Pressed against the house wall which is literally inches from the gutter to avoid the edge of the floats as they sway and bump their way millimetres from your knees means that you are close enough to see beneath the gauze and paint at the mere mortals clothed in plastic cloth of gold.
As they walked, gyrated, skipped, slid, danced, ran, shouted, sang, and bopped their way along a depressingly large number of them had fags hanging from the corner of their mouths and the rest were either drinking from plastic cups or looking for a drink.
A drink I might add which was not so well hidden in the various cubby holes and spaces on the floats. A few of them had unashamed bars which were kept busy keeping the dancers in the mood.
To be fair Carnival in northern Spain is not, I presume quite the same in terms of warmth as the sultry climate of Rio – and that being the case given the length of time that the dancers had to endure in the inhospitable cold of Sitges they could well be forgiven for needing something other than the Spirit of Carnival to keep them going!
In my little cwtch along the route I was flanked by two formidable French ladies who had spirited conversations through me until I accepted the inevitable and moved to let them speak together. By doing so I gave up my position next to the wall and as the evening dragged its weary way towards midnight, the lack of stiffening began to tell on my back!
I decided to use my Casio camera and put my trust in the high sensitivity setting, so that I would not have to use flash. I convinced myself that the grainy appearance would add to the atmospheric quality of the photos. We all have to kid outselves along from time to time!
The floats were not massive, but their size was obviously determined by what could get through the tortuous streets of Sitges and sometimes there was precious little room for manoeuvre.
The tight squeeze obviously told on the speed of the Carnival which dragged to a halt almost as soon as it had started the descent towards the sea. This meant that we had more than enough time to appreciate the dear drum destroying level of music being pumped out inches from our ears.
The floats were impressive, but only at a speed which brought them into view at a slow walking pace at least. Stasis is not good for a festival which by its very nature should be one of activity.
After over two hours of eventual float after eventual float I was frankly bored and was trying to escape. Unfortunately escape was impossible as any attempt would involve the escapee intimately in the Carnival. There was also a very young, very serious member of the local police force (complete with gun, uniform, floppy hat and stern demeanour) stopping anyone trying to get off the wafer narrow pavement.
Eventually after yet another lull, I made my bid for freedom only to be caught up in an Operation of Michael Jacksons, closely followed by a Death of Elvises. My penultimate freedom dash was stopped by yet another Frill of Brazilian Sambaists.
Then I broke: I made a mental decision to smash my way through anything that came after them. No matter pharaohs, spacemen, cowboys, owls, eighteenth century scantily dressed noblepersons,
germs, bees, Heidis, leathermen, Christopher Columbuses, char ladies, waiters, lions and gas salesmen (all of whom, I assure you, did pass me) I would scream my way through them all and get to the car.
As it happened I managed to escape and just missed the voodoo dancers who were lurking around the corner. I was frozen and could barely stagger to the car and escape!
Carnival needs alcohol and a seat.
And warmth.
Well, I shall put it all down to experience.
The next parade is on Tuesday. Late at night. In Sitges. Last chance before the rigors of Lent make such jollifications impossible.
Apparently.
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