Let me start by addressing the elephant in the room: today is a rough day. I am currently operating at roughly twenty percent capacity, and even that feels like a wildly generous estimate. As I sit here, clutching my coffee like it’s a life preserver, I find myself pondering the great mysteries of the universe. Why do my legs ache? Why does my head feel like it’s stuffed with cotton wool? Could it possibly be the lingering physical toll of the strenuous yard work I tackled on Saturday?
Yes. Let’s go with that. It was definitely the gardening. It absolutely, positively had nothing to do with the copious amounts of "festive beverages" consumed on Sunday.
Welcome, fellow Hivers, to my recap of our epic local Carnival parade—a day of sunshine, spectacular floats, and strategic day-drinking.
This past Sunday promised to be a glorious day, though it certainly didn't start that way. The morning kicked off with a thick layer of fog that made the neighborhood look less like a festive wonderland and more like the set of a low-budget horror movie. But the weather gods were clearly in a partying mood, because the mist eventually burned off, gifting us with a ridiculously sunny and unseasonably warm 18°C (about 64°F). For this time of year, that is practically tropical.
Now, this year required a major shift in our standard Carnival operational strategy. Normally, we have a foolproof tradition: we park ourselves at a friend's house situated perfectly along the parade route. We get the VIP view without any of the hassle. However, these friends recently had the audacity to move to a new house. I know, right? How incredibly selfish of them to prioritize their life goals over our parade-watching convenience.
Forced to adapt, we enacted Plan B. We coordinated with another set of friends who live fairly close to the route to kick off the festivities with a pre-parade BBQ. Yes, you read that right—a BBQ. It was the earliest in the season I think we’ve ever fired up the grill, but with 18-degree weather, you simply don’t ask questions; you just buy the sausages.
Since their house is about 3 kilometers away from ours, my partner and I made the highly tactical decision to travel by foot. This wasn't for our cardiovascular health, mind you. This was a purely logistical maneuver to ensure that neither of us was burdened with the tragic title of "Designated Driver." We arrived at their place around 12:30 PM, hungry, thirsty, and ready to embrace the carnival spirit.
After we had thoroughly stuffed ourselves with grilled meat, it was time to hit the streets. This brings me to the greatest betrayal of the day.
If you know anything about Carnival traditions in this part of the world, you know about the sacred rule of "11." Everything revolves around the fool's number. Therefore, a proper parade doesn't start at 2:00 PM or 2:15 PM. It starts at exactly 14:11. It is a universal law, etched in stone.
So, being respectful of tradition, we timed our arrival at the route for right around 14:11. Imagine our shock and absolute indignation when we discovered that the parade had already started! By the time we secured a spot, the first fifteen groups had already danced their way past us. Fifteen! I still don't know who was in charge of the stopwatch this year, but I suspect they don't understand the gravity of the fool's number.
But Carnival enthusiasts are nothing if not adaptable. Since we were standing on a street that the parade route eventually loops back onto near its finish line, we simply enacted Plan C. We decided to watch the rest of the parade go by, soak up the sunshine, and then casually stroll 500 meters down the road to catch the glorious, triumphant arrival of the floats—including the fifteen we missed—at the end of the line.
And let me tell you, the floats this year were absolutely phenomenal. We are talking about a massive, 3-kilometer-long procession featuring over 80 different groups, with an estimated 35,000 spectators lining the streets to take it all in. The craftsmanship was next level.
One of the highlights was a towering, wildly colorful float completely covered in massive caricature heads. It featured giant, slightly deranged-looking characters—a guy with a sailor hat, another with a fire helmet and his tongue hanging out, and incredible mechanical details spinning all over the place. The sheer scale of it, towering over the crowd and the surrounding houses, was breathtaking.
But my absolute favorite—the undisputed champion of the day in my book—was a jaw-dropping steampunk train. It was a massive, teal and copper behemoth rolling down the street. It had incredible detailing, complete with a giant clock face on the front, massive spoked wheels, and the number "2001" proudly displayed on the side. The people walking alongside it were decked out in full steampunk gear. It was a masterpiece of paper-mache, paint, and welding.
By the time we had watched the entire parade (and then watched it again to catch our missed groups), it was around 6:30 PM. Now, in the real world, 6:30 PM on a Sunday means winding down, maybe prepping for the workweek, and having a quiet evening. In Carnival time, 6:30 PM is practically mid-afternoon. Going home wasn't just highly unlikely; it was out of the question.
Naturally, our next destination was the giant party tent. We stayed there until about 10:00 PM, surrounded by pulsing music, flowing beer, and a sea of costumes. The best part about these local events is the inevitable reunions. We bumped into so many old friends and acquaintances we hadn't seen in ages. That’s the true magic of Carnival: everyone is in an undeniably good mood, the community comes together, and for one weekend, nobody takes themselves seriously.
So here I am on Monday. The music has stopped, the giant steampunk train is parked in a shed somewhere, and I am paying the ultimate price for my joy. It’s a heavy toll, but looking back at the photos and the memories of the day, I can confidently say it was worth every single ache.
But seriously, it was definitely the yard work that did this to me.
Cheers,
Peter