Part 9: New Year's Eve

On New Year´s Eve 2004, I didn´t leave the flat that I was renting in Mérida. At that time, Cheryl and I were living apart, as I was looking for permanent accommodation, and she was completing her last year of teaching in an independent school in the south Midlands. My not going out on that night was to have serious repercussions for our celebrations in 2005.

On the 28th of December last year, some friends came to stay with us for four days, their return date being, logically enough, the 1st of January of 2006. These friends really like to celebrate New Year´s Eve with a wild time and lots of noise. We on the other hand, generally prefer to stay in with a bottle of wine, a video, and if we are feeling particularly daring, a game of Scrabble. But for the sake of our friends, we were prepared to make an exception for last year, and to go out and really paint the town red.

So we ordered a taxi to come out from Mérida, at half past eight. We arrived in the city at about nine o´clock. I am sure you have all seen those sci-fi films about the aftermath of a nuclear war. Small groups of desperadoes who have somehow managed to escape the blast emerge from their hiding places into the depths of a deserted nuclear winter. The streets are empty, the houses show no signs of life and our plucky survivors wander about desperately trying to make contact with other groups who may also have survived the blast. Well Mérida at nine o´clock on a New Year´s Eve is not as busy as that. Because I had stayed in the year before, I had never found out about what happens on the 31st of December.

What happens is this. People get together at lunchtime for a quick drink and a bite to eat with friends. This quick drink can last up to about seven or eight o´clock. Then they all go home to have a late siesta and get ready for the big family meal which takes them up to midnight and beyond. Everybody, but everybody, wants to be with their families on this day. Which means that, in this particular Spanish city, all the bars and restaurants close, so that barmen, barmaids and waiters can be warm and cosy in the bosom of their loved ones.

We eventually found a lone restaurant, where, presumably, the staff had no relatives, the families all having died in the nuclear blast. Hurriedly we sat down and ordered, in case it turned out to be some sort of a mirage. The food when it came, was a long way from being impressive. The service was grudging to say the least. Just when we had decided that the best thing to do would be to stay put and order a couple more bottles of wine, they threw us out.

At ten o´clock there was still a couple of hours to kill before the big celebrations with the cava and the grapes in the Plaza de España. At least those festivities would be raucous enough for the tastes of our guests, what with the bells, the fireworks, the booze and the general air of wild, unbridled revelry.

Mérida is divided into two halves: the old city and the new. We were in the old half, and so decided to take a stroll across the Roman Bridge, to see if things were any livelier in the new half. Nearly a kilometre of Roman bridge later, it became apparent from the almost total blackness of the new city, that bars and restaurants over there, were just as fond of tradition as were their counterparts in the old city. As we were re-crossing the bridge, a light drizzle started to fall, and I noticed that at least one of our number was wearing a pair of very dressy high heels, and no, it wasn´t me.

Then I remembered, we still hadn´t been down Calle John Lennon, the social centre of Mérida. Surely there would be a hostelry open on Calle John Lennon. But there wasn´t. So we decided to go to the Plaza de España and join the thousands of revellers, who, by this time, would surely be impatiently awaiting the beginning of the big festivities. When we got there, all we found were a few drizzle-soaked diehards. It appeared that they too had survived the blast, and looked about as thrilled with the proceedings as we were. There was, however, free cava in abundance, dished out by some hardy souls who had agreed to man a stand in the town hall, directly beneath the big bell that would do its stuff at the witching hour. As twelve o´clock drew nigh, we held our breath, as twelve o´clock became one minute past, and one minute past became two minutes past, we had to stop holding our breaths, as we had all gone very red in the face. At about quarter past twelve, we began to entertain a sneaking suspicion, that this year at least, there would be no bells.

Oh well, the bar at home was well stocked up, so there was nothing for it but to go home and have a drink to welcome in the new year in front of our log fire. Just one tiny little logistical problem with that though: no taxis. Anybody up for a ten-mile hike in high-heeled shoes?

Articles in the series:

Introduction to Pete's Tale

Part 1: Village Life

Part 2: Bichos

Part 3: A Two-Bar Town

Part 4: Fruit and Veg

Part 5: Summer

Part 6: Politics

Part 7: Noise

Part 8: Our natural park

Part 9: New Year's Eve

Part 10: Timetables

Part 11: The Land Where the Pig is King

Part 12: How Not to Buy a House

Part 13: That First Winter

Part 14: The Extremeño Spring

Part 15: To be a Pilgrim

Part 16: A Change is Coming

Part 17: Wine Talk

Part 18: Free For All

Part 19: How Do You Spell Asparagus?

Part 20: Designer Peas