My parents and I had just settled into the cafe when the first bull turned the corner. He was led, none too gently, to a shaded spot in front of the closest church—there were four in this plaza alone—and before our drinks touched the tabletop, a second bull was standing next to him.
We stared openly at the animals. It was our first day in Ronda and only a week into our trip in Spain. After spending a semester abroad, I was enjoying showing my parents around towns I had visited during my studies. The square we sat in was abandoned except for my family, the bulls, and the man who had walked them over. He scrolled through his phone, glancing up every now and then to see if the animals had moved. But they remained dozy and docile.
Suddenly, there was a bright rattling and the tinkling of bells. A beautiful little cart, painted white and decorated with flowers, emerged from over the hill, pulled by a pickup truck. The sharp contrast of dusty mechanics and carefully maintained woodwork resembled a heavily pierced grandson leading his lace-covered grandmother up into the square. Truck and cart came to a gentle halt in front of us and I saw an intricate, looping religious monstrance perched in the middle of all the fresh flowers and bells. Constructed almost like a chandelier, it held a painting of Mary, Mother of Jesus, floating in a gilded frame. I’d seen elaborate, gilded displays like this before but had no context for this one. Were they preparing for a religious festival? I lifted my iPhone to film it and found that it felt strange to do so. As if I were peering through a kaleidoscope into the past; each facet clear but unreadable as a whole. The plaza fell silent once again.
And then the church doors swung wide open.
In an instant, the Plaza Duquesa de Parcent was echoing with church bells and rapid-fire Spanish. It was like a spell had been broken; the quiet mountain town burst into vibrant life. Locals carrying flowers emerged into the sunlight dressed in jewel-toned ruffles and dark velvet. Women, men, and children swarmed the square. They chatted, laughed and, as men with dark wooden guitars appeared, danced. Some carried ornate staves made of ancient, holy silver and wore stoles. But instead of setting a solemn, reserved tone, the religious ornaments only evoked more joyous shouts and music. The sharp contrast between ceremony and informality was everywhere: though those who held the artifacts were careful with their special charges, they ate olives and chatted with friends in cafes. A man on horseback in a black flat-brimmed hat accepted sips of beer from his friends who relaxed below him. Women fussed with their bright, polka-dotted trajes gitanas the same way I had fussed with my prom dresses. People lounged against the delicate cart, mere inches away from the bulls.
The gathering was so foreign and yet so familiar. Everyone seemed to know everyone. If not for a trickle of other foreigners on the outskirts of the crowd, my parents and I would’ve felt like wedding crashers. It was an ancient ceremony, a concert, a family reunion, and a block party rolled into one. As the dancing picked up, you didn’t have to understand the language to see blooming romances and love triangles. People took videos and photos and I wondered how they used to record the events of the festivities. A few sun-drenched minutes passed quite slowly, as they often did in Spain. Then, with a rumble, the pick-up truck drove away and the bulls were hitched to the cart in its stead. Without ceremony or signal, the cart moved off. People followed its glacial pace, beers in hand, singing and laughing at each other.
To this day, I have no clue what celebration we witnessed. Many fairs and festivals pop up across the south of Spain in late May and early June, though this one seems to have no name or Wikipedia page. These celebrations are older than the governments that organize them and they refuse to disappear. Some say participating in the religious festivities of Spain is like traveling back in time. Actually, they are a modern manifestation of a proud history; part pilgrimage, part fair, all joy. They are uniquely ‘now’.