverted cousin to the ballerina of the verbena, which is not little.
Take care, that's your cousin
“THE SHOTGUN HAS THE BARREL OFFSET”
Glorious moment par excellence. You're grown up, ecstatic, probably a little tipsy when the neon lights of the 'María Dolores' shooting attraction and the boombox music of Camela ensnare you with their siren songs. At that moment you are a God, an Achilles, a Robin Hood of life and you approach determined to win that stuffed SpongeBob with your aim that doesn't fit in any human bed.
Why think at that moment about what are the economic sources of the stallholder? Why curb your impulses wondering if he's not cheating? It doesn't matter, you already have the cold barrel of the shotgun in your hands, the loaded pellet and your crosshairs on a stick that becomes your worst enemy. Usually there is a loved one who warns you: "The shotgun usually has a deviated barrel." Just that damn phrase modifies your point of view , causing you to aim at the target a little glancingly, for good measure. Obviously you fail badly and the giant SpongeBob will have another foster family while that loved one reminds you "I told you so"
Various solutions. The first : YOU DON'T WANT A PONY-SIZED SPONGEBOB, neither you, nor any woman/girlfriend or cousin Sara in the world. So, at least, let the ruling serve you to order your priorities. The second : trust the alcohol and its effects on your senses, it probably compensates for the deviation of the barrel. Third: play when nobody sees you. It will allow you to concentrate better, hide your epicfail in case you fail and be the king of the night when you appear in the face with a giant SpongeBob.
“CUBATS ARE THREE EUROS”
Something is wrong with the IMF when the Tolo Bar in your town can make a profit with cocktails at 3 Euros without being a jug. When you look at the price list in amazement, you think it's a mistake. . That you have died and that it is heaven. But is not, It's a truth like a fist: everyone wants you to get drunk.
The patron saint festivities are to a town what Christmas dinners are to a company : a compendium of circumstances by which the universe aligns so that your cup is always full. What you don't usually know is that, as happens with department heads, farmers tend to have a higher tolerance for cubalibre than the average urbanite, causing you to be absolutely doubled up at certain times of the morning and with all the morning ballots on the pylon.
Therefore, it is best to contain yourself, avoid being near the bar so that the ecstasy of 'I invite you to a round' does not kidnap you and imprison you mercilessly. The trick to not seem boring is to always have a third of the glass full with clinking ice and have the mythical excuse at hand: “I still have a little left” . Otherwise, it is possible that you will be taken out of procession the next morning.
If you already know how I get, why invite me
“SHALL WE DANCE THIS PASODOBLE?”
This is a secret: the SGAE is not a society of authors, It is a lodge of mythomaniacs of the pasodoble that they charge less money to the festival orchestras to play this music. That is why, for the first two hours, the forty-something singers stuffed into forced clothing interpret (without reinterpreting) the classics of yesterday, today and forever. And of course, the most normal thing is that after listening to endless potpourris of coplillas and chundas-chundas, at the end someone, who is usually your mother or a contemporary colleague with the SGAE, I invited you to dance the 'Francisco Alegre and olé '.
NEVER fall, under any circumstances. First , because even if you have been part of the dance team of Noche de fiesta, the pasodoble is danced as ordered by the companion, and her sense of rhythm may vary from yours, which leads to ridicule. Second , because they are long, very, very long. Most of them are impossible love stories that twist in their plot until they lose their meaning. A double step, on average, tires the same as a triathlon. In fact, the IOC is considering its inclusion as an Olympic competition for Madrid 2020, in a tough fight with the chotis.
“A HEIFER IS NOT A FIGHTING BULL” Congratulations, you have survived a grotesque night in Quintajurásica del Minglanillo. But with the day comes the world's most meaningless tradition: the release of heifers in the improvised bullring for the occasion. What enlightened councilor thought that after 38,934 paso dobles and 2,382 Georgie Dann songs, people had the body to cut down these innocent beings? Of course, the panorama ends up being that of a sheltered crowd waiting for some brave person to dare to hesitate against the bug.
That's when someone encourages you, assuring you that you, who are an athlete from the neighborhood gym, who have danced up and down the 'Guapa, guapa, guapa', can become the hero of the night and the focus of fun in the town. . Nothing could be further from the truth, heifers smell like urbanites and tend to get mad by stepping on the accelerator to expose you. That is why it is best to pretend to be injured or asleep and, at no time, doubt about your participation..
The stands are the best place to sit with your wool sweater, your dirty SpongeBob and your plastic cup with melted ice.
End of the party: infinite hangover and back to the city
*This article was published in June 2012 and updated in August 2017.