Bom São João!

Today is St. John’s Day here in Portugal. But the celebration started last night, in fact peaked last night, and also lasted all night.

In early Christian tradition, the Church took over a pagan solstice celebration wherein the sun and the harvest were honored, deciding to keep the party but name it after one of their own. So it still has a definite … organic … aura about it.

About 4:00, grills started to be lit, speakers were turned outside of windows, and folks started to chat and dance and sing and walk. And hit each other over the head with plastic squeaky hammers.

(Originally, people used wilted leeks for the greeting, but rumor has it a plastic factory owner decided in the 60s that his product was better. You know, reusable, cheap … made by him. There are still some folks who carry long stalks of big garlic flowers and will hit you on the head with those instead.)

It was quite the party! Definitely the biggest celebration we have participated in! Like, BIG!

On our way to the river front, where the biggest crowds and street food and fireworks are, we got pulled into a dance party in the middle of a 3-lane street, the focus of which was a middle-aged, beer-bellied, t-shirted and bare-footed man, on his balcony up 3 stories, dancing alone facing all of us, disco fingers alive. When cars came to pass, people momentarily danced to the side, hit the driver on the head through the open window, then oozed back onto the pavement.

We squeezed our way through the throngs, beating and being beaten in equal measure. We waited in line in front of huge wood-fired ovens for the most delicious salami and cheese filled bread rolls, the time going quickly by hitting people’s heads as they passed.

Gelato and beer and dancing. Hammering strangers (grandmas with canes as well as stroller-bound toddlers). Lanterns soaring up to the top of the Eiffel-designed bridge. Boats and singing and Portuguese words shouting all around. The. Biggest. Party.

At 10:15, we asked the French girls sitting next to us, with all our legs dangling over the sea wall, when the fireworks would begin. “Midnight.” Were they sure? Yes, they showed us the sentence on the website. “That word means ‘midnight’.”

So we danced home, you guessed it, hitting people on the heads on our way, to our street’s party. Our little alleyway was full of our neighbors, fanning their coals, grilling their sardines and peppers, singing every word to Portuguese songs we’ve never heard, dancing with passing strangers. One enthusiastic man took me in his arms and mambaed me up the cobbles, another held out his cutting board of grilled chorizo for us to try, a stout lady with hair matching Tessa’s enclosed her in several tight hugs in between do-si-doing her around by the elbow.

It was still early, 11:30, when we called it quits and went up to shut all our windows and shutters to hopefully get some sleep. The party raged till sun-up; we could hear the frivolity even through our well-insulated apartment and noise machine turned up unusually high. Really. Really. Big. Party.

We had no idea, when we arranged all our travel plans, that we would be staying in Porto for this most spectacular of Portuguese holidays. But as Tessa put it, “Well, this is definitely one to put in our memory books!” Yes it is, kiddo. Yes it is!