As best I can tell, gulas are imitation baby eels... but I have no idea. It's some sort of seafood. When the server plunks down the plate in front of me I'm certain that there is no way this could taste good. But of course, I have to try. And it's delicious! I inhale the whole thing, and I think I would order it again. I top off dinner with a bowl of arroz con leche which is absolutely delicious and totally familiar. Then I'm off to change and meet up with the Brazilians!
I have no way of accurately describing the insanity of the Fiesta de la Paloma. I dress very casually, knowing all too well that my clothes stand a good chance of being ruined by cigarette burns or spilt drinks. I find the Brazilians at Calle de Cádiz and we walk together through the Plaza Mayor and down the street to the party. The music is screaming and we fight our way through the crowd, passing through one bar's disco music, another's funk, and the house music until the boys insist on stopping because we have come to a bar that is playing Brazilian music. Of course, all three of them know the words to every song and start singing at the top of their lungs. But it's so noisy from the music and the millions of people that they don't actually seem that loud--for once.
I decide to get in the spirit of things and buy a giant cerveza. We dance until the music switches from Brazilian to something else and then move to the top of a little hill to stand and watch the mayhem. All around us people have established their own little bars, bringing in bags with bottles of soda and copious amounts of liquor. They mix their own drinks and stand around their stations getting wasted on the cheap. There are people from all over the world. We meet a girl from Tenerife who tells me I must, must, must visit the Canary Islands, then introduces me to her "American" friends, who are actually from Ireland, but she's drunk enough to think that since we all speak English we must be from the same place. I meet a Spaniard who lived in St. Louis for a while (my second Missouri encounter!) and then we sort of adopt a girl from Croatia into our little group.
Lukas and I go to find food--a little bit harder than usual because there are so many people and the food tents are running out of certain things. I kind of wish I hadn't eaten beforehand because the mini potatoes look really good--minus the hotdog bits--but I lose my appetite when Lukas orders an enormous hotdog with mayonnaise dumped all over it. I try to explain to him that I find the flagrant use of such a nasty condiment to be unsettling--but I'm either explaining how Americans use mayo poorly or he just doesn't care--probably both.
We venture into the Plaza--the same one where I had sat with Sebastian in the shade earlier--and it's impossibly full of people. I stand on a bench on the outskirts to try to see how many people are gathered and I'm amazed that so many people can be so cramped in together, drinking, and no fights ever seem to break out. It appears as if there are no angry drunks in Madrid.
We walk back to find the others and make our way to another plaza where I insist on stopping to dance because they're playing reggaeton and I can dance to that! (or so I think) People are wearing all sorts of variations of cowboy hats and even though I ask as many people as I can about the significance, no one seems to have an answer. The madness continues until about four thirty when the bars suddenly, and in unison, cut the music. The crowd remains unfazed and the party will most likely continue until six or so, that's how long it will take the police to corral the five mile radius of party and herd the crowd home. The cleaning crews are in position, but the people will hold fast and stay as long as they can.
I willingly head back to my hostel, parting ways with the boys, two for the last time. Calibar and Fernando are leaving the next morning. What a night to go out on!
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