Page 46 of My Spanish Love Affair

“It’s beautiful. And it must have taken so much time and effort to make. Are they really going to burn it?”

He grins knowingly.

We’ve gone over this, of course, and I’ve heard plenty about it from my students. Still, I just can’t get my head around the fact that the entire city will be setting these beautiful creations alight.

“That’s the tradition. Tonight is the final night -la cremà- and everything gets set on fire. It’s symbolic. We’re letting go of the old to make way for the new.”

“Hmm,” I say, still unable to imagine it all in flames. “Have you always celebrated?”

“Always,” he says immediately, his expression softening with nostalgia. “When I was a kid, my parents would take me to see the ninots during the day, and at night, we’d watch the fireworks together from our home. Of course, things were very different for us then.”

Santi hasn’t spoken much of his father, though I know he passed away a few years ago, much like mine had. I squeeze his hand and smile softly at the memory he’s shared before we continue to wander through the narrow streets, pausing to admire the different displays.

Every neighborhood seems to have its own parade or streetparty, complete with traditional costumes and live music. We’re heading towards the central square and pass a group of men dressed in white shirts and red sashes, their voices harmonising in a traditional folk song.

“There’s a lot going on,” I admit as we stop by a stand selling buñuelos.

Santi hands me one, the twinkle in his eyes playful. “In the best way, though, right?”

I take a bite; the warm, sweet dough melting in my mouth.

“Definitely.”

The crowd around us is thick, but Santi doesn’t seem fazed. If anything, he looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” I ask, gesturing to the packed streets. “All these people?”

He shakes his head, his tousled hair falling a little onto his forehead.

“Not today. Everyone’s here for the same reason - to celebrate. Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, “there are much more famous celebrities around right now. Nobody’s paying attention to us. We blend in.”

Us.

Silly as it seems, my heart skips a beat at the word.

He’s right, though - while I’ve come to learn that Santi is one of Spain’s most famous rugby players, nobody has approached us or even seemed to have given us a second glance.

For tonight, we get to embrace tradition and just be ourselves without worrying about anything - or anyone- else.

We make our way to the central plaza and watch over the course of the next few hours as the large displays are pulled inand set alight. It’s a marvel to see, and I can’t quite get my head around the fact that people put in so much time and effort to create these beautiful pieces of art only to then set them on fire and let them burn.

Santi finds a spot for us near the edge of the crowd, guiding me gently through the sea of people until we’re standing in the perfect place with an unobstructed view of the sky. The hum of anticipation builds around us as everyone waits for the midnight fireworks display to begin.

“This is theMascletà,” he explains as the first set of fireworks crackles into the air. His voice is low, barely audible over the sharp bursts of sound. “It’s not just about the visuals. It’s about the sound, the rhythm. You feel it in your chest.”

He’s right. As the explosions grow louder and more intense, the vibrations seem to ripple through the very ground beneath us, climbing up my legs and settling in my chest. It’s not just noise; it’s a symphony of light and sound, perfectly choreographed to create an immersive experience.

The crowd cheers, their excitement contagious, and I find myself grinning from ear to ear. People clap, whistle, and shout with joy as the fireworks paint the sky in vibrant streaks of red, green, and gold, and Santi joins in, more at ease then I think I’ve ever seen him. The smoke from the explosions drifts through the air, and even as I breathe it in, I feel soalive.

I’ve never seen anything like this back home. Back in Manchester, fireworks displays are subdued, orderly - but this feels wild and alive, like the city itself is celebrating.

Santi leans down from where he’s standing tall behind me, his lips brushing over the sensitive flesh of my ear.

“What do you think?”

My heart races from the combined closeness of him and the warmth of his breath tickling against my skin.

“I think I love it,” I admit.

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