Last Night

Last night I went to a festival in Sitges, which is a beach-side town near Barcelona. The city used to be an artist enclave with a predominately gay population. But now the festival in Sitges is for everyone. There were throngs of people there dressed up. Dressed up like bees, like bags of marijuana, arab terrorists, clowns, hookers (or maybe they were hookers), construction men, and gay fairies.

I went with a bunch of American college students. We walked up and down the beach a bunch, watched as people peed on the sand, and threw up all overthemselves. It was like being in high school all over again; you were just worried about people. Like the people on the rocks by the shore. And the girls being held up by their gay best friends, wobbling and stopping every few steps to dry heave on the pavement.

The festival was driven by a parade. The parade was the big attraction. It ran through the crowd, where fences had been set up to separate the performers from the spectators. The problem was that some spectators need to go to the bathroom sometimes or get something to eat, and walking through the parade was fucking impossible and, it appeared, illegal (but the cops were hawt!).

Everyone was joyful. The joy was in the air. It hung in thick blankets, especially, on the beach where people were gyrating on the sand. But we were Americans; we only do joy ironically. So we sort of gyrated, we sort of smiled, we sort of hooted and hollared, but it was a pained and embarasing spectacle. We took a lot of pictures, though (of course). We tried to not look like we were peacing out on the American economic meltdown by getting drunk with a gaggle of Spaniards. But that's what we were doing. And that's what I'm still doing. And will continue to do. Until I end up being the Spaniard dressed up as a gay terrorist fairy hooker peeing and throwing up on his/herself at the same time. Only then will I consider leaving.