World Cup Fever. The phenomenon is impossible to understand for those who have never left the New World for a glimpse of our cultural forebearers - a bizarre fixation on the Round of 16, a platonic orgy of nationalism over the clashes that play out on screens in homes, in bars, out in the public squares, projected on walls; the screens that are surrounded by fans and passers-by and families and tourists and locals and children and grandparents, by everyone and anyone who can pry themselves free from real life long enough to join the ruckus...the bartenders serve only during half-time, their eyes glued to the screens up in the corner; the restaurants and food joints put off kitchen work for fear of missing The Goal; and customers wait without complaint, for they are just as entranced by the athleticism and spectacle of this miniature bloodless war...
...and we join the fever in Astorga where, in the minutes leading up to the starting whistle, as cheering erupts in a far-off stadium somewhere in South Africa, as the teams line up to perform the pre-game rituals and sing anthems and shake hands and take last-minute orders from the coaches who shout urgently at the sidelines, their intense eyes and open mouths and smart suits captured in fleeting television images...where, in these minutes, the last minutes before the Final Game of the 2010 World Cup is set to begin, anyone and everyone grabs a seat outside by one of the local bars. True to form, the establishment owners have wheeled out the largest screen in reach for the viewing pleasure of their patrons. An atmosphere of excitement, equal parts anticipation and apprehension, reigns throughout the Continent and beyond - but most of all in Spain and Holland; and we have the good fortune to be in the former. The crowd is quiet, eerily so; no one dares to speak too loudly, for fear that they might jinx the outcome or arouse the ire of the other spectators for ruining the experience.
But this lull does not persist; the players explode in a spectacular show, making lightning passes and complex weaving plays across the field, stealing balls with slide kicks - and occasionally getting carded for it, thus whipping the crowd up into cheers of approval or streams of invective depending on the perceived justness of the referee's decision. The game wears on, one goalless half is followed by another...and now there is noise, youth chanting "Yo soy Español" or similar refrains while the guy in the Casillas jersey wails on an enormous drum and the cars in the nearby square use their horns with reckless abandon. Now it is overtime, and it is getting late. On any other night we would be fast asleep by now, recovering as much as possible for next morning's ride, but that is not an option. Even the albergue keeper is at the game, and the streets whip up in a furious crescendo of shouting and honking and chanting...
...and then, after what seems like an eternity, just before the second half of overtime draws to an unsatisfying close and despite the visible frustration and exhaustion building on the players' battle-worn faces, Spain carves the ball through the air to land precisely in the goal, out of reach of the hapless Holland goalkeeper. The crowd cheers wildly, but is cautious to reserve judgment; after all, Holland could still sneak around to tie it again. But they do not; the three remaining minutes pass quickly. Victory for Spain! Now the noise outside reaches fantastic proportions. Every second house has set aside a stash of noisemaker fireworks for this moment, a dazzling arsenal that is deployed into the skies above Astorga while the crowd underneath yells with exquisite joy. We head back to the albergue, attempting with mixed success to sleep amidst the revelry, this climax moment of World Cup Fever...for our journey continues tomorrow, and every hour spent sleepless will only add to our own exhaustion tomorrow. It is a reminder that this is a very unusual sort of trip to take; we bike long hours each day, and must often refrain from drinking in the midday sun for fear that dehydration will rear its ugly head...we scarcely have the opportunity to go out, trading this pleasure for that of unparalleled views and the warmth of small-town hospitality. And tomorrow is not merely another day; it will bring another ascent into the mountains, another set of such views that must be earned...