Semana santa at my grandparents' house in Valencia. A week of drinking tea with my mum, drinking wine with my grandma, eating ten times the amount I would in a normal week and watching strange nightmare-inducing documentaries about mushroom spores that sprout out of bugs' heads.
The main lingua franca in the village is vegetables.
We saw the townspeople carry a life-size model Christ on the cross past the window on Good Friday while we were watching Criminal Minds. The next morning a man called Javier stopped us on the street and showed us a gouge on his leg where he'd dropped Jesus and one of the thorns from the crown had stuck in his shin, which I'm sure is symbolic of something but I can't quite decide what.