IT is hardly a coincidence that the eleventh century patron saint of Madrid, Saint (or San) Isidro, was a farmer renowned for his goodness to the poor and animals. After all, Madrid is home to a population whose adulation for pets, particularly of the canine variety, is legendary and it also home to the 'Indignados' (the movement widely reported for its activism and opposition to austerity). So when the Madrileños celebrate their patron saint, it is with unfaltering abandon, adulation and a festiveness worthy of perhaps both the barking and the genuinely mad.
Such enthusiasm and pride, however, not only brings the city back to an idyllic and romantic past, elegantly riposting the uncertain present through the comforts of nostalgic fanfare, but they expose the city's exotic personalities, the contradictions between its religious and cultural yearnings and the kaleidoscopic freneticsm of a turbulent modernity. There is probably no better time, then, to see and experience the diversity and complexity that defines Madrid; a festival that makes Madrid one of the great conurbations on earth and, possibly, the loudest exponent of all that is both brilliant and inadequate in the human condition. San Isidro is not just a festival - it is an outpouring.
On the eve of the 15th of May, thousands, possibly as many as thirty thousand citizens gather in the muggy starlit evening. In front of the imperial collonade, (Riera's monumental tribute to Alfonso XII and a stark reminder of a time of plenty), the crowds converge. They come through several of the grand Retiro Park entrances leading to the central lake and over which the gigantic bronze horse-mounted Alfonso appears to summon his citizens as though to some grand calling. (If only the Indignados had such a plausible director for their energies!).
The night air bristles with excitement. The lake is bathed in a rainbow of morphing light cast up the lengths of imposing columns as Mozart blasts out over the eager spectators. Then, signalled by a single canon shot, the sky explodes in a spectacular fireworks display heralding the commencement of the San Isidro festivities and wowing the throngs into awed amazement. Bedazzled by fire and thunder, we are all stood unified in the nourishment of this simple spectacle, which at once reduces us to mere children . Here we stand compacted, huddled embracing with childlike innocence the magic of an exploding symphony. For a short while, all woes are abandoned for a tiny piece of joy, a moment like no other here, in Madrid, in the night, on a small planet drifting in the great infinity of darkness and starlight .
The night air bristles with excitement. The lake is bathed in a rainbow of morphing light cast up the lengths of imposing columns as Mozart blasts out over the eager spectators. Then, signalled by a single canon shot, the sky explodes in a spectacular fireworks display heralding the commencement of the San Isidro festivities and wowing the throngs into awed amazement. Bedazzled by fire and thunder, we are all stood unified in the nourishment of this simple spectacle, which at once reduces us to mere children . Here we stand compacted, huddled embracing with childlike innocence the magic of an exploding symphony. For a short while, all woes are abandoned for a tiny piece of joy, a moment like no other here, in Madrid, in the night, on a small planet drifting in the great infinity of darkness and starlight .
On the Calle Baja and all around the topsy turvy streets and shadowed alleys of La Latina, (those narrow lanes spared the harshness of the blazing sun by tall buildings), more crowds gather - dispersed clusters - and amongst them drummers and floutists are belting out familiar tunes, which at once sound of both a medieval whine and Belle-Epoque tunefulness. Ladies are dressed in tailored full length gowns, shawls and head scarves topped with a red or white rose; colours stolen from the fireworks. The men are decked out in perfectly fitting three piece suits and brilliantly polished shoes. Who has conspired to bring this theatre to the streets where the population act as though the city, this megalopolis, were a mere village in which everyone had a part in some Joycean fete. In a city of five million! How can this be? Is it pride? Faith? Hope? Folly? Out of each and every lane, alley, street, and avenue they pour. Mostly, but not always, the elderly adorned in vivid colour and dress and merging casually into a new universe for a day.
The news on the News is not news for any man's ears. It is toxic at the moment. Thanks be to God I am Irish (well kind of). At least I have heard the record already. I know how this one plays out. But to this people of a sunny and boisterous disposition, the News may make for a cold summer. They had better dance.
The news on the News is not news for any man's ears. It is toxic at the moment. Thanks be to God I am Irish (well kind of). At least I have heard the record already. I know how this one plays out. But to this people of a sunny and boisterous disposition, the News may make for a cold summer. They had better dance.
At the Plaza del Sol, the heat of San Isidro, the heat of impatience, the burning heat of trouble to come, sets off another dance. Thousands compact the sloping square focused upon some invisible core as though pleading for an Alfonso on horseback; giant, capable, leading a victorious charge. But all there is, is a lumpish mound; the roof of Sol metro, the Samsung Galaxy metro as it is now labelled. Irony?
Hands float aloft in the air. Pots and pans bang. Tired dogs hide beneath their masters' legs. On other days they would bark and howl at such nuisance, but they are outnumbered by this pack, this strange menacing herd. While the ladies in the lace dresses fluttered by on other streets and squares, here the clutter of dark legs and bruised voices is nothing to be toyed with. The brown flicking uncertain eyes of a sheltering Alsatian say it all. An unpolished man sits on a makeshift stool beside a treehugger. Unlikely bedfellows, their fireworks are of another sound and colour. The old man's shirt reads "Retirees fighting for their rights". The treehugger nods to the rhythm of the clanking pans and drags on his joint. He looks at the old man as though to say " I am with you, man". The old man looks at the treehugger as though to say " Whatever, mate." Another man stands with a copy of "The European Constitution" - upside down in his back pocket. Someone is trying to be heard. More Irony?
Most people are either banging pans or rolling their arms with impatience. Most are well equipped. How come so many upset people have great digital cameras? At the far side of the square, a few timid "Chulapos" are skirting the indignation in blue and crimson dresses as they head for their dance, gripping their shawls.
Most people are either banging pans or rolling their arms with impatience. Most are well equipped. How come so many upset people have great digital cameras? At the far side of the square, a few timid "Chulapos" are skirting the indignation in blue and crimson dresses as they head for their dance, gripping their shawls.
Looking down the street, with a hopeless anxiety for want of business, a scattering of street prostitutes dare to challenge the midday sun. Their numbers are down today. Are they protesting? Perhaps. All the same, there is business to be got amongst the Indignados; perhaps amongst the retirees; perhaps amongst the few passing women in the fluffy dresses and roses (amongst their husbands). The crowds float down from Callao toward Sol like driftwood on a fast flowing river. In the excited melee, a tall athletic young man stops by a voluptuous dark skinned woman. He toys with her hand. A black-tie waiter wipes a table before lighting a fag and disappearing momentarily behind a cloud of smoke. The young man seals a deal and vanishes into the throng with his purchase. At the end of the street, the pots and pans clank louder. The police are distracted by the swirling throng, enough for a paperless black boy to spread his sheet on the pavement to sell pirated films. His eyes dart left to right as he polices his trade at the Samsung Galaxy metro.
On the far side of the Plaza Mayor, San Isidro sits atop a chaparoned carriage. Mantilla bearers, boys and girls, marching bands, soldiers, widows and others float past in solemn duty-bound procession. Uniformed guards in sumptuous uniforms and silver helmets with brilliant purple plumes guard parade marshals who sport long black cloaks and multicoloured tassled head dress. They nod and bob past with an air of means. One man likes his tassles to sway; his Golden yellow tassles. Far from the clamour of indignation rattling out on beaten pans, here the citizens applaud as the parading faithful cry out triumphantly "Viva San Isidro, Viva Madrid!" There is a familiar prevalence of digital hardware. A blind shoeless girl with a palsy arm, whose sign reads "TENGO HAMBRE", can see neither the adulation nor the indignation around her (nor the cameras). The applause grows louder and prouder as the tank-like carriage is tilted up the steps into the church, bringing San Isidro home. The beautifully turned out custodians of the city's nostalgia, nod gracefully as the Mayor passes, waving knowingly.
