In 2011, Neil and I met through an online dating website (in the days before apps on our phone were really a thing). Little did I know then, that I was meeting the man I would one day marry and get to join in with travel to some really obscure places. Our journey to the Maldives took a few days to even get there. We drove through an icy and snowy New Mexico on our way to Taos. But I was in for probably the most obscure place at the end of summer in 2019: Buñol, Spain. Neil says he had heard about the annual event years earlier while watching The Travel Channel. Somehow, he failed to mention this until almost 8 years into our relationship. Nestled into the middle of a 9 day trip through London, Gibraltar, and Spain, we were set to visit the small town of Buñol on the last Wednesday in August…and attend the tomato food-fight festival better known as La Tomatina.
Buñol is about a 30-minute drive West from Valencia, Spain. The current population is just under 10,000 residents, in an area of about 40 square miles. So why did we choose to visit Buñol? Since 1945, with a break for a few years during the 50’s, the annual festival begins with a tall, erected, greased pole. Atop the pole sits a cooked ham. Then, as you would logically suspect, eager people try to climb the pole to snag the ham and declare victory to start the tomato portion of the event. Why do people attempt to climb a greased pole? Great question. No one knows. If an hour passes and no one is successful in obtaining the ham, then a horn sounds and the food fight begins anyway. The tomato-laiden mess is set for one full hour, at which time, another horn sounds to signal the end of the event. Sounds interesting and straightforward enough, right? In recent years, the festival has grown so large that it has required ticketed admission. So we did some research, decided on our ticket package (there are options that include a bus ride to and from Valencia), bought tickets and were all ready to join in the fun with 40,000 strangers.
Driving through Spain was really quite nice. I found the other drivers to be aggressive yet polite. A contradiction of sorts, yes, but it really is the only way to describe them. Not much speeding; logical passing and yielding; reminders from road signs to turn your lights off after exiting a tunnel; only honking to alert of true potential traffic hazards. The day before the festival, we drove to Valencia from Seville, which took about 6 and a half hours (we only stopped once for gas and the restroom!). We arrived late afternoon to the wonderful Caro Hotel. The front desk staff were incredibly helpful, suggesting what time we leave in the morning, promising to have the car ready for us right at that time, guiding us to where we could procure cheap towels to clean up the tomato mess, and providing umbrellas since it was about to rain. We set out on foot from the hotel to explore the area and were promptly met by a rainstorm.
Braving the streets for a short while, we found the recommended store and acquired the cheap beach towels that would be necessary the following day. From there, we began to seek out a place to grab some coffee and stumbled into a bar that also served espresso and cafe bombon, Neil’s go-to order on this trip. As the rain slowed, the bar began to dry off a few tables outside, so we decided to grab a table. Another couple had the same idea and heard us speaking English, and it turns out, they were from Los Angeles and were headed to La Tomatina in the morning as well. The time flew by as we chatted and we went on to enjoy dinner with them as well. It was a great way to ease any apprehension I had for the events of the next day. Around 11pm, we left for our hotel, changed our departure time to be 7am the next day, and got to sleep as quick as we could.
I started the morning off early enough to get a quick shower before I got dressed. We had planned to wear older shorts and shoes with the intention of leaving them in Spain due to their tomato-stained appearance that would be a result of the festival. Neil had actually found some shorts with zippered pockets which would hold our passports, car keys, and phones in plastic bags during the food-fight. My sister has an awesome Etsy business and offered to make shirts for us; white, of course, to show off the intensity of the tomato stains. Armed with our cheap towels, some goggles suited for woodworking, and hot tea to-go prepared by the hotel and delivered to our room, we were on our way right at 7am. We also had a few snacks that would serve as breakfast and bottles of water for before and after the event.
Upon exiting the highway, there weren’t any signs for the festival. At one of the roundabouts (Europe loves roundabouts!) the main road into Buñol was closed and there were a few police officers directing you up a road to find parking. We were arriving early enough to get into a lot right near the roundabout, so we backed into a spot and hopped out with only a few essentials. The plan was to go check-in and get our wristbands and then head back to the car to drop off anything we didn’t want on us for the food-fight. We walked up the main road into the town, followed signs for the ticket check-ins and got in line for our wristbands. Our tickets got us entry into the festival, a t-shirt, and entry into the after party. It took us about an hour to go up and back and hit the restroom along the way, but it worked out really well. We made sure to secure anything we didn’t want to get wet while we were back at the car, and then headed back up into the town.
I now had the same giddy excitement that I was accustomed to leading up to one of my running races; a bit of apprehension of the unknown, excitement from the crowds of people that were getting denser by the minute, and the thought that what we were doing was actually pretty crazy. The upper part of the street was lined with sangria and paella vendors. I guess these Spaniards like to start their days off early with a drink and a hearty rice and meat dish. Neil grabbed a liter of sangria and we strolled along with the crowds towards the stretch of the street where the real party was going to be. At the main entrance to the corridor, there were police officers checking for wristbands. About 20 feet into the street, there was another set of officers checking that people didn’t have selfie sticks. Another 20 feet further along, yet another set of officers checked that there were no glass bottles being taken in. This staggered checking seemed to keep the crowds moving alon much faster than the slow all-at-once type of entrances we have at typical concerts or festivals in the U.S., but I digress.
The density of the people was increasing every few paces as we moved along the street. Residents were popping out of their windows, clearly ready for the craziness that was about to take place below. Many houses had lined their exteriors with tarps to keep the tomato residue from seeping inside. Tomato “drop zones” were indicated by signage hung across the street from above. Neil and I ended up between zones 4 and 5, which was in excellent view of the aforementioned greased pole. I think we got there a bit after 10am, so we had just under an hour to wait for the tomato fight to begin. We didn’t realize that in order to keep the tomato clean-up easier, there was going to be a wet t-shirt contest situation beforehand. Sometime around 10:30am, people with hoses began spraying the crowd down with cool water. The water felt great at first, since it was a rather warm morning. After about the 4th time though, it was just powerful cold water coming at us from all angles.
At 11am, the horn sounded since the ham was still on top of the pole. The crowd, now wet from the water, all looked around and wondered how this would all go. A few minutes later, the first dump truck began to make its way to our section of the street. This meant all the people in the street had to move. Imagine a street already full with people from building to building, then, those people having to press in so close that a giant truck can now fill the actual road portion of the street. Yeah, not a fun experience. Lots of toes were stepped on and bodies all smushed together.
The trucks had people sitting on top of the open bed and they began to throw tomatoes from their perches. The trucks also dumped a portion of their contents onto the street at each of the drop zones. Once the tomatoes were let out, all hell broke loose. The ‘rules’ of the festival state that participants are to crush the tomatoes in their hands before throwing. Haha, yes, I too laughed at the rules later, since no one followed them. The road is now full of water with tomatoes floating in it. So everyone is bending down, grabbing handfuls of grey, tomato filled slop to throw at each other. At first, the food-fight was fun. Then, as the slop got sloppier, rocks and other debris ended up in the mush. Tomato acid drips into the goggles. Your shoes are barely hanging onto your feet. I luckily got hit in the same ear twice within about 5 minutes. That was the final straw for me; I threw off my insufficient goggles and slammed them into the tomato river. Neil and I had been clinging to each other so as to not get separated in the moshing and fighting, so I grabbed his hand and started to follow one of the trucks up the road. We had to wait at each drop zone up the street, but were finally able to make our exit around 11:40am.
The residents of Buñol are very prepared for this event and offer their hoses and outdoor showers for cleaning off. There was tomato on every surface and in every opening of our bodies. We did our best to get the large pieces off ourselves at someone’s home right outside of the tomato-filled street. After all that we had already experienced, we decided that the after party wasn’t necessary. Walking back to the car the sun dried us off a bit, but thankfully we had those beach towels and a change of clothes in the car. We did our best to keep the rental car clean while changing quickly. I hopped back into the driver’s seat and off we went to Valencia. As we were exiting the roundabout, there was an alcohol traffic stop, so I got to have my first breathalyzer experience. Made extra challenging since the officer didn’t know English, he managed to get me to understand that I had to blow really hard to get it to work (insert inappropriate joke here).
Upon returning to The Caro Hotel, Neil and I did our best to clean up without leaving too much tomato on the hotel room itself. There was tomato in my hair, even after I had washed it twice and combed it after the shower. And the smell. How did I not yet mention the smell? These weren’t beautiful juicy ripe tomatoes; no. They were the small, nearly rotted firm tomatoes that left such an odor, that we were glad to be leaving the clothes behind. Neil did his best to wash out his camera harness and our now pink shirts, since he did want to take those home. Thankfully, we had a plastic bag that would keep the smell from permeating the rest of the things in our luggage.
So. Am I glad we did it? Yes; it was a crazy experience that not many people get to enjoy and we were generally unscarred. Would I do it again? No. Would I recommend it to others? Sure; as long as you are prepared and don’t think it’s going to be a casual food-fight that results in the can of diced tomatoes being spilled at your feet image that I had in my head. I think most people could see what it’s all about. But just once; since that smell is not worth living though again!
This entry was posted in Europe
