The Rise and Fall of the King of Carnaval

A week ago, I went with some friends to Cádiz, the oldest city in Spain and, legend has it, the oldest continually inhabited city in Europe for Carnaval, the Catholic celebration in which the devout, and the debauch, get their rocks off before the holy season of Lent. Cádiz has the biggest Carnaval celebration in Spain, thus making it a weekend must for Bacchus. I arrived with friends on a big bus, and arrived at our amazing hotel, where we passed the first night because apparently Cádiz was resting for its explosion on Saturday.

Saturday we got up early, and slightly sore from the night before, in order to see the sights in full focus before that focus would become blurred and obscured in the evening´s festivities. We had an amazing time, but I´m not going to bore you with the specifics since I don´t have any pictures, but the city was buzzing and ready to burst. A noticeable tension infused the salty air as neighbors passed neighbors and tourist strangers, undoubtedly wondering whether or not they would see others or be seen by others puking, naked, or in some other compromising position. After a few hours, we returned to our hotel outside the city and began to prepare for the long night ahead by buying and consuming massive amounts of liquor. For example, Baby Huey, a lifelong friend of mine, drank two, count em two, bottles of wine before going out for the evening, but more on the effects of those bottles later. At an undetermined time, let´s say 9, we headed back into the city, for the Carnaval experience.

We hopped on the train to be greeted by a group of Carnavaleros dressed up as cops who were all very impressed by our Americanness. To reward their singing, I poured them each a swallow of my beer directly into their eager mouths. Bacchus knows his duty as the god of libations, and he´s not willing to disappoint. We arrived in Cádiz to see that their version of Carnaval on Saturday is not the same version you may know from the floats and beads of New Orleans or the jiggling sequins breasts of Rio by the Sea-o. Instead, Carnaval for us, was really just one enormous, costumed botellón (a Spanish tradition recently outlawed which is basically nothing more than drinking outside with friends-- a similar tradition can be seen indoors in the United States on college campuses throughout the nation).

At first Bacchus stayed with his friends and had a jolly time watching adorable Spanish children play as their parents got smashed. In retrospect, this seems somewhat depraved, but at the time it seemed like a sweet way to spend time as a family. Later on, I was separated from my friends as the group inevitably disintegrated until I was alone with Baby Huey. For undisclosed, and unknown reasons, we were promptly separated some time after climbing a latter and eating fresh (read unripened and incredibly sour) oranges from the trees. Legend has it that the separation from Baby Huey was caused by the two bottles of 75 cent wine, but a more likely version is that I saw mainstage of Carnaval and was drawn to it like a moth to the flame. Like the moth, Bacchus was consumed and defeated by the spectacle, but before the ultimate tragedy, there are a few lingering moments of blazing, fiery glory.

Wandering away from the square, I ran into a group of Elvis impersonators pushing a cart that simultaneously played 70s disco and funk and served as a bar of sorts. Bacchus took it upon himself to help...himself to a few drinks (too many himselves). After the Elvis impersonators caught on, they promptly shooed me away like the pest that I was. They were aging Elvis impersonators and couldn´t quite deal with my youthful presence, a remembrance of better times now gone.

I decided I needed to spend some more time with people my own age, and in order to do so, I had to find them, so I headed back to the main square which was now deserted. While there, I found a group of young Spaniards dressed as dalmatians. I offered them some of my beer, and we became immediate friends. I can´t quite remember where the music was coming from, but I´ve been told by several sources close to me that I was spotted dancing with said dalmatians, and we began to travel to more populated areas. I told them I was from Chicago, and one of them said in English more broken than my Spanish, "Sears Towerrr." We proceeded to move along, and as so often happens at Carnaval, we became separated.

I now found myself in the middle of a huge public space with a large, baroque monument containing, what else, an obelisk. The obelisk called my name and I approached it gently pressing my hands agains the cold cement and climbing it. I couldn´t quite climb it due to fear, alcohol, and the insurmountable shape of obelisks, but I did manage to make it on top of the base of the monument, some twenty feet above everyone else. Alone atop my perch, I stretched out my hands to the cheers and jeers of the Spaniards below. Some of the more drunk revelers took it upon themselves to throw ice at me. I´m fairly certain that this was a hostile gesture, but in a country so deprived of ice in its beverages, it really seemed like more of an accolade. Yes, for a few brief moments, I was the King of Carnaval, overlooking my public so impressed by my monument-climbing ability. As I began the descent from my throne, more Spaniards kindly leant their hands and I was back among my public. A brewing tussle began when a group handed me a liter of rum and coke as a token of their affection and allegiance and beseeched me to climb once again, only this time higher. After a few minutes´rest, I began again, only to find a usurper tugging my pants, telling me to come down. I obeyed, and the other people only became more adamant in their shouting.

I began to plead with them in Spanish: "I´m only a quarter Spanish. Why don´t the real Spaniards climb the monument? Why do you want a foreigner climbing your monument?" What I didn´t realize then, but realize now, is that this is the Spanish way. They love being ruled by foreign monarchs. Just look at the Hapsburgs and Borbons. Spain hasn´t had a Spanish dynasty in five hundred years. Why should they start now? Unwilling to create a civil war, I walked away from my power trip and made attempts to meet my American friends and return home.

I found the square they were in, but couldn´t find them, so I crawled into an ATM alcove and started text messaging them. I rested for a few minutes, exhausted by the evening, and awoke again. I pulled out my phone for one more instant message and as I did so, a gypsy walking by grabbed my phone out of my hand. I pursued her down the alley where she reunited with her boyfriend and passed my phone off. I had grip of her, but let go as he threatened me with glass liter of beer. She eventually slipped out of her jacket and ran away, leaving me alone, with her gypsy coat which I proceeded to rip to shreds in a fit of rage. I´m sure all deposed monarchs rend garments as well. (Oh, right, and during all this, I´m shouting help me in Spanish AYÚDAME, which inevitably fell on the deaf ears of the aloof revelers around me.)

Left with no way to contact my friends, I began looking for a cab. God, laughing at me and punishing my pride, summoned a rain storm that left my hat and jeans wet for the following day. In the city of Cádiz, there are maybe a total of three cabs, none of which stop, so after two hours of walking the streets searching for one, and asking unresponsive hotel concierges to call me one, I begin looking for the train station. Having no idea where the train station was, I ended up walking the entire perimeter of the old city one and a half times before stumbling on it. As I arrived, after 6am, I found a small contingent of my friends and we lamented our botched evenings on the ride home. Getting home at 7 in the morning, we rang the doorbell long and hard, waking the sleeping roommates within. I fell hard into my bed some time after seven, hoping never to wake up. As morning bled into, well, the same morning, I packed my backpack, collected my belongings, minus one cell phone, and began the long bus ride home, regaling my friends with stories of my adventures as the King of Carnaval and the long descent into the gutter of common living.