Turning 21 different in Spain

Valencia, Spain – This weekend I turned 21. For Americans, it’s one of the most celebrated birthdays of our lives. In Europe — where the legal drinking age seems more like a formality than a law — the big 2-1 is about as big as 20 or 22, or any other age after 18.

That is not to say I didn’t celebrate. My Valencian family gave me a Spanish style flouncy, white shirt I can’t wait to wear once it’s a little warmer. They sang “Feliz Cumpleaños” and Angél, my 6-year-old host brother, helped me blow out the candles.

Though by the time it stuck midnight I was already in a bar, drink in hand. There was no countdown, no ID checking, no “I’m finally free!” moment. But there was a botellón — or an “urban tailgate party” as my Advanced Conversation professor likes to call it.

These “parties” happen most Thursdays in Valencia, but I’d like to remember this one as the biggest, loudest birthday party I’ve ever had. To call them a tailgate party is somewhat misleading because when I think of tailgating, I’m reminded of football Saturdays and the MSU college scene I miss. I didn’t really know what to expect but the subwoofers blaring from the countless cars hinted to me it would be big.

And big it was. This form of BYOB, pre-díscoteca nightlife consists of several hundred students mingling outside, listening to music and avoiding the steep prices of the alcohol found in bars — all while the police turn a blind eye.

Once the clubs do open their doors and the air gets too chilly to rationalize partying outside, the place becomes a ghost town. The streets are as silent as city streets can be and neatly gathered trash sits in seemingly strategically placed piles only to be swept up by the city in the morning.

But my birthday celebration didn’t end there. This weekend marked Carnaval, a crazy countrywide festival filled with parades, music and costumes galore. Some friends and I heard a small wine village an hour outside of Valencia had a festival worth seeing, so we packed our bags and headed to Requena.

The village description was correct and the tiny town did host quite a parade at 7 p.m. But after we walked to the end of it, we turned around and only the leftover confetti signaled any sign of a fiesta.

By 9 p.m. the town was more of a ghost town than Valencia post-botellón and we almost forgot we were in Spain. Although because we are in Spain, we managed to find some bars filled with ballerinas, NBA stars and vampires.

So even though I’ll never have the novelty of my first legal drink, I still had a memorable 21st birthday, Spanish style.