Now I know how Lucy felt...

After getting out of that vat of grapes!

We took a little detour off the Camino these past two days to attend the Wine Battle of Haro. Mary Hannon and I were on the losing side!
First, mary's arrival. She came in on the luxe-bus from Madrid. Apparently she paid extra to get out of the dung-hole that is the main bus station in Madrid. I guess bus stations really are like McDonalds: it's the same fare all over the world. And it's shitty. Anyway, back to Mary's arrival. Her bus was late, Cecelia and I were sad and fidgety after saying goodbye to our Camino pals and sitting around waiting fir a latebus all day. So she steps off the bus to a Teary-eyed me. And soon she had to deal with a fidgety-anxious me: when we walked 30 minutes to the train station to pick up the rent-a-car we discover that the train station is closed. Completely. Boarded up, abandoned like a Yukon goldmine. Incredible. So, another fifteen minutes back to the old town and to the tourist office and we were told ¨no worry. the new station is only 6K out of town and there´s a bus¨ The rental car place closed in 32 minutes at this point. So back out the door and ten minutes over to the taxi stand, which just happened to be next to the bus station where Mary came in to begin with. Yes, ironic. But so very not funny. Our taxi man was sympathetic and fast (two fab attributes) We got the car with 8 minutes to spare.

Haro. The capital of the Rioja. Or so they say. But on June 29th every year, no one disputes it. It is the famous Haro Wine Battle. Again, a party in the plaza until 7AM. Music and dancing all night. For some. We roused ourselves at 6;40am, dressed ourselves all in white and headed out just as Frankie was singing "I want to wake up in a city that never sleeps....¨ we followed the revelers out of town to the battle. Unaware that it was a 6K walk. Suddenly a fully decorated tractor appears pulling a party of partiers. Cecelia asks if there´s room for us. Denied. Her mother yells¨unas mas?!¨And there´s a loud ¨si, si¨ ´Run Cecelia, run!¨ The next thing we know, and the last for the next six hours, is that she is sitting on the lap of a man twice her age. Hmmmmm....


Mary and I hoofed it most of the way, repeatedly passed by cars loaded up with people and oddly enough, bundles of sticks tied to the tops of their vehicles, just like the tractor was. We've trudged (because we are wearing flip-flops) almost 4K when a man twice our age spies my outstretched thumb (I refrained from exposing other body parts) and picks us up. Funny how that works. (Well, really not that funny.) We made it to the bottom of the mountain. We were still dry and white. Not to last. We didn't make it 100 yards before we had to run a gauntlet of super-doakers and pesticide jugs, though both now filled with vino tinto. It was another 50 yards when two older gentlemen dumped a 5 gallon bucket on my head. Suffice to say, it was the closest I've been to a wet t-shirt contest since The Button in 1982. Ft. Lauderdale ain't never seen the likes of this. Hundreds of people dancing and doused in wine at 8 in the morning. Crazy. Fun, and unforgettable.


Cecelia, on the other hand, has been hanging with a family of vintners. She attended the mass at the top of the mountain, came down to her dunking, but then sat down to escargot and fine wine. Meanwhile Mary and I were just drowning in bad wine and looking for a piece of sunshine in which to warm up. Everytime we found one, a bucket found us.

Somewhere around 10am, Mary and I realize that we cannot feel our fingertips. To keep warm, we have spent the last hour or so in the mosh pit dancing and singing "alcohol, alcohol, alcohol, alcohol, alcohol..." though we have not had a drop to drink. The sun has not reached this side of the mountain, we are shivering and we are still soaking wet. There is no place to hide in this battle. Everywhere you turn there´s someone else looking to spray douse or drown you in rioja. We can´t find Cecelia. We are in a sea of burgundy and everyone looks like everyone else. Presently we are befriended by a barely-comprehensible Spaniard, seemingly in our age category (over 30!) But we are soon corrected as even though he is in our age category (actually over 40) he is not a Spaniard. "Catalan" he informs us in his pigeon English. At least he had that; I have minimal Spanish; Mary has high school spanish (which is apparently the same as mine!) and this fellow claims to have NO spanish as he is "CATALAN!" (insert chest thump here). We are then interrogated as to the types and amount of drugs that "we" Americans like to use. I'm thinking "gee, I haven't even had a sip of wine yet and he wants to know about our drug use?!" Soon his friend Miguel comes over and it becomes clear that this fellow is a childhood friend whom they all love (there was a large group of them there) but who is missing a little something btwn the ears. He assures us that he is harmless and from there on in keeps an eye on his friend and a smile in our direction, grateful that we are just being kind to him, though probably more grateful that we are keeping him occupied. A little like new parents who go out for a bite to eat with young children and are relieved when the older couple in the booth behind them entertain and distract the kids; the next best thing to being out alone. Soon, just before we can't take any more wine, wet shivering, or indecipherable Catalan, Miguel asks us if we'd like to join them for a barbecue. Not wanting to miss out on additional cultural experiences (or a meal) we accept his invitation and walk down into the field that has become a parking lot for all the revelers who had the foresight to drive out here. We then find out why all the cars had sticks tied to the roofs of their cars; that is what they use for their barbecues. They pile the sticks into a 3' by 3' clump and light it. When the fire starts to die down a bit they quickly slap on their meat: very thin pork or lamp chops. They're so thin that they cook in 5 minutes or so. Which is convenient as you can imagine that the sticks don't burn for very long. The meat has clearly been marinating in salt and garlic; the smell is divine. The taste of it is even more ethereal as it is served in a hunk of fresh bread which soaks up the juices and the fat. So there we are, stripped to our bras with our t-shirts drying on the hood of a car, shoveling food in our mouths like it was the last supper. Or the last breakfast as it was only 10 o'clock in the morning.

It is not long before we are dry and starting to think about finding Cecelia again. But there are so many people here, over 2000, and they all really do look alike. We decide that she will have to find her own way back and we start to make our way down the mountain. The sun is now a good ways up in the sky; we are finally warmed up and I can actually feel my fingertips. Despite our underlying concerns about Cecelia's whereabouts, we are feeling better and start to laugh at how we spent the last several hours. That's when we saw them. Two sophomoric Spaniards with wine-filled pesticide jugs on their packs. They see us and are waiting. Their faces say to us "don't think they only spray people coming up the mountain- oh no!" They want to ensure that you are wet as long as possible. Not only do we have to run another gauntlet downhill, but we have to do it in a river of wine now. Our feet are now tinto. And they would remain that way for at least 5 days!

We walk for about 20 minutes when some kind, compassionate Spaniard and his 10 year old daughter sees my outstretched thumb and picks us up. We shower and wait for Cecelia. And wait, and wait, and wait. Somewhere around 12:30pm I start to get fairly nervous. We had left all valuables behind as everything gets wet. No cell phone, no contact with her. Suddenly the music rises from the main plaza. The parade back from the mountain has reached Haro. All the decorated tractors are flowing into the plaza with a band or loudspeakers blaring in front of them and a gaggle of red revelers dancing behind them. Cecelia comes bounding off of one of them running for the pension. She has spent the morning with an extended, and clearly lovely, family who had "adopted" her. She looked like the Cheshire Cat when she arrived, her grin was that wide. What a day, for all. And it was only just after noon! We still had Mia and Margie to pick up at the airport in Bilbao.