Fallas in love with Valencia How one student connected with a city set on fire

By Amanda Blakee

Valencia looked different on fire. It felt different, too, somehow more personal despite the thousands of people roaming its streets. The chaos was palpable, drifting through the air on clouds of smoke and soundwaves launched by kids with too many firecrackers. I’d thought I knew the city. I’d toured it with professors, read its history online, shopped there, ate there, wandered from landmark to landmark in search of the perfect Instagram photo. But it wasn’t until that moment, as I was standing in the epicenter of La Cremà, the finale to the city’s most famous and fiery festival, that I realized Valencia was alive. And I was in love.

Each year, from March 1 to 19, the coastal city of Valencia is transformed as its people and thousands of tourists celebrate a 300-year-old traditional holiday known as Las Fallas. Some believe Las Fallas originated when Valencian carpenters would welcome the spring equinox by burning pieces of wood that had held their oil lamps during long winter nights. Others claim the carpenters burnt wood they didn’t need before St. Joseph’s Day (March 19).

Either way, I doubt any of those ancient woodworkers foresaw what their festivities would become. Now, Valencians construct and display ninots , gargantuan statues made of papier-mâché, cardboard, wood, and plaster, throughout the city. The ninots are often taller than the buildings around them and display bawdy, satirical scenes inspired by pop culture and politics. My favorite depicted a Poseidon-like figure and other mythical warriors and animals.

On the last night of the festival, each statue, except the winning ninot indultat , is set on fire. Kids and adults sprint from flame to flame, throwing and stomping on firecrackers. The noise, the smell . . . it’s overpowering. Dangerous. Awe-inspiring.

My sister, who had come to visit me in Spain during the holiday, and I walked among the burning statues. Earlier in the week, we’d experienced La Mascletà, a firecracker show in the city’s central plaza that reaches 120 decibals—we had to keep our mouths closed to avoid damaging our ears—and Nit del Foc, a fireworks show unlike anything I’d ever seen.

But La Cremà was something else entirely. My sister described it as “other-worldly,” but that adjective didn’t sit quite right with me. While I was staring at the flames, ears ringing, I felt strangely at home in Spain for the first time. The commotion . . . it was human. And I loved it. I plan to go back one day, but maybe next time I’ll bring some ear plugs.