a stickier baptism

When I saw them coming towards me with the half-liter cups of rebujito (chamomile wine mixed with 7 up), I recognized the looks of pride of people about to share a valued cultural practice. My colleague/friend/hostess C had been wearing the same expression that day as she pointed to castle in her pretty town of Zafra, pinned the flower in her hair to complete her Sevillana outfit, described the stages of the romería she had brought me to experience. With the naive eagerness of a foreigner who senses they are about to experience something authentic I extended my hand to take what I thought would be my first cup of the regional brew.

I only clued into what was going on when someone from behind gently pushed my head forward and an excited voice said, "La van a bautizar!" A moment later, blinking through a rebujito-fall, I understood that I had been adopted as a daughter of Zafra.
Vaya initiation ceremony.


My friend and fellow first-timer I was even luckier -- she had her wine-drenched moment of glory captured on local TV!


Our baptisms did not follow Church doctrine per se, but they did occur in the context of a religious festivity. The romería in Zafra honours Our Lady of Bethlehem (la Virgen de Belén), a statue of whom we accompanied back to its chapel in the country side. The carrerita couldn't have been more than a half-dozen kilometers, but on foot (and with various stops for dancing, eating and drinking) it took about four hours of a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon.

Zafra is the last major town in Extremadura. Beyond these hills (and the little people, look how many there are!) is Andalucía; Sevilla is less than an hour away. As I listened to the accents around me, photographed colourful Sevillana skirts and clapped along to the flamenco dance breaks, it became clear why Zafra is nicknamed Sevilla la pequeña (Little Seville).

It was just past 7pm when we rode our chariots into the grounds of the chapel, stopping to toast the people along the side of the road.

It was then that the barbecues appeared -- and I swear they didn't stop grilling until we left a good 7 hours later. There were all the fixings you would expect -- jamón iberico, tortilla de patatas, empanada de atún...and more buttery-sugary things than I can remember names for. There was plenty more of that chamomile wine, too, which thankfully went down my throat and not down my front. As the sun set the tunes morphed from olé olé into your garden-variety club music. Lots of Nelly Furtado, who, as my Spanish friends like to exclaim ad nauseam, is the same 'crossbreed' as me.

When I finally plopped down on a curb at 1-something, I realized that I hadn't sat once since we started walking at 3 pm. Every joint from my hips down was aching, my hair was a mess of sticky clumps, and I knew that the 11 hours of alcohol consumption would have consequences. But for my best Extremadura experience so far...? It was a small price to pay.