A little background on Cadiz and the Carnaval before I continue: Cadiz is the oldest city in Spain, and possibly the oldest in southern Europe. Its carnival is the second largest in the country, as well. It is also a four and a half hour bus ride away from Granada, which meant (for me), that its reputation better be worth the potential blood clots I could receive while packed into a plush corner like a wad of tobacco in a baseball player's mouth.
For my costume, I was really unsure what I wanted to do until nearly the last minute. I couldn't find anything at the chinos (Chinese stores that are almost always open and almost always have things you don't need) that didn't make me look like packaging for the latest cavity-causer at the grocery store. Ultimately, I decided to be Madonna circa 1980s again, as for better or for worse, I only had to buy lace gloves and beads. I used the remainder of the arm-length gloves I cut to make my bow, and donned red lipstick and black nail polish as I tried to channel "Like a Virgin" to look Like a Bad Ass, but I don't know if it worked. Here's a closeup:
Upon arriving, we had approximately three hours before it was considered appropos to begin consumption of alcohol, though I, the hopelessly responsible individual, decided I didn't want to drink very much as the risk of being separated from the group was high, and given the nature of the others and the size of an unfamiliar city, I knew that if I did get separated sober I would most likely crumple and cry; I couldn't fathom how I would respond if slightly inebriated. (It should be mentioned that the student group who went seemed to promote the opposite, as there were raffles for handles of rum and vodka the entire way. I would have been happy with a t-shirt or visor.) That changed within half an hour. Drunker than my uncle Ted who likes to wear womens clothing and gyrate to Rod Stewart at family reunions. So, we walked around for a bit and took in the city, put our feet in the Atlantic Ocean, and took pictures of some of the more eccentric costumes. For Spaniards, though, the word eccentric typically connotes excessive display of supersized genitalia on mammals. I wasn't able to capture this in time, but a father was walking around with a missile-sized penis on a cart as he was dressed himself like a gorilla and was holding his little daughter's hand.
At any rate, it was beginning to get darker out and my legs, guarded only by the roping of fishnet tights were beginning to look glow-in-the dark and had goosebumps so numerous it appeared the holy bible was written in Braille on my calves. For that reason, and perhaps to the annoyance of some, I chose to linger a bit too long in front of the cheese section of the heated grocery store while contemplating my cheap dinner. We decided to eat before the festivities really began, and took our baguettes and other foodstuffs to the street. I felt incredibly urban. Which made me feel really cool. But then I remembered I was on my period still, so not that cool.
We finished the modest meals and then headed close to the Cathedral, where there was live music being performed by dwarves and copious amounts of drinking and bottle spilling. Don't try and tell me that the Spanish are still highly Catholic. Although, depending on your stance on alcoholism and obsession with little boys, maybe they are. I digress. I felt a little bit overwhelmed given the size and nature of the crowd (cue memories of first day of big middle school where the hallways seemed to be rife with predators of the Serengheti, and I was a helpless wildebeest with a gimp leg), but I tried to shrug it off and laugh. Danced a little bit, drank a little bit of my pre-packed beer, and talked some with other Spaniards. More and more people crammed into the plaza, and I could hear more and more bottles breaking. I think that this really is an event where, if you are sober and/or bleeding from a southern orifice (like I was), you should do your best to not come. I know I can be equally obnoxious when drinking, but I swear to god, after the third German in a row sprayed me with spittle while they attempted to speak English to me, I wanted to call it a day. It seemed like every other minute I was being poked and prodded with various trident accessories and beer fireworks landed conveniently on my face. I didn't know I had signed up to be in the Splash Zone of Sea World. Ugh. Meanwhile, my company was growing more and more downy cheeked and exaggerated in their movements, and soon I was swallowed by a group of birdish black and white Natalie Portmans. And you guessed it, separated from the group.
Interior walls began crumbling and adrenaline began pounding, and I began punching wildly at my phone. The others had already begun calling me, but given the noise of the crowd, it was impossible to hear them when they told me where they were and asked where I was. Finally, I found a familiar face (though not someone from the group, and surprisingly enough it was the German named Nicolai who didn't spit as he spoke), and he dealt with my trembling self and helped me wind around the streets to find the others. And then they were there, sitting and expressing regret as they had been pushed into a corner by a stampede of Bart Simpsons. I quickly forgave them, but only after they pitched in to buy me chicken shawarma.
As I tore into the food as if I were a lion and it were a wildebeest (how quickly the tables do turn), there were several drunks who stopped and stared at me and wouldn't budge. Increasingly aware of my own bleeding and cold state, I stopped chewing and stared at them hard (only my friends know this scowl, they call it the Medusa) until they left. Granted, if one of them resembled my Javier I would have been more kind, but as it is becoming more and more obvious, I tend to attract Javier's cousin, slightly inbred with a dash of Asperger's syndrome.
After most of the others sobered up and began to realize we STILL had three hours before we could board the bus, they also began to realize how effing cold it was outside. Proceeded to cram ourselves into a salsa bar for warmth, and that was where I began to talk with a group of middleaged gays. We got on quite well after they immediately congratulated me on my stellar Madonna costume, though particularly bonded after discussing Barack Obama's attractiveness at some length. I felt a bit pretentious at the time, but I noticed one of them was dressed as a person who runs with bulls (red bandana, white everything else), and so I asked them if they had read "The Sun Also Rises." Of course, they told me. Hemingway is an institution in Spain. So we talked books for a bit and they taught me a few steps in salsa (something I desperately need to practice as I still resemble the Tin Man when making movements), but they were all incredibly nice and a much preferred way to spend my remaining hours at Cadiz.
Quickly, 4:00 a.m. approached and it was time to return to Granada. The busride home was a potpourri of smells and sights, as several times we had to stop for puke breaks. I felt as if I had bathed in a sewer and dried myself using a soiled piece of toilet paper, though my only comfort was that a) I had made it on the bus and would soon return to my immaculate bedroom and b) I was not Charlie Sheen. Exhausted after spending a third of a day on a bus and the rest in a whirlwind of alcohol and latex, I soon crashed onto my bed and dreamed of better times.
Here are some of the photos I took:
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