John: Son of Zebedee, Evangelist, Party Animal

Where to begin?  La Nit de Sant Joan does that to a person, you know.  It’s a whirlwind festival that wreaks havoc on your life while being utterly wonderful.

The morning, as with all good mornings, started out with a glorious run.  The only peculiar thing about this run was that it marked a milestone in my life: I have now seen a man do naked yoga on a beach, including sun salutations and other come-at-me-life poses.

In contrast, the early afternoon was spent surrounded by mountains of clothing.  After passing Agbar Tower,

 the third tallest building in Barcelona

 and one with an architectural modeled after the unusual rock formations at Montserrat (fun fact: it’s also covered in 4500 LEDs that wrap the entire building and allow the display of 360-degree colorful images),  Naaman took me to Les Encants, or Mercat Fira de Cellcaire, the biggest and most popular flea market in the city of Barcelona.

 The flea market is held on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, and has taken place in the same square since the 14^th century, so it’s one of Europe’s oldest (continuous) marketplaces.  That said, the merchandise has certainly changed about since the inception of Les Encants.  You can find anything here, from clothing to books to sink faucets to chainsaws, and a little of everything in between.

Shoes, 2 pairs for 15 euros

Dictionary of aphrodisiacs, the perfect addition to any home kitchen library

In the spirit of the everyday market, I made everyday purchases: batteries and a notebook.  In a weird way, buying these shopping list items made me feel a lot more at home in the city.  I was using the marketplace for exactly its intended purposes: everyday convenience and some well-intentioned haggling.

After leaving the market, I introduced Naaman to my favorite new bakery, Baluard (see Friday’s blog post for my declaration of undying love and devotion).  While she tried a pain au chocolat, I explored new buttery, sugary options including a chocolate bread stick thing,

 a loaf of the signature Baluard baguette (which had a thick crust, fluffy interior, and just a hint of sourdough flavor to the dough),

 and a loaf of mango cake, which was super moist, dense, and delicious.

 We gobbled down our purchases on a bench overlooking the Barceloneta harbor, then parted for a few hours’ rest before the upcoming festivities.

When we reconvened, I had the chance to see Naaman’s apartment and meet her flatmates for the first time.  They are a hilarious, diverse, and slightly improbably bunch from all over North and South America, but somehow they work.  To start the festivities right, Naaman and I picked up some of the traditional coca cakes from the bakery downstairs.

Confession: this picture is actually from Baluard

Naaman and I got a large chocolate coca cake (not one of the typical flavors, but more of a crowd-pleaser)

 while I insisted on buying a smaller, traditional cake with dried fruit (it tasted like these store-bought breakfast cakes that my dad bought when I was little, which is not surprising all the components looked exactly the same).

 According to Naaman’s flatmates, the coca cakes are traditionally eaten with an accompanying glass of cava, but this bottle was saved for later.

 Our group wandered down to the Gothic District to find a bar and catch the second half of the Spain v. France EuroCup 2012 semi-final game.  Exciting stuff.  We ended up at Ryan’s (not to be confused with Ryan’s Paradis, which I mentioned earlier) and had a very enthusiastic several hours.

Gabby (one of Naaman's flatmates) and me at Ryan's

 We were seated between a rowdy French contingent and the single most excited Spain fan in existence.

In the middle, just beneath the screen, was an impassive man in a striped button-down, still as a rock despite the verbal onslaught volleyed before his very eyes, who we dubbed Pyrenees.

We also got serious Sant Joan duties completed during the game.  Another Sant Joan tradition is to write a negative action, emotion, or aspect of your life on a piece of paper.  Later, you jump across a fire as you thrown in your piece of paper and – voila – you’re freed of that pesky negativity.  And we take our Sant Joan VERY SERIOUSLY.

 We stopped for some sustenance in the form of kebab and falafel sandwiches (SO DELICIOUS and so cheap.  Hit up Buen Bocado at Escudillers, 31.  Going at around 11 pm highly recommended) before making our way to the main event: the beach party.

Since drinking is such a big part of the festivities here, almost everyone has at least a large dinner but usually some late night munchies, as well.  Clearly, this was less important to me, but was highly advisable for the rest of our group.

A little bit of background on La Nit de Sant Joan first: The Feast of Saint John celebrates the start of summer and is held approximately on the summer solstice, meaning that the party rages through the shortest night of the year into the new dawn of summer.  The night of Sant Joan, the sun is supposed to reach its highest point before beginning to drop.  Since the sun is a symbol of fertility, wealth, and all things wonderful, the city shows its support by stoking bonfires and lighting endless fireworks throughout the city.  In addition to fire (symbol of purity/cleansing), the two other symbols are water (healing; another tradition is to swim in the sea at dawn.  Naaman’s flatmates claimed that nudity must be involved) and herbs (remedy/more healing.  Herbs picked on this night are said to be 100x more potent).  The most prominent of these symbols, though, is fire.  The night is sometimes refered to as La Nit de Foc, which is not nearly as dirty as it sounds and means Night of Fire.  It lives up to this reputation; the night comes alive.  Bonfires line the beach, firecrackers pop along sidewalks and in sandy dunes (nearly deafening people nearby, to the amusement of teenaged boys), and fireworks sizzle through the sky.  Among these pyrotechnics, there are often casualties, including this one palm tree.

 A ragtag bunch of vigilante firefighters put out the flames by filling plastic shopping bags with water from the public fountains.  Phew! Crisis averted.

Some pictures from the beach:

My ONE successful attempt to capture some of the fireworks.

A very, very crowded beach full of tourists and locals alike, all in very chummy moods.

 While trying to find a patch of sand to call our own, we stumbled upon… a Throw Away Your Troubles Bonfire!  We dug out our napkin scraps and prepared to do battle with our inner demons.

A successful landing

Laura, one of Naaman's flatmates, who looks awesome here but who tripped mid-jump and landed in the middle of the fire.  Thank God for "Stop, drop, and roll".

 And then the night began in earnest.  We made our way to the dance floor of one of the beach bars.  These bars blast music throughout the night and even build the dance floors especially for this night (often in the form of expansions to existing floor space).  We grooved for hours, fending off the inevitable Creepy Older Men (COM), watching out for each other, and enjoying ourselves.  Nothing puts me in a mood like a great dance party.  As the night wore on, our group slowly disbanded, with people coupling off with significant or insignificant others, until it was just Naaman and me rocking the dance floor.

Sadly, our sparse numbers made us something of a target for the COM, particularly the Extremely Unattractive Desperate Creepy Old Men (EUDCOM).  When Naaman’s dance moves practically started a riot on the dance floor (you go, girl), we moved to another bar and found a few nice guys willing to push away our aggressors.  And so, the night played itself out.  Then Naaman left and it was just me, holding out for dawn.  When the music ended at 5 AM, I headed out to the beach with my new friends and chatted with them.  I had a great conversation with two in particular, Leandro and Juan Sebastian.  Leandro was from Argentina but, since his father was from Spain, had spent part of his life in Spain, as well, and had moved here permanently five years ago.  Juan Sebastian, his flatmate, was from Mexico and had moved to Barcelona (potentially permanently) about nine months ago.  Ah, the world of Expats.  Yet soon, they, too, wanted to turn in.  And just shy of dawn! I gave up and walked to the Metro with them, still chatting about our world travels, the offerings of Barcelona, and the wonderful night.

But the whole way to the Metro, I kept checking the time.  And at the stairs down to the tracks, I stopped.  It was 5:30, so close to dawn, and It was killing me to give up now.  I hadn’t swum in the Mediterranean yet, and I wasn’t going to give up this chance.  So, in a dramatic movie moment, I turned back.  Leandro, having witnessed the mob of EUDCOM, accompanied me out of a sense of protective, manly guilt.  This was also particularly handy, because I was seriously worried about having my clothes, metro pass, ID, camera, and other belongings stolen while I went for a swim.  On the way back to the water, I ran into Laura and Rebecca, two of Naaman’s flatmates.  They were heading home.  This made me even more determined.

I will admit, I did not go for a naked swim in the Mediterranean.  Given the previous events of the night, I decided that being the only naked female on a beach with thousands of people was not the attention that I wanted.  But I will say that the water of the Mediterranean was nowhere near as cold as I had feared.  It was perfect, and the feeling of swimming through the Technicolor water of dawn in one of the most beautiful places in the world after a night of shared camaraderie and irresponsibility with thousands of strangers is pretty exhilarating.

Dawn just beginning

Me, COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY SOAKED, after my swim.

I particulalry appreciated the devil sitting in the guard chair, as if condoning the night's debauchery and shenanigans.  This should also give you a sense of how many people were still on the beach at dawn.

The walk back to the Metro was itchy (sand inside pants = uncomfortable), very damp, and filled with yawns.  Leandro and I agreed: La Nit de Sant Joan is an amazing experience, but it would probably kill us if it happened more than once a year.