Day 15: A Bota Bag

Soria, qué linda eres

Con tus fiestas San Juaneras

Con tu sinfín de haceres

Y tus bonitas mujeres

Que iluminan la verbena

It was summer, and I was in my Spanish boyfriend at the time’s pueblo, Soria. I’d been living in Madrid for a year by then, and had visited Soria once before, but I’d never seen it like this.

In Spain, when a town has their festivals, it’s like it becomes a lawless land. Everyone is partying, everywhere. Streetlights? Who needs them. Stores? Psssshh. Food? Better fill up because you’ll be drinking from the moment you wake. Wine? Oh, tons of it.

I was reminded of Soria’s San Juan festival last week when L’s mom came in to give a presentation on Spanish inventions. One of the first images she projected on the screen was of a bota bag, or a wineskin.

“Who knows what this is?” María asked.

The kids started shouting out answers.

“A bag!”

“A pouch?”

“What is that?”

“It’s a bag, yes,” María said. “It holds a liquid. Do you know which one?”

“Water!”

“Juice!”

“Wine,” I said. Upon seeing the image, my mind had immediately flashed to the streets of Soria, someone pouring cold red wine into my mouth from above, wiping it from my lips and chin with the back of my hand.

“No fair, Ms. Amy!” María laughed. She knows I lived in Madrid for 2 years.

“Woops!” I said, making the sign of zipping my mouth shut. “Ya me callo.”

As she clicked through the rest of the slides, my mind skipped around more moments from that weekend, like a pebble’s ripple across the water: watching townspeople chase a bull in the ring, then all of us climbing down into the arena, wearing party hats and leis; waiting on what felt like the longest line ever for bocadillos, my stomach growling; singing Soria, qué linda eres at the top of our lungs as we walked through the park at night; feeling nauseous from drinking too much, too quickly, a friendly stranger helping me throw up behind a dumpster, gifting me a bottle of water; the men in the street with the bull meat and the bota bags, giving anyone who wished a bite and a swig; wanting desperately to go back to Madrid.

Even at 23 years old, when I liked to party, the Spanish festivals were too much for me. I remember, laugh, and get back to the presentation.

**

This post was inspired by Amanda Potts’ lovely post “Cheesy” about eating raclette for dinner, which takes us on a journey to her first time trying it while studying in France.