Last night I went to correfoc.

In Catalan corre means run and foc means fire. Together, in English, they mean fire-run. It was part of the closing day of the festivals of Mercè, a celebration of the patron saint of the city that is said to be the wildest weekend of the year. There is no way correfoc would be legal in the United States. There is no way it should be legal here.

I wore shorts and carried a camera because I did not appreciate how crazy Catalans are: I was spectacularly underdressed and underprepared. Everybody else showed up wearing hats, scarves, hooded sweatshirts, long pants, and ski goggles or sunglasses. Floats decorated like dragons and people dressed like demons went up and down the street shooting off fireworks and giant sparklers. There was loud music. People screamed. There was a lot of fire and at least as much running. It was a bizarre and exhilarating experience.

The sparks burnt my bare legs and a couple times strangers brushed smoldering embers out of my bird’s nest head of hair. When it was all over I realized how many holes had been burnt through my shirt. I also realized I now had a way cooler shirt.