Double Whammy: Carnival and Sunshine

Although I am sure that my frequent ignorance of what is going on is actually a detractor from my experience abroad, I am unaware of the things I miss out on, so I don't mind. I do, however, get the frequent pleasure of coming around a corner or happening down a particular street and encountering festivities and persons which utterly astound and thrill me.

For example, last week I walked into Llado school and instead of the normal, uniformed students, I encountered droves of miniature medieval princesses and knights, knee high dancing flowers, pre-teens in Moorish garb and belly dancers flouncing down the halls. Turns out, it is Carnival. The entire afternoon of classes was replaced by a reenactment of the life of Jauime I, an important character in Mallorcan history. The presentation was narrated in Mallorquin but even from the little that I understood, I could sense the difference in their presentation to our American renditions of history which feature 'the bad guys' vs. 'the good guys'. At no point were the Moors cast as the bad guys. Instead they were heralded as a 'peaceful and advanced people'; but also, the Christian conquest of them was no less applauded for it. No good or bad, just the way it was. Each grade represented something different with the flower tots representing the passage of time...I think. The whole ordeal was preceded by a parade of the kids wandering along the streets of the pueblo as parents ruthlessly elbowed people out of the way so they could photograph and wipe the noses of their offspring. Carnival is a contact sport.
There were also the younger siblings who wanted to be dressed up too and the parents were more than pleased to acquiesce. My favorite was a toddler dressed as, what I can only describe as, the progeny of a pumpkin and a Dalmatian. It seems that the rule is, the younger the child is, the more attention and coddling they merit.
The next day La Purisima also held a carnival in which each class was dressed as an animal. There were dolphins, ants, jellyfish, cows, tigers, mice, cats, etc. I realized there must be a massive market for costumes here, which struck me as interesting since they only seem to be employed a few days each year. As superfluous as the spending seemed to me, I can't frown on anything which so stimulates any sector of the economy.
The La Purisima presentation was less enthusiastic than Llado's, involving the children merely marching in squares and being rewarded with suckers by La Reina del Carnival but the parents were all there with their cameras and the kids reveled in the attention.
No one who I talked to seemed familiar with Mardi Gras, rather, this was Carnival, the celebration before Cuaresma. It was explained to me as the period of indulgence before the time of penance and sacrifice. Any inquiry I made as to what exactly was sacrificed in the modern day was smoothly circumvented with a history lesson. I suppose this is in keeping with the general first-world trend of retaining the parts of traditions which reward us, without having to go through the less pleasant pieces. How very clever of us.

The good weather appeared to have decided that Carnival was worth coming around for and the locals are convinced it is here to stay. There are still persistent breezes, although they are child's-play compared to the gusts which, only weeks ago, were sending furniture and potted plants hurtling through the air. No one is complaining. They add a pleasing balmy effect the warm sun. While I consider it pleasing, the Mallorcans still think it warrants sweaters and jackets but it is certainly a relief when running as evidenced by the fact that even when I encounter locals out running, they have traded in their leggings for shorts.
On Saturday morning I woke up (at the wee hour of noon) to cloudy skies and decided it would be a 'sit inside and write' day; that is, until pleasant rays penetrated the shutters and beckoned to me so seductively that I could no longer deny their appeal and had to go for a run.
Armed with my MP3 player and bus card I took off for the Paseo Maritimo. I ran along the streets lining the torrent and past the old city fortifications. Everywhere I looked there were children and adults dressed up. It was like a daytime Halloween. Witches, princesses, devils, animals, dolls, pretty much anything you can imagine. They were all headed into the old part of the city for some sort of celebration but I felt I had experienced quite enough of crowds and persisted on my quest out to the coast. My objective had been to run through the sunset but it seems the amount of daylight had increased dramatically so I wound up having to run for about two hours before the red hues began to stretch across the waves and onto the wide sea-side pedestrian pathway.
Everyone else had similar ideas. While natives still comprise the majority of people, I am beginning to be aware of the increased presence of tourists, mainly English and Germans. Again I reveled in the dynamics of the groups of families, friends, and couples ambling along the paseo.
At one point a cyclist passed me and turned around to give me a grin and a thumbs-up. The result of this maneuver was that his bike hit a post and he flew off into the sand. I helped him up, smiled at him as The Clash continued to play in my ears and, after ascertaining that he was fine, I took off again. It was a beautiful and pleasing run and when I got tired I found a bus stop and rode back home where I recounted my adventures to Marga and learned another lesson about Adult World.

I am not actually sure whether it is an adult thing or a Spanish thing but apparently the sort of encounters I experienced with Bike Guy are the potential genesis for romance. I had never considered this; being friendly to everyone is just what Hughes' do, nothing more nothing less. It appears I am behind the times in thinking that romantic relationships are only to be pursued with people I actually know. I did take the opportunity presented by the conversation with Marga to query as to the appropriate response on behalf of a woman to the hoots from passing men. I assume my own embarrassment and downcast eyes are not every woman's response, otherwise the men would not do it. Apparently it is not only an offensive (in the context of sport offensive v. defensive) maneuver on the males' behalf, but an invitation for the woman to asses him in return. If he is acceptable I am apparently free to express my own approval and to allow this to initiate something. I had not thought of projecting different responses based on the looks of the the guy... that just seems judgemental and rude. Apparently adult world plays by different rules than the ones I was taught as a child.
While I find this all very interesting and have taken it into consideration, I am content to omit it from my own approach to such matters. The long and short of it is, this is the longest I have been single in six years and while at times life seems like a little much to deal with on my own, I am finding it immensely satisfying and fortifying and am not inclined to drop that for just any guy. As such, I can almost certainly guarantee that I will not be bringing home a Spaniard, unless ridiculous love blind-sides me in the next few weeks. In which case, anything is game.

On Sunday Marga and Josep and I made bocadillos and loaded up the car with backpacks, Rat-Dog, and water bottles and took off for Andraxt and Sant Elm. We walked along the port in the sun and admired the boats docked at the yacht club as we made our way out to the light house to inspect the seawall which had been destroyed by the wind storms. We made it to Sant Elm in time for lunch and sat in the sand. Josep and I threw rocks at the sea and played tag, to the dog's delight. Then Josep and the dog took to the playground and Marga and I lounged in the sun, I in my T-shirt and she in her sweater and jacket, and absorbed and processed the sunrays. Then Josep and I had a competition as to who could launch the furthest off the swing before loading back up and heading home. It was a beautiful and sun-tiating weekend.