He stared out of the slanted window on a Sunday morning. Down his driveway and onto the street he noticed the dew from the morning fog had sprinkled the pavement. The city was so quiet that he almost mistook his conscious perception as a morning dream. The kind of dream where you wake up and do the things you would normally do, but then you wake up again. He wasn’t dreaming, the city was in a coma after a busy four days. The grey fog was the aftermath of a week filled with an energy like vibrant tinges of red and yellow.
The ceremony always begins with the sunset on the first Wednesday in August. As the clouds turn pink, the Spirit of Fiesta twirls her dress back and forth with the admiration and love of an entire city focused upon her. The entire community becomes awakened with the spirit. The scene is hardly describable. Confetti eggs are sold on the streets like hot dogs on Hollywood Blvd. Walking on eggshells takes on a whole new meaning. Parks and Plazas are no longer fields of dead grass, they are transformed into a festival of sights, sounds and smells, with strategically placed stages, food stands and beer gardens. VIVA LA FIESTA is chanted through the dry summer air as eggs crack and tequila is shot back. The concoction of stimuli creates a confidence and credulity in the spirit that the community shares. Night time brings no end to the fever of fiesta. The debauchery is mutual among old and young.
He reminisced over the past four days that Sunday morning. He thought about why he always made his way back to his hometown for that first week in August. Its an inexplicable, enigmatic attraction that he has with Fiesta. It wasn’t just him, throngs of Locals who have since moved on to bigger cities and opportunities always seem to find their way back to Santa Barbara. He took a walk down from his Riviera home. As he walked along the sidewalk, back to the plaza which was now a ghostly version of what it was the previous day, he realized it was the nostalgia of Fiesta which keeps bringing him back. He thought about driving with his family in a crammed minivan to watch his little sister dance Flamenco. Walking with them and yelling and smashing eggs and eating tacos. The week always brings him back to a simpler time in his life when the only worry he had was getting to his sister’s performances on time. He strolled down the red bricks of the street under the red tile roofs. His nostalgia would deteriorate slowly over the year, like the confetti stuck in the cracks and crevices of the city. Only to be reignited again come the first week in August.