It’s another sunny and sweltering day here in the city and it is the usual weekend for the Portuguese holy goat festival in my neighborhood. It is, of course, actually called the Holy Ghost Festival, but last year, they typo’ed the sign that hangs over Springfield Street (doh!) by forgetting the S, so it read Ghot, which to me is pronounced the same as goat, so forever and ever (ahem), I will call it the Holy Goat festival.
What is the Holy Goat Festival? Well, there is the traditional ‘opening ceremony’ where the local Portuguese marching band walks up and down my street a few times on a Friday night. All day Saturday, they close down the street and it is your basic block party with the Portuguese-American society selling some yummy smelling grilled stuff and sweets (which, despite having lived here a while now, I have never tried), a beer-prison (seriously uptight as usual about the alcohol; sad really) and a big tent with a huge array of music playing throughout the day. Tomorrow, Sunday morning, there is a parade (again, really just up and down my street) and they crown the Goat Queen. She probably has a better title than that, but usually it’s some gangly-looking teenager that got roped into participating by her parents out of tradition. She usually has braces and gets to wear an overly-poofy prom dress.
I made fun of all this, of course, but the funny thing is that it is ‘old country’ enough that it reminds me of the little stadtfeste in Germany so whatever. It’s part of July my Julys now.