Tralee: between Roses and community
My sister and I have been standing under the Irish drizzle for over two hours, patiently waiting with a few other thousand people for the “Féile Thrá Lí’s Love for Roses” parade to finally start. “I can’t believe they charged us sixteen euros for two soggy Nutella crepes”, I say to my sister, feeling the loose change in my pocket. I start looking around us, the crowd growing more and more impatient. Opposite us, behind the makeshift trench used to define the parade’s sides, there is a group of overjoyed Americans from New Jersey, shouting something over the local journalist who just wanted a quick photo of them proudly holding out their banner. To their left, a group of teenagers is holding face cutouts of a very blond lady, probably around their age. On the stage, an Ed Sheeran impersonator is singing rather depressing lyrics very loudly and out of tune. It all seems so chaotic and random; I wouldn’t be surprised if the crowd started throwing glitter bombs at each other and snatched the stilts off the performers walking along the parade.
Welcome to the “Rose of Tralee International Festival”, a celebration held every August in the small town of Tralee in County Kerry. To say that we were confused seeing so many pictures of young girls plastered all over the town’s windows would be an understatement. It gave us a spooky vibe, almost as if it had something to do with kidnapped girls. However, there were just so many photos, that we soon realised that it could not possibly be the case (or so we hoped). Each photo represents a Rose, meaning any girl of Irish descent who applies to take part in the festival. The festival prides itself on not being a beauty contest, meaning that girls aren’t elected because of their looks, but because they are deemed the best ambassadors for Irish heritage in the world. Armed with this knowledge, my sister and I made our way from the hotel to the main road just after dinner, unsure of what to expect from this apparently very famous festival we had only just heard of. I can only tell for certain that what we experienced was definitely nothing close to what we had in mind.
It’s now been over two and a half hours. The photographers are half-slouching against the overpriced crepes van, polishing their camera lenses over and over again. The impersonator has now switched to singing popular Irish songs, so we have even less of a clue about what he is actually saying. The Americans look deflated and have now taken out a power bank to ensure that their conversation with relatives back home keeps going. I am freezing and regret being bold about the weather with my very Italian parents, who always laugh when I don’t take a jacket and then inevitably get cold. I take out a small cloth to dry my glasses and curse myself for not wearing contacts. “When is it starting? Can you check Instagram, please? My phone’s dead” asks my sister. As soon as I take out my phone, a loud whistle pierces the sleepy blanket that has been hanging over the parade for half an hour. A child bursts out crying, understandably. The photographers straighten up and get ready. The parade is starting.
The parade starts with four marching bands, dancing to popular tunes such as “Macarena” and “Bomba”. I am not sure what I expected to hear, but I guess it’s all so random they might as well blast “Bella Ciao” at this point. After a short break between the bands and the stars of the show -- the Roses -- the audience perks up and starts getting back in the mood. The Americans try to start their own chants but aren’t able to keep the crowd going, so after five minutes, they just lower their little flags, cross their arms, and wait. When last year’s Rose makes her appearance on a golden chariot, the crowd goes wild, clapping and screaming as if they have just seen a leprechaun throwing gold up in the air from its hat.
And then they come: this year’s Roses.
The first chariot is all wrapped in neon pink fairy lights and is introduced by younger girls dressed as white unicorns. Behind them is a random group of people who I assume are dancers, vibing to the “YMCA”. A minute later, a huge pink mushroom towed by a white Range Rover lurches forward slowly, escorted as usual by the Rose Escorts - a group of young men who pose for photoshoots with the Roses and need to work hard, as the “most hard-working” Escort will be invited back the following year. I don’t even want to think too much about what that means. The parade doesn’t give me much time to gather my thoughts sensibly: Thomas the Tank Engine enters the scene, his big moony face bobbing up and down to Katy Perry’s “Hot N Cold”.
I look at my sister. She looks back at me.
After Thomas leaves the scene, I start hearing someone speaking Italian with a strong Sicilian accent: “Come San Nicola!” (“Just like St. Nicholas!”). I turn around and see a beaming man holding a phone, the camera pointed at the parade. “What do you mean?” I ask him in Italian, confused. He smiles at me and answers, “I am from Messina, and we have a parade just like this; the only difference is that we celebrate Saint Nicholas instead”.
I look at my sister. She looks back at me.
It’s probably time to go. There have been quite a few more chariots parading, some featuring rainbows and one with Elsa from Frozen singing an Irish song, but I am really cold, and the parade doesn’t seem to be ending anytime soon. The Roses have finished their appearances, so now we have random SUVs checking that everyone is still okay and not too traumatised by the flashing lights that have been glowing for over an hour now. Then the rain starts. Of course it does.
We make our way back to the hotel, trying to swim against the thick crowd that is walking toward us to gather around the big stage, now devoid of the fake Ed Sheeran’s red-dyed hair and sad voice. I can’t stop thinking about what that man said. I have been to countless parades like this in my own country, so why do I find this so unsettling and so different? Actually, even weirder things happen in Italy during these types of celebrations, but that’s a whole other story. I think it’s a feeling of nostalgia. It’s seeing everyone together: the teenagers with their grandparents, the sweet sellers stopping to look at the crazy chariots, and then turning back to give candies to the children. I find that the community spirit can be found in every part of the globe if you look carefully, but sometimes it just finds you at a major festival you had never heard of before. What I am feeling is a deep sense of happiness; I am grateful that in a time of such division and detachment, something so light yet profound is still taking place. I look back at the Sicilian man, who is now taking a selfie with the Americans, and I feel a tear coming.
