Embarrassing - as was the weekend game which fortunately I missed it as I was at a christening of the latest arrival to a friend of ours from England, Sue, and her Spanish husband, Andreas and quite entertaining it was. More so than the football.
When we got to the appointed church we realised that there were far more people here than could be related to Sue and Andreas and it was only when we got inside that I twigged. Basically, it was baptism by the pram-load. Okay, so it's only early April but the temperature outside is in the 80's and once all the relatives of the six babies who were to be baptised have piled in to the church it feels several degrees hotter than that inside. Everyone is chattering loudly and every few seconds you got a Mexican wave as the congregation gets to its feet and hugs/kisses/slaps on the back a recently spotted brother/sister/cousin/in-law.
After a while a side door opened and in marched the white and gold robed priest. He looked suitably stern with his black beard, baldhead and dark rimmed glasses and sure enough he managed to shut us all up with the power of his stare alone. All you can hear is the fluttering of a thousand fans and the odd wail. The quiet doesn't last long. Six babies. That's a lot of names to remember, and much to my delight, he gets them mixed up a lá Rowan Atkinson in Four Weddings and a Funeral. Then he starts telling us all what a joyous occasion this is, how important it is that the babies will be cleansed of original sin, etc., etc. But it's damnably hot. There are so many people. Inevitably, the yakking starts up.
Some of the blokes get a bit antsy and pop out for a smoke/drink/breath of fresh air/all three at once or to remove a screaming child. Children from Hell run around and shout without so much as a siéntate (sit down) or cállate (shut up) from their parents, who seem to be both blind and deaf. The poor old priest gets a bit hot under the collar and then loses it Olimpicamente scolding our disrespectfulness (well, not the señora or I, we hadn't said a word) and shaming the entire place, albeit briefly, into an approximation of silence.
When it comes to the actual dunkings he gives up trying to maintain order entirely. The parents and Godparents of baby number one gather round the font. Friends and family block the view and more camera flashes go off than at a red carpet event in Hollywood. The rest of the congregation talks among itself. Kayla, Sue's baby, is number six. Even the brought-up-to-barely-even-breath-in-church Englishman can stand no more and needs to stretch his legs, taking the señora by the hand I lead her outside. The instant we walk through the door into the bright sunshine a drink is pushed into our hands by a complete stranger from another party. It's one of the things I like about the Spanish. They believe it is their absolute right - their obligation even - to enjoy themselves. And what better excuse than a christening? We down our drinks and head back into the oven that the church has become.
At last it's Kayla's turn. We gather round the font and watch her gurgle contentedly as the priest pours water over her head. The Priest names her; it's a sweet moment and the señora sheds a tear or two. Then it's over. We all bowl outside into the fresh air and stand around and chat for a while and then it's off to the after show party.
The post-church party surpasses all other christening do's I've ever been to and, actually, most weddings. They've strung a giant hairnet type thing over their large patio to provide some shade. There are crates of wine and beer and jugs and jugs of Sangria. They've hired the staff of the bar around the corner (the best pescadito frito, a bar that sells fried fish, a sort of a take-away, which happens, I discover later, to be the size of a shoe-box). They set up a barbecue and ply us with grilled prawns and cuttlefish, fried calamari, marinated fish and spare ribs.
The kids have taken over the swimming pool, the other young babies are either asleep in the shade or being coo-cooed from relative to relative and the adults pound the paving stones into a dance floor. Much later there is a surprise present - a live performance from a brilliant flamenco duo. Then it's all hand-clapping and olés and drunk English girls pretending they know how to dance Sevillanas and the party was really only just beginning...