At the beginning of May, the streets are flooded with locals and outsiders, all here to celebrate one festival or another. People are carried away by the sound of loud bands and charangas (a wind and percussion band popular at Spanish festivals) playing traditional marches.
During these festivals, there are moments filled with hugs, wine, horses and flowers. There are people everywhere, but we are all comforted by the knowledge that life will eventually return to its daily course tomorrow.
I do not know these rites and celebrations, but I surrender to them. The streets pull me to a place a few roads over, where the hubbub quiets down to just a murmur of the party—a young boy leans on a chipped wall; a flag hangs on a balcony; someone toasts to the sun.
Fuchina is the name of a traditional drink consumed during these festivities.