Last summer the World Cup was following us around Europe. Being avid sports enthusiasts, we were only first aware of the World Cup games as we were nearing our departure from Portugal. We were in Mértola at the Clube Nautico the night that Spain and Portugal were facing off–the winner heading for the quarter-finals. There was a long table set up in the center of the small family owned club that was obviously specially prepared for the game. The restaurant was still lively when we arrived, although the game was over and Portugal had lost. But for the Portuguese, the fact that Spain was still in the running was a good second best, since Spain has been part of the Iberian psyche for many centuries. The party went on, even in defeat.
The game played for the quarter-finals between Paraguay and Spain occurred while we were in Seville. That evening, after sampling a number of tapas bars in the old section of Seville, we returned to the first one we had eaten at near Alfalfa square–it was already our favorite. As we sipped our wine and the delicacies began to flow, cheers erupted from the bar where the waiters were following the game.
By the time we reached Barcelona, the World Cup was into the semi-finals and spirits were running high. Before our dinner, we saw crowds of people gathered round the big-screen TVs at the bars along the streets–drinking beer and almost frozen in anticipation of the outcome. Spain hadn’t been in the finals for many years and they were so very very close that they could almost taste it. The fervor was palpable if temporarily held in check. At about 22:00, while chasing our dinner wine with an espresso, all hell broke loose.
Spaniards on the upper balconies overlooking the streets were pouring water down onto passers-by and a very inebriated crowd was gathering in the old Medieval sector that began chanting their victory “whoop.” We hung back at first, wondering how frenzied it would become–not wanting to be killed in a post-game riot. But of course, this was not South Africa, it was Barcelona, and there was no rival in sight. The Spaniards just wanted to party hard in celebration.
We forged our way down into the melee and chanted with the best of them. It was mob hysteria, but not quite bordering on out-of-control. The police were clearly worried–while they were smiling and enjoying themselves on one hand, they were keeping a sharp eye out for trouble on the other. I think the chanting continued for at least 45 minutes. We grew tired of it after about 25 minutes and wandered up the street toward our hotel. But we could hear the celebrations from our room until late into the night.
Oddly enough, we were scheduled to fly into Amsterdam on July 11th, the day of the finals between the Netherlands and Spain. Spirits were rolling even higher in Amsterdam ahead of the game. It looked to have been a long party day by the debris we encountered along the streets on the way to our flat.
As we walked through the city a little later, an elderly man became rather angry at us for taking photos of all the party residue. He assured us that Amsterdam was a beautiful city and didn't want us to be documenting the mess. We told him that we understood this was the kind of liter one would find anywhere in the world following a World Cup final and that we were only photographing it because we found it interesting in a social sense.
On the way to dinner, we saw most of the population of Amsterdam glued in silent angst to TVs everywhere along the streets.
When we returned to the flat we switched on the TV and watched the end of the game. As near as I can gauge–being in no way well informed on the subject–the Netherlands goalkeeper was amazing and nearly saved the eventual loss, but the Spaniards simply played much more offensively and the Netherlanders were playing it a little too safe–defending more than attacking–so it was only a matter of time. Consequently, we were there to feel the sting of the Netherlands’ defeat.
But on the upside (as a resident of Amsterdam pointed out), the Netherlands hadn’t played a game as high profile as this in 22 years–since they took the 1988 European Football Championship–so in spite of their disappointment, Amsterdam was still in party mode for the team homecoming. It was a great showing for the Netherlands–even if they were second to Spain. They could claim their place as the 2nd best team in the world for 2010, and that is no small accomplishment.
People gathered along the canals for the official parade over half a day before it was to happen–everyone wanting to score a good view of the boats that would be passing by. The city was again a flood of orange and spirits were off the charts; people hung out of windows, climbed lampposts, stripped naked and jumped into the canals as they killed time waiting for the show.
It was infective and the party atmosphere didn’t abate until the wee hours of the morning.
We couldn’t have planned our trip to coincide better with the football finals if we had tried, even though we had only a passing interest in them. And although we were actually in the losing country when they were defeated, we really felt it was probably better, since judging by the semi-final win in Spain, the final was probably quite out-of-control. The Netherlands were stalwart and gracious in their defeat despite their disappointment. But in any case, I didn’t want to take sides–I was rooting for them both to some extent. I had loved my time visiting both lands and the people were friendly and warm in both–from a human standpoint, both deserved to win.
