The Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián (sometimes nicknamed SanSe) as we know them today started out life
in 1970 with 30 people in attendance, and it was charming, quaint, picturesque.
Now? It’s an impending disaster.
The
day-time stuff is not so bad—there are lots of artisans selling their wares,
and some of it can be very fine. Puerto Rico has a nice tradition of carving santos de palo—here’s a nice example….
Then there’s
the silkscreen art, of which Puerto Rico has a long and proud tradition.
There’s music, too, at least in the eyes—or ears—of everybody but me.
So what’s
the problem?
Well, the
festival that started out so sweetly got highjacked by the beer companies, and
the whole affair, at night, becomes extremely crowded, loud, and chaotic.
Emphasis on
the chaotic: if you lifted your feet, you’d still be moving. It’s an annual
experiment of turning a colonial small town into an anthill.
And last year,
how many people crammed into Old San Juan, which is about seven streets by five
streets? Half a million. And how many left? 499,999—since one guy got killed
for the outrageous crime of bumping into someone. A fight ensued, and honor
dictated that the matter be settled thus.
Enter the
Mayor of San Juan, Carmen
Yulín Cruz, who announced
extreme security for this year’s event, at which 600,000 people are expected to
attend. And extreme it is—the event will require passing through a checkpoint,
presumably with metal detectors. Oh, and backpacks will be checked.
In fact,
what the mayor has done is to erect barricades everywhere—as I write, I
and every other sanjuanero
is in a cage. Nor are the barricades a flimsy affair—suggestions at crowd
control. Have a look:
Oh, and to
add more insult to the situation, stages have been erected in all parts of the
city, so that everyone can be blasted equally.
“Leave
town,” said my brother Eric, “that’s what we did for Mardi Gras…”
We did last
year, and had planned to do so this year. Then two things happened: Raf’s
adored cat requires a special diet, and also requires Raf to be there
encouraging him to eat. I know—it’s crazy: we’re animal people.
And now Raf
is in bed, suffering from a humongous cold. Or maybe it’s the flu—who knows?
And in the meantime?
The
refrigerator decided to die….
The festival
will last four days, unless of course what I greatly fear happens.
I think we’re
gonna have a stampede.
