It was Zaragoza that first introduced me to the bull fighting. Siesta. Eating dinner at 11pm, or later. Tapas. Alien street art. Steak tartare. (Yes. It was good. But please Lord, let it be beef -- not horse.) And the Spanish festival -- fiestas.
Sitting on the banks of the Ebro River, Zaragoza, capital city of the region Aragón, is perhaps best known for its splendidly ornate cathedral -- the Basilica of the Pillar (Catedral-Basílica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar). Surrounding this place of pilgrimage are Zaragoza's historic quarter (Casco Histórico) and the Tube (El Tubo), a maze of narrow alleys which nurture innumerable cafés and tapas bars.
Originally a Carthaginian military outpost, Zaragoza was colonized during the reign of Augustus as the Roman city Caesaraugusta. The Romans also called the Ebro River the Iber -- hence the Iberian Peninsula, since it is Spain's largest river. It later became part of the Arab Emirate of Cordoba (714), renamed Saraqusta, which eventually evolved into an independent Muslim state. (Today, the influence of Muslim culture is readily evident in the abundance of Mudéjar brick architecture.) Later it was conquered and incorporated into the Kingdom of Aragón (1118). Zaragoza also witnessed the martyrdom and Jewish repression of the Spanish Inquisition (1480-1530); Napoleon laid siege to Zaragoza twice (1808-1809); and it was brutalized during Spain's Civil War (1936-1939).
Within this rich and complex environment, I stumbled upon its festival. Quite accidentally. Completely unaware.
Zaragoza’s Pillar Festival (Fiestas del Pilar) is celebrated annually on October 12th and the city comes alive with parades, theater and music to honor the Virgin of the Pillar. Not only is October 12th the Día de Nuestra Señora del Pilar in Zaragoza, it is also the Día de la Hispanidad, Spain’s national celebration of Columbus Day. During this time, it’s impossible to miss the random and abundant paths of flowers which lead one to the Plaza de Pilar. For the newcomer, it is evident that something of significance is going on here.
The beginning of this festival reaches back to 40 AD when Saint James the Apostle was evangelizing pagans in the area. As the story goes, the Virgin Mary appeared to him on a marble pillar and asked him to build a church on the land upon which he was standing. She left, the pillar remained. A small church was subsequently built around said pillar -- and over the years more grandiose structures evolved. The current basilica was designed in 1681, altered in the 18th century and completed in the 20th. The pillar on which the Virgin is supposed to have descended is displayed inside the Holy Chapel (Capilla Santa). Hundreds of pilgrims visit the chapel every day to kiss a small piece of the pillar which is unprotected. Oh.
The Spanish festival, this one included, takes to the streets. There are processions of big heads (gigantes y cabezudos) which have to mingle with the crowd. Excelente. But they entice little children to cry, amidst an ongoing barrage of music -- jazz, pop, rock, reggae, and folk. Spontaneous flamenco dancing erupts without warning. And no, you can’t just stand and watch. If you’re caught watching, locals drag you into the melee. It is even worse if you are caught snapping pictures. Dance class and you're now the star. The Festival of the Pillar is about total participation. Partake or flee.
Although this festival is officially recognized on a singular day, festival activities themselves last for nine days. All kinds of events occur, reoccur -- carnivals, one act plays, neighborhood firework displays. Pedestrians pack the streets at night. Spanish festivals run their cultural course. Uninhibited, uninterrupted.
And as it is a tradition in Spain, bull fighting is a central theme of this celebration. Everyone seemingly awaits the appearance of the bull. The bull must come. Celebrity -- beast and man. Perform and die well. For whom and why are we cheering? On a pleasantly warm October Sunday afternoon, I witnessed six matadors confront six bulls. I heard the bell toll, more than once. I learned the next day that a matador had in fact perished. Gored, ruptured femoral artery. Grueling. Haunting. Olé.
Since I have reflected for several years on the visits I have made to Zaragoza, this will probably evolve into several posts. Please excuse me.
Introducción. Por favor perdóneme.