10 One Saturday of Saint Bartholomew about thirty years ago, at Ca na Poeta in Montuïri, I fell in love with the *xeremiers*. I knew how to see the cultural transcendence of that tradition, the healthy bond that those big, bearded, sweaty men established with the town. I understood them, which is, after all, the definitive way to fall in love. I don't know how many there must have been, a dozen, perhaps. It must have been that breezy heat typical of those days, inside Ca na Poeta. Bodies soaked in sweat touched each other jerkily, jumping and dancing in front of the *tasser*, driven by the festive rhythms of the *xeremiers*. We trod the cloying soot of the festive days in the cafes. The smell of drunk juice and spilled juice mingled with the aroma of *alfabeguera cossiera*. We sang and laughed in a bar where the town redeemed itself from the sins of not wanting to be what it is. Without thinking, without wanting to. Natural and authentic. Free, which is how towns should be. The youth of Montuïri were there in full. And a handful of irreducible old-timers, as always happens. The outsiders were just four friends from the surrounding towns. And Montuïri, with a quarter of the people who are there now, was packed.

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