I Wore White to the World's Biggest Food Fight

Nobody tells you, on the bus to Buñol, whether you are going to be a fighter or a flier. You find out when the first truck arrives.

I found out on my dear friend Yvonne's milestone birthday, in a white dress, in the middle of the biggest food fight on earth. But that was the end of the trip. It started, as all good trips should, with coffee.

Cold brew first

This European adventure kicked off in Barcelona, where I spent a lovely afternoon catching up with the fabulous Brenda over cold brew at her chic coffee shop, Raw Studio. I cannot recommend it enough. We swapped stories about life, love, sports and motivation in her cozy corner of the city, and then, naturally, a sunset dinner by the pool followed.

But the show must go on, and the show was on an island.

Ibiza, where the tan comes with a refill

Airport hugs and squeals of delight marked my reunion with the ever-glamorous Yvonne. At our hotel we were greeted with champagne, because, darling, that is how we roll.

We soon found ourselves poolside, joined by two boozy, flip-happy Germans, Toby and Michael, who spent the afternoon recounting Nigerian news segments from YouTube while we giggled and basked. The evening brought the first of many seafood feasts and our descent into absolute holiday bliss.

The next day was a bubbles-fueled haze by the pool, because when it is all-inclusive, your tan comes with a side of "Refill?" "Sure."

Calvin Harris and the Irish jig

Then we got spruced up for Ushuaïa, the beach club, and Calvin Harris.

Picture it: planes overhead, smoke, fire, lights, sweaty dance floors and adorable DJs. We even watched someone act out a certain Mike Posner song title in real time. A younger, more carefree version of me danced and laughed the night away, Irish jigs included. It was a night of pure fun and adventure.

Erin, and a bed made of sky

After an unfortunately longer-than-planned flight, the lovely Erin finally landed, and we were reunited on the chic hillside of Carrer de la Santa Creu for a delightful dinner. Street performers impressed us with flips and toned abs while we ate and browsed the boutiques.

I, ever the romantic, elected to fall asleep under the stars in the warm summer air. Bliss.

Shopping, darling

The next morning I found organic groceries at a shop guarded by a tiny puppy named Ginger. Then came gold bangles, flowing dresses, and the start of the most decadent breakfasts at Nobu: crab Benedict, shakshuka, donburi, pastries, champagne and fresh juice. My brunch heart was overflowing.

The rest of the day was sun, stories and sushi. Life was, in a word, perfection.

Glamorous, then brave

Yvonne, our trusted planner, had organized a morning photoshoot with Flytographer in the hills of Ibiza (highly recommend), where I embraced my inner child (read: acted ridiculously immature) while the photographer made real art. It felt lovely to be glamorous with girlfriends, and the photos tell a beautiful story about friendship.

Then we boarded a private charter to the crystalline islands. We swam, we paddle-boarded into ocean caves, and we earned our bravery badges under a blazing sun. Sailing back into the marina, none of us wanted the magic to end.

But alas, there were tomatoes to throw.

Valencia, briefly civilized

We set off for Valencia, strolled the plazas and ate at a local steakhouse, soaking up the history and the community.

I wore white

The morning of La Tomatina, which fell on Yvonne's birthday, began in a room full of colorful balloons and continued on a bus to Buñol, where it slowly dawned on us that we were about to take part in the biggest food fight in the world.

I, of course, wore white. What better canvas for flying tomatoes?

We squeezed into the narrow streets with twenty thousand new friends, including some very enthusiastic Bollywood fans. Then the trucks came and unloaded their juicy cargo, and before we knew it we were knee-deep in gazpacho. And oh, the smell.

My original plan, to lob a few tomatoes gently at my friends, quickly became a survival mission. Erin compared the whole thing to trench stories as the soft tomatoes souped underfoot. Yvonne discovered she is a flight person. I discovered I am a fight person. You learn things about yourself in a smelly street battle that a personality quiz will never tell you.

Post-Tomato Syndrome (PTS) is real, folks.

How a town gets cleaner than you do

Here is the part that still makes me laugh, because it is the exact opposite of what happened to us.

The tomatoes at La Tomatina are not supermarket rejects. They are a pear-type variety the town buys specifically for the fight and that is not fit to eat. The year we went, that meant 120,000 kilos of them, grown in the south of Valencia province; other years they have come from Extremadura, several hours west. Depending on the year, Buñol sends somewhere between 120 and 165 tonnes through the center of town on six or seven dump trucks crawling down roughly 400 meters of street. Locals ride in the truck beds and throw from above, and everyone below throws back.

The rules are short. Squash the tomato before you throw it so it cannot hurt anyone. Do not tear anyone's shirt. When the second rocket goes off, you stop. Residents along the route cover their buildings in plastic tarps beforehand, and people on the balconies hose the crowd down while they wait.

Then the hour ends, the town's clean-up crews move in, and the streets come up spotless. Not because of soap. Tomatoes are acidic, and that acid strips and disinfects the cobblestones and the facades. Spanish news reports describe the center of Buñol as gleaming within minutes. The town ends the day cleaner than it started.

The people do not get that treatment.

The whole thing began by accident in 1945, as a scuffle among young people during a town parade that turned into a food fight, and it stuck. Franco's government banned it in the 1950s; it came back anyway. Spain declared it a Festival of International Tourist Interest in 2002, and in 2013, after the crowds had become unmanageable, the town started selling tickets and cut attendance roughly in half, to around twenty thousand. About four in ten participants now come from outside Spain, and a good share of them are from India, thanks to a 2011 Bollywood road-trip film, Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, that staged La Tomatina on screen. Which explains our very enthusiastic neighbors.

Our shower was a hose, or a pond

Our "shower" was a hose, or a communal pond. Let us say it was not precisely the spa experience I had envisioned for Yvonne's birthday. Memorable? Absolutely.

Exhausted, sore and stained red, we eventually found our way onto the wrong bus, took an impromptu tour of the region, and declined several after-party invitations. Instead we chose paella and sangria by the beach, an evening of reflection, and a plan for a road trip to Barcelona with picnics on our last day.

If you go

• It is the last Wednesday of August, every year, in Buñol, about 40 kilometers inland from Valencia.
• Buy an official ticket well ahead. Attendance has been capped since 2013 and it sells out. Use the official channel or a clearly authorized package.
• Stay in Valencia. Buñol is small and books up fast, and Valencia gives you plazas, a steakhouse and a beach to recover on.
• Wear white you are willing to lose. Tomato stains can be permanent. Swim goggles are the local recommendation for your eyes, because the acid stings.
• Bring a sealed bag with clean clothes, and do not plan your dignity around a proper shower. Ours was a hose. Do not count on the river either: in 2025 the town warned visitors away from parts of it still damaged by the previous autumn's floods.
• Know which bus is yours before the fight, not after. Ask me how I know.

To the women who made it

To Yvonne: thank you for hosting a splendid holiday. I would have come to a gravel pit in the rain, full of angry raccoons, to celebrate you, because I adore you to the moon and back. Instead you planned a luxurious, beautiful and memorable trip, and I am eternally grateful for you and for our friendship.

To Erin: thank you for the endless laughs and positivity, and for making the crew complete.

And to Spain: thank you for the tortillas, the sandy toes and the tomatoes, which, one day, may be appetizing again.

The right person will get you to a gravel pit, a raccoon convention, or a street full of twenty thousand strangers and a fleet of dump trucks full of ammunition. The trick is knowing which of those you would still do again. For Yvonne, all three.

Viva España.