Yesterday was Sechseläuten. I'm still reeling, trying to convince myself that everything I saw actually happened. For the entire weekend leading up to the big day, there were marching bands, fife and drum bands, bagpipes, and drum lines marching around my neighborhood, getting themselves parade-ready. Makes sense, music ensembles need practice. What I found more puzzling was that there were often packs of people wearing period costume following them around; I wasn't sure if they were practicing wearing their costumes for the parade, or if they were just trying to get maximum wear out of these once-a-year outfits.
The big parade started yesterday afternoon at 3, and the twenty-six guilds of Zurich marched through the streets, accompanied by their standard bearers, marching bands, and guild-themed floats. The guilds were sort of the labor unions of yesteryear -- tanners, fishermen, blacksmiths, tailors, beermakers, merchants -- everyone had their own guild. The floats in the Sechseläuten parade reflect these old-time affiliations, so that the carpenters came by with a float made of large pieces of unfinished lumber with tools on display, and the blacksmiths had a group of hale young men hammering away in a mocked-up forge on wheels. The guilds no longer serve the same function that they once did, probably because there aren't blacksmiths and tanners anymore. Instead they are now social networking organizations for the Good Ol' Boys. If you want to be a member of the stablemasters' guild, you had better hope Grandpa is in it, because there is no other way you're getting in.
The guild members took the parade quite seriously, donning elaborate costumes that showed their allegiance. I have never seen so many men so excited to be wearing tights, velvet jackets, buckled shoes, feathered hats, and curly wigs. The spectators showed their appreciation by giving flowers to their favorite parading guild members. I heard that in the old days, when the guilds were for men only, they would bring the flowers home to their wives to show how much they loved them, but also to remind them of how popular they were with the ladies.
Each guild had a marching band of 50 to 75 people, and another 100 to 200 members, so that works out to over 5,000 costumes, and a very large but temporary rise in the demand for white tights. If you stop and think about it, there were perhaps 1,500 people in marching bands, all of which were quite good. If the same percentage of people were in marching bands in Manhattan, there would be almost 9,000 people running around on Fifth Avenue playing Sousa.
Some guilds went even further in showing their guild pride. One guild, which apparently was once made up of the men who harvested apples and made cider, was passing out apples. Other guilds threw flowers and candy to the crowds, and the winemakers gave out plastic cups of wine. The fishermen, on the other hand, had a basket full of whole fish that they were hurling at lookers-on. The group in the balcony behind us were carrying umbrellas to avoid the fish that were raining down on them, since the balcony was a prime target. After the fishermen had passed, the crowd continued tossing the fish around, sort of like beach balls at a rock concert, only messier.
Many of the guilds had dozens of horses, and it was quite a spectacle to see all the horsemen in full traditional costume, parading down the street. It almost made me forget to look out for the fish... And then there was that other guild. I have no idea what guild it was, but they were dressed like stereotypical desert sheiks -- long robe, spotted cloth tied over the head, rope belt. And, I kid you not, they were in brown-face. Each of them had taken paint and painted his face brown, which I hadn't realized was still socially acceptable. To complete their desert sheik chic, they had live camels and potted palms on wheels.
The parade kept going, with more over-the-top costumes and animals and projectiles, and the marching bands played such traditional Swiss numbers as, "When the Saints Go Marching In," "Living La Vida Loca," and "Blue Suede Shoes." By 6, however, everyone squeezed their way to Sechseläutenplatz, and the Böögg was set on fire. The firework-stuffed, gasoline-soaked cotton snowman was sitting on top of a huge wooden pyre, and it took 18 minutes for his head to explode, which is the defining moment in forecasting the summer. A couple informed me that 18 minutes is quite long, and the last nice summer they had, the Böögg only took 7 minutes to lose his head.
Later in the night, at around 11 p.m., the Böögg's funeral pyre was still burning, and the marching bands and guilds were still romping through the streets. Insane. Good times.
The big parade started yesterday afternoon at 3, and the twenty-six guilds of Zurich marched through the streets, accompanied by their standard bearers, marching bands, and guild-themed floats. The guilds were sort of the labor unions of yesteryear -- tanners, fishermen, blacksmiths, tailors, beermakers, merchants -- everyone had their own guild. The floats in the Sechseläuten parade reflect these old-time affiliations, so that the carpenters came by with a float made of large pieces of unfinished lumber with tools on display, and the blacksmiths had a group of hale young men hammering away in a mocked-up forge on wheels. The guilds no longer serve the same function that they once did, probably because there aren't blacksmiths and tanners anymore. Instead they are now social networking organizations for the Good Ol' Boys. If you want to be a member of the stablemasters' guild, you had better hope Grandpa is in it, because there is no other way you're getting in.
The guild members took the parade quite seriously, donning elaborate costumes that showed their allegiance. I have never seen so many men so excited to be wearing tights, velvet jackets, buckled shoes, feathered hats, and curly wigs. The spectators showed their appreciation by giving flowers to their favorite parading guild members. I heard that in the old days, when the guilds were for men only, they would bring the flowers home to their wives to show how much they loved them, but also to remind them of how popular they were with the ladies.
Each guild had a marching band of 50 to 75 people, and another 100 to 200 members, so that works out to over 5,000 costumes, and a very large but temporary rise in the demand for white tights. If you stop and think about it, there were perhaps 1,500 people in marching bands, all of which were quite good. If the same percentage of people were in marching bands in Manhattan, there would be almost 9,000 people running around on Fifth Avenue playing Sousa.
Some guilds went even further in showing their guild pride. One guild, which apparently was once made up of the men who harvested apples and made cider, was passing out apples. Other guilds threw flowers and candy to the crowds, and the winemakers gave out plastic cups of wine. The fishermen, on the other hand, had a basket full of whole fish that they were hurling at lookers-on. The group in the balcony behind us were carrying umbrellas to avoid the fish that were raining down on them, since the balcony was a prime target. After the fishermen had passed, the crowd continued tossing the fish around, sort of like beach balls at a rock concert, only messier.
Many of the guilds had dozens of horses, and it was quite a spectacle to see all the horsemen in full traditional costume, parading down the street. It almost made me forget to look out for the fish... And then there was that other guild. I have no idea what guild it was, but they were dressed like stereotypical desert sheiks -- long robe, spotted cloth tied over the head, rope belt. And, I kid you not, they were in brown-face. Each of them had taken paint and painted his face brown, which I hadn't realized was still socially acceptable. To complete their desert sheik chic, they had live camels and potted palms on wheels.
The parade kept going, with more over-the-top costumes and animals and projectiles, and the marching bands played such traditional Swiss numbers as, "When the Saints Go Marching In," "Living La Vida Loca," and "Blue Suede Shoes." By 6, however, everyone squeezed their way to Sechseläutenplatz, and the Böögg was set on fire. The firework-stuffed, gasoline-soaked cotton snowman was sitting on top of a huge wooden pyre, and it took 18 minutes for his head to explode, which is the defining moment in forecasting the summer. A couple informed me that 18 minutes is quite long, and the last nice summer they had, the Böögg only took 7 minutes to lose his head.
Later in the night, at around 11 p.m., the Böögg's funeral pyre was still burning, and the marching bands and guilds were still romping through the streets. Insane. Good times.
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