more truck engines were heard over the screams and shouts. The melee stopped and the crowd parted, each side eying the other like gunfighters, just waiting for the trucks to finish unloading before unleashing another vegetable fury.
Our foes were not only the half-naked savages around us, but also local kids taunting playfully from unprotected windows. Someone would shout and point to a nearby window, and a group of us would instinctively swivel, aim and fire at the offender who was not brave enough to take to the battlefield.
On we fought, the adrenaline running faster than the tomato juice in the gutters. Most food fights last a few minutes; La Tomatina runs a full hour. This may not be a long time for geologists or Teamsters, but when you’re wading up to your knees in reddish sludge while thousands of people chuck about 90,000 pounds of tomatoes at you, it’s exhausting.
When the cannon roared again, we all dropped our tomatoes, applauded, cheered, and embraced our neighbors. I collapsed where I stood. Gradually, I staggered down the road to a wide-open space where the town had organized communal showers. Still, I was picking tomato bits from bodily crevices for weeks after.
A Spaniard told me later not to bother. By the time I finished cleaning myself, he said, it would be time for another Tomatina.
AFTER TRAVELING through Western Europe in college, Mike Elkin decided to make Spain his home, working as a freelance journalist in Madrid for three years. Now on a brief break in Dublin, Mike yearns for Spanish food—even some tomatoes.
Barcelona
Restless Spain
nicholas gill
as we pulled into Barcelona’s Estación França, I picked up my new, $200, lime-green backpack, and stepped off the train with my brother and two and stepped off the train with my brother and two American friends we’d met in Interlaken. It was Friday night, and people filled the streets, many walking arm in arm. Lovely olive-skinned señoritas kissed each other’s cheeks. I was 18, just out of high school, and near the end of my European-continent trip. Wild, restless Spain had been in my thoughts for weeks.
We went from place to place looking for lodging, but we found nowhere to sleep that night in Barcelona. Someone suggested sleeping on the beach. It sounded good to me—sleeping beneath the stars, listening to the sounds of the sea, my back against the earth. No bed could provide this.
Everyone had been tense until we decided to give up looking. Lightening up, we found an outdoor café, ordered drinks, and enjoyed telling tales of coffeehouses in Amsterdam and pubs in London. I became as disoriented as I was blissful, and when the café closed, we made our way to the beach. Plenty of others had the same idea, mostly backpackers, but also some bums and junkies. There were four of us, so I didn’t expect any trouble. We formed a circle and made our beds in the sand. I felt tired and more comfortable than I had in days. The night was clear and warm, and I smiled as the gentle murmur of the Mediterranean put me softly to sleep.
I awoke sensing that something was wrong. My head hurt; my sight was a little fuzzy. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour or two. It was still night, and everyone else was asleep. I thought I had tied myself to my pack, but I couldn’t feel it. I jumped up and looked around. It was gone. I became frantic. I tried to wake everyone, but they were all passed out, too inebriated and exhausted to make sense of my ranting. I walked a circle around the camp we had set up. It was not there.
I finally woke my brother and demanded he give me his knife. I was angry, upset and fearless. I was going to get my things back from those thieves. They couldn’t have gone far, I thought. I was going to find them. I ran around the beach inspecting anything I thought looked suspicious. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins. I was prepared to do whatever it took to get my possessions back, my collection of objects from a continental trek.
I approached some groups of sleeping people several times, thinking I may have missed something. I asked bums who spoke no English if they had seen my backpack. They gave me no answers. Frustrated, I found some wooden chairs on the concrete boardwalk and beat them as hard as I could against the wall, screaming. Finally, in despair, I returned to my friends. They were aware of my situation—in a hazy, dream-like sort of way—but went back to sleep. Their packs were all there. One of them was lying three feet away from its owner. Why didn’t the thieves take that one? I thought. I sat there, disappointed, but only for a minute. I wasn’t going to give up that easily. My pack was somewhere. I was going to slow down my search, and look further and more carefully than I had before. I’d spend all night if I had to.
A half-mile or so down the beach from my friends, I found a van full of policemen chatting with some people on bikes. I tried to remember some of the Spanish I had already forgotten from high school. My macchina was missing. No, that wasn’t the word. Anyway, they speak Catalan here.
“¿Mochila?” one of them asked.
“Yes. Sí. That’s it. Mochila,” I said as I recognized the word. “It’s gone. Stolen.” I raised my arms in the air to signify “missing.”
I got in the van. I didn’t really know what was going on. We drove around the city. They asked me questions I couldn’t answer. “Mochila … missing,” I said, reassuring myself that they knew what I was talking about. They whistled at girls on sidewalks and laughed. I tried to laugh along with them, but I couldn’t. We went to a station somewhere in the city; they sat me down on a stiff chair in a bare cement hallway and left. I waited for something to happen. The only other person in the hall was a startled old Spaniard with crutches who kept trying to talk to me. From what I could make out, he had been robbed or attacked.
It was the first time I began giving any thought to what was in my bag. Now I felt worse.
There were tears in his eyes.
After what seemed like hours, a policeman who spoke some English brought me into a room to fill out a report of what exactly was missing. It was the first time I began giving any thought to what was in my bag. Now I felt worse.
Besides all of my clothes, there were souvenirs from a dozen countries: postcards, CDs, T-shirts, and various items I’d picked up along the way. My camera was gone, as were the 20 or so rolls of film I had shot. I thought of the pictures I would never be able to see: the one of me hoisting a beer with a table of Japanese students at the Hofbrauhaus; the one I took of the Sistine Chapel ceiling that almost got me thrown out. All of those memories would be lost. I was lucky enough to have kept my passport and wallet in my pockets.
I completed the form and handed it to the officer. He led me to the door outside. “Aren’t you going to give me a ride?” I asked. No, they answered, they did not do that. I had no idea where I was, where on the beach my friends were, or even what time I’d left. I walked outside. The officer warned me to watch out for Arabs, saying they maced people so they could rob them. If I saw any, he said, I should run.
Scared now, I ran through the streets, looking every which way for Arabs. The knife came out of my pocket; I grasped it firmly in my hand. I wasn’t going to let anything else be taken from me. I could just imagine my friends back home hearing that I died in a knife fight with an Arab in Spain.
The wind blew hard, tossing leaves and trash under the bright streetlights. I ran in circles at first, but the smell of salt in the air finally
