Spanish Fiesta... or Introvert APOCALYPSE?!

Ascensión 2026, Santiago de Compostela, Spain.

The Galicians have come for you in their UFO of love.

It is Thursday, May 14th, 2026. You are me, misanthropic melodrama extraordinaire.

After wrapping up your day, you graduate to editing what you had decided was your magnum opus in a manic fugue state. It’s a Substack post calling for the abolition of cruises. Upon publication, you wholeheartedly expect the global community to establish a truth and reconciliation commission for the industry, exposing their ecological crimes. While you guffaw and sip your overpriced Repsol wine, what ails you most goes unwritten: your Internet doppelganger is a cruise influencer named David, hence your having gone to great lengths to differentiate your brand by donning a hat. You resent him and his partner’s whimsically informative cruise videos that you secretly enjoy.

Meanwhile, you moved to Spain. You reside in Galicia, a region known for not having skipped its fiestas even when they were illegal under [guess which form of government?]. After publishing a work that would alienate the vast majority of anyone reading, a dislocated bass begins to thump in the distance. Layered on top of that are the echoes of a man whose mouth seems to have been permanently affixed to a loudspeaker. A lingering commotion and detuned melody rise.

For context, you are by yourself. You are solo because your wife is visiting family in Bulgaria. Accompanied by her grandmother, she’s about to watch her country win Eurovision. Meanwhile, you’ve put your e-reader through its paces with a modern philosophical work on pessimism… precariously balanced in one hand over a warm bubble bath. “Don’t stop me now,” you sing, celebrating your contribution to humanity, “I’m havin’ such a good time, I’m havin’ a ball…”

Then a real kind of magic begins: is that… is that an air horn?

From your faux-European charcuterie board, you swipe a chunk of brie whilst precariously attempting to click a button, and you hear BWAAAAAAAAAH. That was weird. You continue reading something to the effect of life being suffering itself. You can’t even begin to nod your head in affirmation before hearing BWAAAAAAAAAH. Thirty seconds pass and BWAAAAAAAAAH. Maybe a minute and BWAAAAAAAAAH. Twenty seconds? BWAAAAAAAAAH. BWAAAAAAAAAH. BWAAAAAAAAAH. BWAAAAAAAAAH.

After nearly dropping your e-reader into the tub, you text your wife:

what in the fuck are the galicians doing

She doesn’t respond.

Upon consulting the Internet, you are appalled to discover that nobody had mentioned the presence of the Horn of Gondor — from the Lord of the Rings — in Santiago de Compostela. Flooding into your mind are the incessant lamentations of the post-blog travel bloggers: “There are no new experiences anymore,” they whine, “it’s all been documented by people like Ben and David.” But you know what’s really going on: they’re trying to hoard all of the experiences for themselves!

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Since you must go outside, first you dry your left forearm with the heated left forearm towel. (You have one for each segment of your body because you’re European now.) Second, you put on your wife’s socks because you forgot to wash yours. Naturally, she’ll understand because she’s unaware that you’ve done this. At least you didn’t use her towel. Third and finally, you pat your scalp with perfumed rubbing alcohol, as the pilgrims do.

Now you’re ready for a night on the town… after you put on clothes. Can you pretend to be European… Spanish… Galician, er, or whatever? Let’s find out.

You step outside of your apartment complex. Despite the cantankerousness raging from afar, the streets are oddly empty. Wait. Your eyes dart toward… there! A Galician! The thirty-something is swaying, finding difficulty with his footing while dragging a frayed garbage bag of cans against the pavement. He kneels over a bush, quietly announcing, “Voy a vomitar.”

“¿Puedo ayudarte?” you ask as he wipes his mouth. “Estoy bien, gracias,” he says and goes right back to… doing whatever he’s doing. You watch him drag the bag of cans beyond the recycling bins. Odd. He’s infected… from a cruise ship?! After all, you did hear that some dumbass defunded a public safety apparatus intended for preventing these sorts of things. Anything is possible in the pandemicene, but the editorial board at Bebop Libre would like to disclaim that the zombie infection motif is a fictional dramatization that is neither funny nor timely.¹

Signage for Festas da Ascensión.

While walking about a kilómetro from your apartment to the historic district, your resentment for the woke editorial board at Bebop Libre simmers. You remember the time they prevented you from publishing a whole post… the gluten post. You scowl. Then you’re met with masses of cigarette-puffing, bobbing drunkards. They imbibe, laugh, and shout. You pass by one man whose back hair had crept up his neck like the moss of a distinguished tree, who times his cough perfectly so that it vectors directly into your open mouth hole. You notice signage proclaiming the Ascensión… into what? Increasing your viral load?

There’s no going back now that you’re down with the sickness.

While you make peace with this emerging pandemic at the facade of the world-famous cathedral, a woman yells to a man in English, “Hey, I’m your guide! The party is over there.” She gestures toward Alameda Park. Her client, double-fisting plastic cups of cerveza, staggers and yells back that he’s too busy having a blast. BWAAAAAAAAAH.

There’s a makeshift thunderdome concert nearby, steps and rafters filled to the brim with clapping Galicians and tourists. You’ve never seen such a concentration of people in Santiago. You nearly cross paths with someone wearing what appears to be a giant bobblehead (the likes of which someone else documented in the above video). There are cultural questions you’d like addressed, but you postpone them for later by making your way to Alameda Park.

Lots of libre going on here. Hey now, don’t drone strike the photographer.

You head for the illuminated Ferris wheel within view, at the topmost hill of the park. But your effort to evade crowds has failed. Indeed, that guide was right: there’s an ongoing party here. The main connection between the park and historic district is crawling with revelers; tourists and Galicians alike.

Look at Galicia having its own Eurovision in Santiago.

You pop an anxiety-busting gummy you found at El Corte Inglés, infamous farmacéutico procurer, and begin to vibe with the crowd as the sun goes down. Out of frame: a blushing granny with hair of pure blanco starts to dance a few meters ahead, stealing glances your way while erotically shimmying her replaced hips. Suddenly, she’s closer than she was before. You nope out of this particular situation with the same determination as you did noping out of America.

This special zone designated by the city doesn’t permit the promiscuity of older women.

Awkwardly smiling, you meander to a hidey spot behind a large tree, watching the light show feed the leaves. BWAAAAAAAAAH. In your bones you feel an accordion solo with more exhilaration than you thought possible. Muchas gracias, El Corte Inglés.

In Spain, people dance in public because they are ALIVE.

You hang out for a while and loop around the stage to take a wide photo, as if you are a travel blogger. Hold on, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be documenting the fall of western civilization on Substack, remember?

Photo credit: a true Mario Kart expert.

Slipping by darty-eyed vendors wrapped top-to-bottom with glow sticks for sale, you behold a Super Mario attraction. If only you had come across this when you were nine, and not as a lone adult male in your mid-thirties. You consider requesting a viewing of whatever is inside with your broken Spanish, but the editorial board informs you by the covert speaker in your ear to, quote: “Abort.”

Well, at least you can take pride in having played more Super Mario than any of the little pissants who are allowed to go in there.

BWAAAAAAAAAH. The Horn of Gondor eludes you, although it seems to be somewhere around the Ferris wheel. Or is it the hydraulic system pumping air from the spinning ride next to it? You’re overwhelmed by people and noise, but feel surprisingly relaxed. Oh, right… the gummy. It’s no wonder you must exert such tremendous willpower ignoring the sweet and savory scents of the Galician staples wafting from a nearby tented area — filled with ravenous patrons — to ingest this scene. You suddenly realize that you’re right next to the Church of Santa Susana, a landmark you’ve wandered beside dozens of times.

You feel as if you didn’t come to the fiesta; the fiesta came to you.

ASCENSIÓN

This is a local holiday celebrating the ascension of Christ into heaven on the sixth Thursday following Easter in Santiago de Compostela. (Everyone is invited, paganos like me included.) Its boisterous festivities span numerous “feast days,” even preceding the main day. I can confirm that the BWAAAAAAAAAH can be heard at least a kilometer away for a few consecutive nights. This post is a dramatized composite retelling of a couple of these nights; unfortunately the granny encounter required no artistic license whatsoever.

And now, in defiance of the Bebop Libre editorial board’s wishes, an ode to the coming zombie apocalypse that will probably be caused by a UK-based cruise influencer…

1. As Jessica explains in What They Don’t Want You to Know About Ebola:

Is it strange that hantavirus and Ebola are both making headlines at the same time? No, it’s not strange. It’s the consequences that climate scientists have predicted for years now. As Ed Yong wrote in an underrated Atlantic article years ago, we’ve entered the pandemicene, an era where zoonotic viruses increasingly pose threats to us. Hundreds of these viruses are waiting to spill over into humans as we overheat the planet and destroy what’s left of wild habitats.