Hurrying through the quiet streets of my host family’s neighborhood, I prayed that no one would be awake quite so early on a Saturday. After all, most everyone in the town had been celebrating late into the night before and I only had a few blocks to go. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my reflection in a shop window and smiled a little self-consciously at the sight, glad so few people were around to see. I had dressed that morning in the traditional Spanish fashion appropriate for religious holidays—though my borrowed clothes were a few years behind the latest trends. I had pulled my hair into a tight bun and bobby-pinned red and white carnations to it before donning a green and white polka-dot dress that flowed from my collarbone to my ankles. Despite clashing terribly with the classic Spanish style I hoped to achieve, I wore tennis shoes for the sake of comfort. Looking out of place on the city streets was the least of my concerns: I was on my way to a religious celebration and wanted to look the part, especially since I wasn’t a religious person. After turning a few more corners and avoiding all but a few pedestrians, who smiled knowingly at my dress, I arrived at the town’s central bus stop and joined a familiar group.

The crowd at the bus stop included a mix of students from my study-abroad program, members of students’ host families, and our program staff. As we stepped onto the bus, our program director Maribel inspected each of our outfits, fussing with the boys’ crooked cummerbunds and adding more red carnations to the girls’ hair. When we were all finally approved, our bus took off towards the Spanish countryside where we would be joining in a local romería, or pilgrimage.

In Spain, life is in the streets. Maribel had explained this simple fact during my first week in Spain. En España, la vida es en la calle. I had been told that the Spanish celebrate more than Americans, but it wasn’t until Semana Santa transformed into Cruces de Mayo followed by romería after romería, only to be topped off by Fería, that I understood what she had meant by life in the streets. I remember coming home late one night (at least, late for an American—about three in the morning) dead tired but struggling to fall asleep, thanks to the raucous music that poured through my bedroom window from the square below. After all, it was Cruces, and Spaniards were dancing outside of churches all across the city. Even toddlers twirled alongside their mothers into the wee hours of the morning.

Just a week after Cruces, I boarded that bus into the Andalusian countryside and stepped off at the small but buzzing village of Cañete de Las Torres. As I wandered through the crowd, my brightly colored dress no longer felt so out of place. Here, women in full-length, polka-dot dresses met men in chaps and formal black hats. The reds, yellows, and blues of the women’s gowns stood out against the dirt road; everyone had flowers in their hair. As the crowd grew, women compared dresses. The newer styles featured tight, mermaid-cut designs, unlike the loose style of my outdated dress. Men wrangled animals; ponies led carriages full of children and oxen pulled large floats.

As church bells rang out the hour, the congregation of townsfolk that I had joined began a romería in honor of Saint Isidro. Starting on the paved road in the town square, we leisurely wound our way out of the village. Though the townspeople rode on giant floats covered in flowers and adorned with images of Saint Isidro, we travelers and students went on foot, crossing fields of sunflowers and groves of olive trees. I felt like I was living something out of Don Quixote—men on horseback rode over the rolling hills and the blue sky stretched on for miles.

Though the processional could have easily been over in half an hour, the Spanish spirit of fiesta stretched the celebration into an all-day affair. Along the path of the pilgrimage, we stopped every half hour or so for food, drink, and merry-making. Pick-up trucks trailed alongside us and were stocked with water and wine, baskets of fruit, and sandwiches stuffed with Spanish ham, manchego cheese, and tomatoes. Most of the crowd was buzzed on white wine by noon, happily warmed up for a day of celebration. Unhappily, due to the policy of my study-abroad program, I was not among them.

As the heat of the sun pressed down on us and the shade of the olive trees began to wane, we picked up our pace through the last mile of the pilgrimage. Turning off the main road, we stepped onto a dirt path and the townspeople left their floats behind to take the last bit of the trail on foot. Though the dust stirred up by our eager feet coated the edges of the women’s colorful dresses and the men’s pressed pants, I couldn’t care less: we had reached the end of our journey. Climbing one last hill, I spotted the tents that awaited us in the olive grove beside the church of Saint Isidro.

While the procession might have ended, the romería had only just begun. As I headed towards our study-abroad program’s tent with the other students, the townspeople made their way to the old church. The afternoon had been mostly fiesta, but this was a religious occasion and Spaniards are quick to transition from merriment to piety. One single float made it along the dirt path to this clearing—the one in honor of Saint Isidro. Led by a team of oxen, the float arrived at the church, and the Spanish locals carried a statue of the saint into their service.

Though I myself did not attend, I can only imagine how solemn the service to Saint Isidro must have been. By that point in my semester abroad, I had visited the cathedral in my host town enough times to know how dignified Spanish Catholics can be. Yet, the townspeople returned to the festivities just as quickly as they had entered the church. Each family, cultural organization, or close group of friends had set up their own tent in advance of the pilgrimage. When they finished their worship they returned to the festivities.

In the US, I was afraid to enter Catholic churches due to youthful memories of being chastised for accidentally taking communion or saying the wrong prayers. But in Spain, I would return home from a night out to find my host mom smoking cigarettes with the local priest. (Were they flirting? He returned the next day for dinner.) While religion seemed so formal and strict in my mind, in Spain I found it a cause for celebration. All of the festivals during the month of May are tied to some religious tradition—in honor of Holy Week, local churches, and famous saints—and though they start as worshipful ceremonies, they end in dancing and drinking on the city streets. It’s merriment and devotion at once: antique crosses and red carnations in girls’ hair.