Getting Hosed at Hogueras

Tomorrow would be the summer solstice and midnight, the hour when tomorrow becomes today, was a scant 30 minutes away. That was when all hell would break loose in Alicante. Denise did not want to see hell breaking loose, at least not all of it, and certainly not that late; but she is a trooper and so agreed to drive Clarity and me to the tram. We would take that conveyance to the heart of Alicante and glory in the spectacle of hell’s release.

We had just left the house when a thought occurred. For the past four days people had been packing themselves into the trams like Proud Boys late for an insurrection. “I don’t think there will be room on the tram,” I said. “Would you mind driving us into town?”

Denise agreed. Like I said, she is a trooper. However, we drove only a mile or so before traffic came to a standstill. Police were blocking that way into the city.

“We’ll take the beach route,” Denise said as she pointed her car toward the sea.

The beach route got us no nearer than a half mile from where hell was supposed to start breaking loose. Once again police had stopped traffic. We jumped out of the car and bid Trooper Denise thanks and goodbye.

Clarity and I walked briskly toward Ayuntamiento (City Hall), which was supposed to be the commotion’s starting place. If we hustled we could make it before the witching hour.

I would not have been there had it not been for Clarity. She had been staying at our house, on the outskirts of Alicante, when she learned of the BIG EVENT. She extended her visit an extra week so she could join in the craziness. This inspired me to take a midday nap and, at my usual bedtime, pound down some coffee. That is what old men must do on those rare occasions when they are called upon to witness midnight conflagrations.

* * * * * * * *

We three — Denise, Clarity and me — had been in Alicante that morning. At 7:30 a.m. we were strolling through the city, admiring some of the 200 works of art installed on the streets and in the plazas. We went early to beat the crowds, and the midday heat.

When I say “200 works of art” you may be imagining paintings framed and hanging on a wall, or perhaps sculptures, some life size and some miniature. These, however, were not your typical objets d’art. A few were merely life size. Many, however, were four to six stories high, and nearly as wide and deep. The largest were not a single statue, but a great collection of artistic representations.

Typically there was a gigantic central figure and various lesser creations. There almost always was a unifying theme. Strategically placed signs hinted at the allegories, metaphors and symbols. They were like office-building-sized dioramas. Take for example this one:

You may think that this photograph deceptively makes the art look overly large. The reverse is true. The piece was well over sixty feet high and included a great many statues and figures on the opposite side.

“Transplantados,” the work depicted above, was a serious tribute to the doctors and donors involved in organ transplants. Not all pieces were quite so serious. Take for example this one:

You may observe that my camera focused on two naked Caucasian figures. They may look to you like Disney porn, but I was sure the artist had a more sublime message. I wanted to look behind the obvious:

I think I could have deciphered the artist’s message but Denise tugged at my arm, insisting that we move on to less subtle metaphors.

All these installations were part of Alicante’s Hogueras Festival. Each year, every neighborhood enters art that it commissioned, and a panel of judges declares one installation the best of all. Then, beginning at midnight, the start of summer solstice, all entrants, save the winner, are SET ON FIRE. The fires continue until dawn.

Hogueras is Spanish for “bonfire.”

* * * * * * * *

Clarity and I were rushing toward a particularly large diorama near the Ayuntamiento. We were not alone. We were surrounded by old people, middle-aged people, children, young couples, teens. Literally every Spanish demographic was headed in the same direction.

We arrived too late. The art was on a plaza, boxed in by large buildings. The densely packed crowd would not permit us to get within eyesight. We were straining to get closer when we heard the machine gun sound of lit firecracker strings. Then there was smoke and the black ash of burnt paper wafting through the night air.

We wandered aimlessly, hoping to find an installation that had not yet been set ablaze, and was not yet surrounded by our competitors. We came upon one of the smaller works, probably only 20 feet high, offering some banal message about Covid. Only a few dozen people stood behind iron mesh fencing, which served to keep separate the unwashed masses and the eventual blaze.

We heard someone say that this creation was to be burned at 1:30. We would have to wait an hour or move on, maybe find another doomed structure.

We decided to wait.

Clarity taught me how to play Wordle. I may not forgive her for that. I worked a crossword. After 45 minutes I looked up to find a crowd had amassed behind us.

We passed the time until, finally, the fire department, which would supervise and control the fiery devastation, arrived. We watched as the firefighters hooked up their hoses. We laughed when a fireman momentarily turned the water on some boisterous teens to our right.

HA HA! That was funny as hell! Then the firefighter turned the hose on US! Clarity shrieked with delight. I smiled because it was a warm night and I can take a joke. “Ha Ha,” I thought. “That was a good one on us!”

Workers were placing straw and other highly flammable materials around the installation. Then they splashed some gasoline and wrapped a long line of large firecrackers around the figure, and stretched the line maybe fifteen or twenty yards away.

Meanwhile, the firefighters resumed spraying the the boisterous teens. HA HA! Those kids had it coming! Then the firefighters again turned the hose on US. Clarity again shrieked with delight. I got behind my stepdaughter and used her as a human shield. You may think that cowardly and not at all consistent with paternal instincts. My only regret, however, was that it did not work.

The water kept coming until I was no less wet than if I had jumped headfirst into Lake Okoboji fully clothed, and then took a shower, still fully clothed, and then swam the English Channel.

And then came MORE WATER. And some more. And STILL MORE. The water got colder and colder. The joke was wearing thin. I was having bad thoughts, like, “Those M*****F****ing firefighters!” and “Those G**da**** dirty sons of b******!”

Denise often says that she can tell when I am getting angry because of all the asterisks in my thought bubbles.

Finally, and I mean to say, FINALLY, the water stopped and someone lit a fuse:

Clarity and I looked at each other and agreed that we should find another bonfire. They would be burning papier-mâché giants until dawn.

Ha! That was a lie! While fires would be lit until 5 a.m., we were drenched with cold water and wanted to get home as soon as possible. We trudged to the nearest tram stop.

Ha Ha! Alicante played another joke on us! The last tram had left hours ago! We suddenly understood what we had seen the previous morning.

When we arrived at 7:30 a.m. there were throngs of young people, ages ranging from maybe 16 to 25, all obviously wearing the same clothes they had worn the night before. It was like every kid in Alicante was doing a walk of shame.

Now we realized the youths hadn’t necessarily been up to any hanky panky. They just couldn’t leave the city and so kept partying until the trams resumed operation.

Nor, at 2:30 a.m., could we leave the city. Or at least we could not have left had it not been for Denise! Did I say she is a trooper? She is a F***ing Saint!

Sometimes thought bubble asterisks appear when I am in love.

Yeah Denise!

EPILOGUE

Next year I’m taking a raincoat.