The Correfoc
Corre — what?
C-o-r-r-e-f-o-c. From the sounds of it, the correfoc would consist of running and…something inappropriate, but that deduction was made based on my meager Spanish skills and the unnecessary addition of a similar sounding english word. Anyway, that’s where we were headed and I really had no idea what to expect. Thankfully I wore my tennis shoes because, God knows, Jessica, Jennifer and I were always late. We hopped off the line four of the metro, pausing momentarily to get our bearings, and joined a bustle of people headed up towards the surface streets. I wondered how long it would take before I’d get accustomed to the sticky heat of the underground. Perhaps if Spaniards had any sense of personal space I could’ve avoided the shiny beadlets of sweat forming on my forehead, but they had yet to consider that. Jennifer proved most anxious for fresh air and looked miserable as we squeaked along on a painfully slow escalator.
The occasional breeze of fresh air taunted us as we ascended past an eternal grey wall. I felt the radiating heat of each person around me and I tried to shift a bit to ease the discomfort. We finally made it to the top and were unpleasantly met by a long walk before another flight of intimidating stairs before we could get to the streets of Barceloneta above. A curious noise grabbed my attention. The titanic hit “My Heart Will Go On” with a Spanish accent lept from the lips of a man situated on the side of the walkway. I thought of how sad it’d be to sing a love song to hundreds of people who pass you by without glance. My moment of sentiment for the metro singer did little to slow my urgent step. In fact, I needed to quicken my pace to keep up with Jessica who was looking at her watch for what seemed to be the seven hundredth time. The air increasingly freshened as we took the last few steps that ushered us up to our destination. Finally, we arrived in Barceloneta and a sense of relief overcame us.
We were beyond ready for the parade and managed to only be seven minutes late, which, for us, was a feat. However, much to our disappointment, the festival was nowhere to be seen. We checked the Facebook post to confirm that we were, in fact, at the right station, but we soon came to the simple realization that Barceloneta was actually a huge town. My faith in making it to the parade at all was rapidly fading. Our map didn’t do us much good in the dark, but I think the simple fact that we had it was comforting. Although it lacked our intended destination, Barceloneta was filled with sights that could keep someone entertained for an eternity. My nose led my eyes to a bakery with a line of that extended out to the sidewalk. Car horns and motorbikes competed to make a noise more intimidating than the last and crowds of people hastened past our little trio. My senses were overwhelmed and a little part of me missed the clammy enclosure of the metro station. Jessica, however, was determined. Everyone had told us that it was a must-see, and we were already pretty close, so we made our best guess as to what direction we should head, and began our somewhat aimless sprint. Jennifer was not excited about the rush and kept trailing behind, but Jessica and I depended on our past cross-country experience to give us endurance for however many blocks we might bolt by.
I was utterly exhausted long before we even started our trip and I had no idea what could possibly be propelling my step now. Regardless, we pressed forward, occasionally getting stuck behind a smitten couple strolling on the moonlit footpath. Our blind faith encouraged us to keep a pace we wouldn’t be able to sustain for much longer and when I looked back at our route I saw that Jennifer had given up on running quite some time ago. All of this sudden we heard a piercing screech. Fireworks. Immediately we knew to take the next right.
Every feeling of fatigue fled from my body as my ears strained for the next sound that would guide us nearer. The percussion of captivatingly rhythmic drums became audible. Then, just above a nearby building, I saw a white flash. We raced around a corner into a plaza, and there it was: the correfoc. Drums were booming now and giant torches emitted a fiery glow on their beholders. My heart raced with excitement as I observed the characters. Marching on tribal slippers, their shouts and cackles filled the air. They were clothed in red and black and a stripe of those colors appeared across the faces of each person. Devil horns sat atop every head and my gazes were met with menacing grins upon eye contact. Crimson was in the ambience as different shades of red were reflected onto the stone walls. I pulled out my phone in an attempt to capture the awe inspiring scene. At that point, I could easily deem this event worth the hectic dash across town.
Focusing through my phone screen I saw a figure unlike the rest walking slowing with a large object in their hand. I looked directly and recognized the grim reaper prowling with his scythe. He walked under a sculpture of the angel Gabriel lit up by a spotlight as a chorus of Catalan voices read a narration. A train of fire crackers overpowered every other sound in the plaza and left me with chills. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I had not the slightest idea what the correfoc was celebrating. The christian in me waved a red flag. Fire, devils, the grim reaper — for all I knew, it could’ve been a satanic ritual but I doubted our teachers would have so highly encouraged us to attend if that were the case. I turned to Jessica, the most likely person to know, to ask about the origins of the correfoc. She informed me that during this parade, although they dress as the devil, they aren’t celebrating Satan. Rather, they celebrate the idea that the power of the devil is too weak to defeat the power of God which in this case was portrayed by the statue of the angel. Either way, the tradition was too intriguing for me to leave.
Our conversation ended abruptly. We sprung backwards into the crowd to take cover from flying sparks. They had begun the most popular part of the event. The characters took long metal sticks topped with an assortment of fireworks and swung them around the plaza and among the crowd to the boom of drums. My body shook with excitement and a hint of fear and I felt my feet get warmer with the tension; one foot seeming significantly warmer than the other. My eyes darted to my left foot and I frantically started patting my shoe in where a spark had landed and left a hole through the fabric. The firework show didn’t halt and there were cheers, screams, and people slinking toward the edges of the plaza to avoid the daunting sparks. We were encouraged to bring goggles to protect our eyes but we just decided to risk it. Smoke clouded the area as round after round of fireworks were set off. I envied how rich every aspect of Spanish history is compared to the history of my country. It seemed the festivities would last forever and I kind of hoped they would but as the finale flared and the last spark lit up the October night sky I was happy that the smoke was clearing up and I could take a breath of fresh air.
Find out more about the popular festival and Catalan tradition here:
