Last night saw the second European football final in a month involving an English and a Spanish team. Foloowing from Middlesborough’s thrashing by Sevilla, Arsenal were tasked with upholding English pride in Villagarcia.
We’d already established from the weekend that Barcelona were not universally loved in this area. There seems to be a similarity with Manchester United in England, in so much as many people love them, but hard core football fans, such as Real Madrid fans, would rather see Barcelona stuffed than win anything.
On the back of that I felt I might be safe to make an appearance at a bar we’d not yet been to last night. I probably wouldn’t have gone but Kate insisted that I should make the effort. Remember that.
I selected Bar Tuna as the landlord had said he was a fervant Barcelona fan and I’d told him I’d be supporting Arsenal. I’d actually forgotten about the football being on until a DJ on the radio mentioned the score being 1-0 and mentioned this to Kate. Hence sje forced me out of the house.
So shortly after the start of the second half, with Arsenal still in front, I found myself at Bar Tuna, the busiest pub we’d yet seen in Villagarcia. It was packed around a large TV in the corner and the bar where there was a smaller TV. I was fortunate to choose a position at the bar next to a Real Betis fan who was also shouting for Arsenal. My arrival generally went unnoticed as all attention was focussed on the TVs.
I felt this was good in view of the score. This continued tillabout 75 minutes when Barcelona got their first goal. The bar seemed happy at this.
They shared their happiness with me.
About 5 minutes later they shared more happiness with me as Barcelona got their second. They’re expressive at most times, but this was on a new level.
It hadn’t prepared me for the final whistle though. Once the game was over, our Spanish friends decided to celebrate in the apparently time honoured tradition of trying to blow each other up.
Guy Fawkes night is a pale and tame imitation in the face of Spanish fireworks frivolities. They were quite literally holding rockets as they lit them and launched them into the sky, into the field, into the play park and then through open windows and doors.
I’m not exaggerating when I say I feared for my safety. I retired back to the bar.
Bad move. The landlord was teaching his 6 year old son how to light fireworks on the bar football table. “Ellos Loco” I believe is the phrase.
Fortunately they soon exhausted their supplies and, with the eastern end of Villagarcia ablaze, they jumped into their cars to celebrate some more. I was invited, but feared I might later wake naked and bound in a field somewhere, so politely declined.
Much of the bar departed to burn down more buildings and I remained with about 5 equally nervous and non-pyromaniacally inclined amigos.
It was explained that the others would be driving around beeping their horns because Barcelona had won. It was then explained that had Barcelona lost, they would have marked it by driving around beeping their horns. They like beeping horns apparently.
45 minutes later, and with the horizon ablaze, they returned. many then departed, but I remained with a handful of drinkers that, like with a late one in the UK, gradually declined as time pressed on.
Coomunication was relatively easy and I was able to explain that we want to learn Spanish, that we want to be part of the community and that shouldn’t we ring the fire brigade.
Things seemed to go quite well and the landlord explained that normally he’d be in trouble with his wife for being up late, but tonight he would be fine because he was spending his time practicing his English. He suggested I should spend more time in his bar.
I also discovered that our local policeman is also recounting the story of our first meeting and how we kept calling him Joe. I believe his name is Herrara. We’ll stick with Joe.
So at 4.15 this morning, my new friend Gypsy dropped me off at my door and I excitedly ran in to share news of my new experiences with my darling wife.
Surprisingly, she wasn’t entirely pleased at my return. How odd!