Standing in the street in front of La Santa, Annette and I negotiate in Spanish with the viejas whose view we taller American girls would block and who had begun to complain to each other. We're ready now. The Gigantes are coming towards us, ponderously dipping and swaying, leaning to children on the curbs. Citizens lean out their windows and over shallow balconies ringing the plaza. Festival lights are strung across the streets in the town, the bands are playing, the crowd is thick in the crisp air. The banners come one by one, then the banda de jovenes, playing as badly as ever. La Santa is approaching, stopping and starting, the noise of the little bell drowned in the din. She never looks at us as she sweeps royally past. Next, the blue uniformed band, honor guard for la Virgen, who seems nearer to us than to Heaven and passes closer so that we can almost look into her eyes.

Finally, la Guardia Civil, followed by machine-gun toting rear guard and the crowd massing in. Many will follow to el Convento to hear the mass again, welcoming la Santa home and honoring the visit of la Virgen, who will process in her turn home to la catedral before the day is done.

Most of the people linger a little while, and then the streets abruptly empty out. We ask a shopkeeper later in the day where everyone has gone. Most are local, and have all gone home to a family meal. We stop in the nearest bar for café con leche, followed by una copa de vino tinto, then another. (The barrel wine served in bars is local and has no preservatives. It's easy to drink, and easy on the head. The Spanish drink a social copa which is smaller than the restaurant glass in los Estados Unidos, and we rarely saw drunkards, in bars or anywhere else.)

a small caño de vino and bread is served with meals