The words on the flyer didn't help; we didn't know most of them, and a trip to Google Translate-land was unhelpful: "The schottische in a tile, the rest, in all the track."
From what we could gather from the inside (more on that later), the flyer seemed to be announcing a 2-week festival named after San Isidro, the patron saint of Madrid. We took our friend the absurdist can-can dancers' friend, and attended many of the offerings. Here are some scenes.
Part I: The Fair
This particular festival came with an old-fashioned carnival-type fair. We took all three kids over several nights, to mixed effects.
Seth's eyes were bigger than his stomach -- or so we infer from the fact that he'd beg excitedly to go on a kiddie ride, look worried when it started, crumple his face when it got going fast, then sob loudly until the burly carnival worker pulled him off. The worst was the baby bumper car, where he seemed to forget that he controlled the actual car and almost ran himself off the road, weeping and wailing.
Nathan found his heaven in the form of a giant hamster wheel that turns on water:
And Nora got to drive the big-kid bumper cars. Don't have a picture of that one, but her face said "This is the BEST THING EVER. I'm SO DOING THIS when I'm a teenager!" the whole ride.
Mommie and Daddy were intrigued by the civic culture on display -- not just lots-of-women-dressed-up-in-Flamenco-costumes, but hundreds of little stalls selling not tzotke, but instead, beer. Not in a bad way -- in fact, it looked like each beer stall was sponsored by a different civic organization, perhaps as a place for their members to hang out or a way to make money (or both). Robert Putnam, ditch Italy and study Spain; apparently, nobody bowls alone here.
Part II: Actual Saint's Day
One of the pleasures of living in Spain is that the Spanish have lots of holidays, and they take them seriously. And they take them wherever they fall -- there's none of this "move the day around to fit the corporate vacation schedule" kind of thing. So if the holiday happens to fall on a Tuesday, for instance, you're going to observe it on Tuesday. And Monday. Because there's a fondness for creating "puentes," or bridges, between mid-week holidays and the weekend.
In any case, San Isidro's day fell on a Tuesday. My sister (Carrie) and her boyfriend (Colin) had just arrived back in Madrid from their ramblings around Spain, so they were in the mood to be entertained. Actually, no wait -- Colin woke up quite sick and went to the ER with Jon. But that's another story.
So Carrie, the kids, and I went off in the morning to enjoy some park time in the cool of the day. Our friend the absurdist can-can dancer had also mentioned a parade at 11, so the plan was to make our way back from the park and enjoy the parade. Our friend the roulette-topped dancing can also noted that a) the parade would take place in the Piñar de San Isidro; b) buses would be available, because there's no parking in this particular Piñar; and that c) following the parade, they'd be serving a local treat. A three-fer for the Starhills, who love treats, parades, and bus rides, in that order. Jon googled Piñar de San Isidro, and to our delight, it's apparently this very large man-made hill that we overlook from our apartment. So we took the bus back from the park at 11:00 to find....nobody. Not a soul around. Definitely not a parade.
We walked back up toward the center of town, hoping to locate said parade. And as we came up onto Montes, there was a giant bus with about 100 senior citizens clamoring to get on. The sign on the bus said "Piñar de San Isidro," so we ran for the bus (me carrying Seth) and hopped on.
The bus took the scenic tour of Alcobendas, then it took the scenic tour of the road to the airport, then it took the scenic tour through some actual farmland. I was starting to get nervous: on a bus with three kids, no idea where we're going, no food, 100 seniors and my sister (Carrie loves to chat up random seniors, which usually required intervention on my part, as her Spanish was sketchy). Plus I had a 1:00 meeting. Would we end up in Madrid? Carrie maintained that the parade was there. Would we end up deposited in the middle of nowhere? Possible, because that's where we were. Would we end up a casino named San Isidro in Barcelona? Given the average age on the bus, I couldn't rule that out.
As it turns out, it was option (B). The bus pulled over next to a farm, let everyone out, and we commenced following everyone up a very long dirt driveway to the Piñar, which turns out to be a picnic ground with lots of pine trees and a tiny little church. We arrived to find this in progress-- the town band, complete with marching oboe section:
Now for those of you who don't know, I played the oboe in high school (and a bit in college). I still have nightmares of breaking my reed on the music stand just moments before a solo, turning to my reed case, and finding only duds. A scarring experience, replayed a few times a year right before dawn. I imagine that marching with the oboe would only be more nerve-wracking. But perhaps there's been some new reed technology in the last 20 years.
Following the oboe section were some folks dressed up and carrying various artifacts, including a statue of the baby Jesus.
They proceeded to the church, held a service, and served the treats. As a measure of how exhausted the Starhills were after all this, they actually declined the treat to go wait in line for the next bus home. In the line, predictably, Carrie charmed the 80+ crowd.
So the lesson here, and this is an overarching lesson for our year in Spain, is that the unofficial motto of the place (and especially of our erstwhile guide, the absurdist dancing can) should be "Whatever happened last year, it'll happen that way again this year." There doesn't seem a need to do anything, for example, like provide directions or tell people exactly where events will occur, because most people here have been there/done that, and why waste the ink?
Part III: Children's theater
OK, I promise this one will be short. In the US, we've taken the kids to see a particularly excruciating children's band. The scenario goes something like this: seven young adults, dressed up as robots (or mice, or whatnot), playing too-loud rock music, elaborate set, some plot involving outer space. Jon and I have no idea how any of these adults make money off the show, given their numerosity and expensive sound equipment/set.
On a day that the big kids + Jon were out of town, I took Seth to a children's show here. The scenario went something like this: eight young adults, dressed up as rat robots from outer space (I kid you not), a trampoline (on which bounced a very buxom rat-robot), loud rock music, and plot involving the smelling of cheese. Which they did, admirably.
Part IV: Orchestra Blue
So after departing from the children's theater, Seth and I decided to wind our way home via the main drag in Alcobendas, which consists of a plaza outside of the Montes bakery. There, our little absurdist dancing can friend had promised that there's be "Orchestra Blue" performing at 8. So we pulled into the square, and it looked a lot like it does during the day -- seniors all lined up on the benches around the square, except they're all squished in because their wives are actually there too, rather than home cooking lunch.
The orchestra starts playing. They look remarkably unlike an orchestra. In fact, they look like a rock band:
And in fact, their first song is a roots-rock American tune.
The good citizens of Alcobendas sat still on their benches, impassively staring at the scene. I wondered what they'd do next. Continue to be polite but non-expressive? Ignore the band and start to talk about politics or futbol? Get up and wander off? Riot?
Nope. They got up and danced:
The music did eventually turn to Spanish standards, which only encouraged more to come out.
So that's San Isidro, 2012. And the long-promised marching oboe section post. Next up: the Wildflowers of Spain. Don't laugh -- they're very, very beautiful. You'll see.
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