A baby boomer at SanSe: A memoir of music, mayhem & missing chairs

Despite the sweat, the crowds, the chair drought, and the threat of my Fitbit calling emergency services. I had a blast. Chairless, exhausted, overheated and genuinely delighted. (Courtesy photo)

By EVA LAUREANO

Let me start by saying this: I have survived discotheques, polyester, and the invention of microwavable dinners, so I’m no lightweight. But the San Sebastián Street Festival? At my age, that’s not an outing -- that’s an expedition.

I went during the daytime. The second my shoe hit Calle San Sebastián, music filled the air. Everywhere I turned there was a beat: plena, salsa, bomba, reggaetón -- which, with some exceptions, still sounds like two frustrated robots arguing over Wi-Fi -- and the famous cabezudos advocating for culture, with a tribute to renowned actor Jacobo Morales.

And I loved it. All of it. My hips haven’t moved that enthusiastically since Bill Clinton was in office, and even then they required a couple of Advils.

But here’s the thing … I’m a Baby Boomer. I love fun. I love music. But what I love most is a good, sturdy chair. And chairs at SanSe? Rarer than a quiet toddler in a candy store. I walked more in one afternoon than I did during the entire year of 1979, which, for the record, was the year I did the most jogging. Every time I thought I’d spotted an empty seat, it turned out to be: a flowerpot or a man named Tito who squats like a professional Olympic lifter.

Sure, you can sit in some of the plazas -- if you can find a free spot, and if your reflexes are fast enough to beat the 19 people circling like vultures.

At one point, I asked a guard if there were designated senior seating areas. He smiled gently, like he was about to tell me a bedtime story, and then pointed to a wall. An actual wall. Lovely.

But even I must admit: the atmosphere was electric. People danced like their knees were still under warranty. Even the abuelitas were out there swinging their hips with the confidence of women who know all the best home remedies.

The prices? Surprisingly tolerable. Parking was $25 in most places. I snagged three Medallas for $5. And while I would scale El Morro itself for an alcapurria or bacalaito, I refused to pay the highway-robbery prices some stands were asking. The artisans delivered, though, as always -- beautiful, cultural pieces everywhere you looked.

Would it be lovely if next year they added a few more places for us “seasoned festival-goers” to sit without having to negotiate directly with gravity? Absolutely. Maybe even a “Boomer VIP Lounge”: loud enough to feel alive, quiet enough to keep your fillings from rattling.

But despite the sweat, the crowds, the chair drought, and the threat of my Fitbit calling emergency services. I had a blast. Chairless, exhausted, overheated and genuinely delighted.