As I'm sure you remember, Spain won the World Cup on July 11. That was also about the time my computer decided to kick the bucket, and thus when I took a blogging holiday. But it was an incredible time to be in Madrid. My nursery school students arrived at school every morning decked out in miniature red and yellow jerseys, and singing Shakira's "Waka Waka" World Cup theme song was a major part of each day's activities. Since the end of Franco's rule in Spain, overt patriotism has been associated with having fascist sympathies, which means it's not common to see flags or national symbols besides on government buildings.
From a broader perspective, it seems that much of the current dialogue about what it means to be Spanish centers on regional differences. The province of Catalunya has dedicated itself recently to demonstrating that it is cutting-edge, free-thinking, and not necessarily very Spanish; it has its own identity, thank you very much, complete with a widely-used regional language and a recent ban on bullfighting. Then there's the Basque country, which has its own regional language and its own nationalist groups (most infamously the terrorist group ETA). The regions of Galicia and Valencia are promoting their respective regional languages too... and so on and so on.
As a result, seeing all of Spain come together for anything-- even something as seemingly trivial as football--was pretty special. The news was full of clips showing huge, outdoor screens mounted in cities across Spain: Cadiz, Valladolid, Badajoz, Leon. The streets of Madrid were teeming with red-and-yellow wearing, vuvuzela-toting fans at all hours of the day and night. And when the ugly, karate chop-filled game with Holland had come to its end, the country erupted. I live in the middle of downtown Madrid, and it is no exaggeration to say I got very little sleep for two nights on account of the screaming, honking, singing, buzzing din.
I watched the game itself at home with friends, some of whom later headed out with me to partake in the mayhem. The streets were shoulder-to-shoulder with exultant fans, many of them chanting the rhyming cheers so popular in Spain: "Con Villa, Iniesta,/¡esto es una fiesta!" (With Villa and Iniesta--two of the most important scorers for Spain during the World Cup-- this is a party!) Upon emerging from the cobweb of narrow streets near my house (where we witnessed a taxi driver crossing himself very earnestly before heading into the crowds), we found ourselves in the middle of an impromptu dance party in what is normally a busy roundabout. A group of forward-thinking fans had thoughtfully brought their car, equipped with giant speakers and subwoofers in the trunk, and set up an eardrum-pounding discoteca in the intersection. Gradually the crowd surged down the street and deposited us in Plaza del Sol, the ground zero of Madrid's downtown. And it was a sight. Ecstatic fans of all ages, many draped in Spanish flags, were singing, chanting, splashing in the fountains, even scaling the tall statue Carlos III astride a horse that graces the middle of the plaza. The metro itself was shut down all over the center of the city, as were many major streets, leaving spectators little choice but to wander home slowly on foot, continuing to party. I may have failed to emphasize that this was all occurring on a Sunday night starting at 10:30 pm, making it an impressive example of the stamina of true fans. But then again, as many of my coworkers pointed out, celebrating a World Cup victory is a once-in-a-lifetime proposition--it would be foolish to miss out for the sake of one night's sleep. The next day, I walked past my neighborhood newsstand and glanced at the front page of a prominent sports newspaper. Over a photo of the team hoisting the trophy was a simple headline: "God is Spanish!!!" ¡Viva la Roja!