A Family Fiesta

You know you’re starting to become included in the family when you’re invited to a baptism. 

For the record, I know absolutely nothing about baptisms, so I had no idea whatsoever to expect from a Spanish one. When talking to Carmen about the whole ordeal, Rebecca and I mostly gathered “vamos al campo” (“we’re going out into the country”) and “no os preocupeis, podeis llevar vaqueros” (“no worries, you can wear jeans!”), so we were fairly confused about what kind of baptism this was to be. 

As it turns out, the baptism was a short ceremony that took place here in Seville, at the beautiful Iglesia Magdalena, and was followed by a big family reunion at someone’s house in the country. Carmen has a habit of introducing members of the family by their relation as opposed to their name (“Niñas, this is the husband of the second cousin of my sister in law!”), so to be honest, when Carmen told us it was “Jose’s” house, we had no clue exactly whose house it was. 

We piled into a taxi with Carmen and her youngest daughter, Marta, and headed to the church to watch the baptism. Bunches of kids running around in formal dress, three beaming families with three puzzled babies in long white attire, and two bemused Americans shuffled into the front pews as the priest took up the microphone and began. Some sprinkles of water, crucifix gestures, and “amen”s later, the deed was done. I spent half the time craning to see over everyone in front of me craning to see, and the other half giving up and gazing around at the extensive decorations within the church. Like most others I’ve visited in Spain, the church walls were smothered in biblical paintings, statues, and ornamentation. This church was in need of a little restoration, but the elaborate original art painted directly upon the plaster was still for the most part intact. Most of the biblical Spanish went over my head as well, but Rebecca and I were excited to lean the baby’s name (Fernando) via the ceremony - Carmen had neglected to tell us (“Niñas, Juan’s son, my grandson, is being baptized this weekend!”). Well, either that, or we’d forgotten. Or misheard. Admittedly those options are probably equally likely. 

Following the ceremony and a quick change out of dresses and into jeans, we jumped into Marta’s car and headed for the country. The landscape of the rural areas in Andalucía is a little bit dreary, at least this time of year. Low golden-brown hills roll for miles, dappled with tough green shrubs baking below the September sun. Horses and donkeys, nosing lazily through the dry grass, are boxed in by crooked wire strung between worn wooden posts. Marta liked to take the corners a little fast in our little fixer-upper of a two-door, so we made good time cutting through the hot countryside.

The “house in the country” has a little more to it than bedrooms. The stables for six or seven horses line the main patio, and an enormous palm tree shades stacked bales of hay. A large garden, complete with an overhead trellis, sprouts next to the old house, and a raised section houses a type of deep pool. It’s a nice place. And that afternoon, it was absolutely overrun by people. There were kids darting left and right underfoot while the adults clustered around the outdoor bar. I lost count of how many people I European-double-kissed as I was introduced to family. In case anyone wanted to know (and wanted to avoid an awkward face-to-face run-in), you kiss the left cheek first. 

From pretty much the moment we climbed out of the car people were pressing drinks on us: “what would you like, beer or wine? We can get you beer or wine. We even have white wine!” When Rebecca and I put on stricken faces and politely declined alcohol at two in the afternoon, they’d deflate a little and offer soda. Water wasn’t on the menu. Food was mostly finger, and included various forms of deep fried goodies and pork products. Let me just say here that Argentina is to beef as Spain is to ham: jamón iberico, jamón serrado, jamón de york... All kinds, all delicious. Add in the varieties of sausage - salchichón, chorizo, you name it - and you clearly have the pork experts of the world. The most common kind of ham (jamón iberico) is a bright red color, sliced paper-thin, very greasy, and has nice strips of pale fat. At the party, there were big platters of ham like this, where the idea was you just pick it up and eat it. This does, however, leave a very thick grease residue on your fingers, so you can’t afterwards touch any other thing, especially not your hair, which gets in your face from the wind. Add onto that little deep-fried pieces of chicken, another little munchie that essentially amounts to deep-fried mashed potatoes, and slices of well-done pork loin blanketed in a thin savory sauce, and you have some pretty slick fingertips. All this in a place that doesn’t do napkins. 

In the middle of the party, Carmen suggested we take a walk and check out the tiny little country town five minutes from the house. A short walk down the highway brought Rebecca and I to hot and dry streets, absolutely devoid of people. It was rather eerie, in fact; I was thinking The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Flyers drifted across the pavement in the wind, and pressed up against a short wire fence penning a dusty donkey. The tiny little town, roughly 4000 people I was told (where they all were, I have no idea), cloaked a little hill. Perched on the crest was a sandy old castle, closed now. The narrow cobblestone streets were walled in by white stucco houses and tile roofs, all empty. I’m going to guess that it wasn’t a ghost town, but that we’d chosen to take our walking tour during the siesta.

Although the clowns for the kids making balloons and doing some silly acrobatics were fun to watch, and I liked that an eight year old kid was riding an enormous white horse as confidently as Gandalf on Shadowfax, my favorite part of the day was when one family member broke out a guitar and started the flamenco. Whereas we might put on some rock and roll and swing dance at a family gathering, maybe, the Spanish play some Flamenco on the guitar, clap in time to a syncopated rhythm, and sing. It’s a passionate type of music, and the dance that accompanies it looks something like a more dynamic and flirtatious version of Thai traditional dance. I’ve uploaded a video I took at the party at the end of this post - check it out to see what I mean exactly. I’m finding it difficult to explain. It was absolutely fantastic, and everyone loved watching and/or participating. A couple weeks previously, we watched a professional flamenco show, which was of course very different; the dancers were highly trained and very good, excelling in the tap-dance aspect of Flamenco - extremely rapid rhythms drummed out on the floor with their heels, accompanied by flourishes with the hands and an intense Flamenco facial expression. At the party, it was more relaxed, more flirtatious, and more fun. For the record, I want to take Flamenco classes while I’m here. 

As night fell, the party kept right on swinging, but we needed to make our way back to Seville. It was difficult for Carmen and Marta to detach themselves from the event, as it always is with events of this kind. Rebecca and I also decided Carmen is the matriarch of the family, making it that much harder to get to the car. After extended goodbyes and more kissing, we stuffed ourselves back in Marta’s little car, but with a new addition - Carmen’s sister-in-law. A chatty woman who appeared to be roughly mid-eighties, she was actually great fun on the long drive back, excited to tell us about how her husband ran the New York marathon and that it gets really cold on the east coast. 

All in all, quite the cultural experience. To be honest, I think the party and family reunion was the real event; Fernando’s baptism was just the excuse. 

Here's the video I took of the impromptu flamenco. Enjoy!