Electric blue beehive wig, oversized rhinestone glasses with yellow lenses, silver sequin top, florescent pink ruffle skirt with a blue sash, purple tights with glittery gold stripes, and tennies. This is the most fun I've had dressing up since I was 9. Bright red lipstick, powdery blue arches above both eyes, shiny glitter sprinkled everywhere. I'm not exactly sure what to call myself, so I resolve to simply tell people I'm "La Loca" for the rest of the night. I'm actually starting to feel a little crazy.

Looking for a costume at the height of Carnaval season in Spain turned out to be more than I had bargained for. The lines in costume shops are horrendous, the prices sky-high and the choices infinite. The Spanish take their Carnaval very seriously and, although it may seem like child's play, the festival is much more than just kiddy dress-up. There are activities for people of all ages, and there's not one person who doesn't take part in at least some aspect of the festival. Children can participate in various games and shows that are organized specifically for them, while adults continue the celebration well into the night at bars and clubs. Children and adults alike attend parades, participate in costume competitions, and witness the ceremonial burying of the sardine as the symbolic representation of the soul's purification. Everything caters to the Carnaval flow; buses and trains run late and start early to provide transportation between the major Carnaval cities of Gijón, Avilés and Oviedo; costume shops are open to make last-minute sales; and main streets and plazas are cut off to traffic to facilitate the swarming crowds. Carnaval is the perfect time to witness the true fun-loving Spanish spirit.

This is my first Carnaval. I have no idea what to expect, but I think I'm prepared for anything. Carnaval in Asturias, I imagine, will be something like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, although I've never experienced that either. The holiday is organized around the same Catholic tradition of indulgence and celebration that lead up to Lent when the soul may be purified again. The Asturian Carnaval lasts an entire week, and each major city in the region hosts a different day of the fiesta. Today's host is the coastal town of Avilés. The festivities have been carrying on all day with parades, concerts and contests, but we'll only show up in time to see the Carnaval nightlife.

It's February, a long way from October's Halloween, and I feel more than just a bit silly when I step out from the privacy of my second-floor apartment in Oviedo. Luckily I'm walking with an equally glittery female version of Superman and a bald monk whose robe is a crisp bed sheet. But I'm the one wearing the 2-foot-high electric blue beehive. I have to admit though, it's quickly growing on me.

On our way to the train station in Oviedo we get a few strange glances our way, but nothing like what I had expected considering the way we were dressed. I didn't realize why there were so few shocked faces, until we arrived at the station and I stepped into a world of Smurfs on steroids, silver-studded cowboys with cap guns and Spanish-speaking Native Americans who had been walking the same streets I had just a few minutes before.

The train to Aviles was just another scene from this new crazy world, only more concentrated. Herds of bumblebees, giant-sized babies, pasty vampires, colorful clowns, and French maids with five-o-clock shadows all packed into the cars, chatting and sipping Kalimocho (red wine with Coca-Cola) from Coca-Cola bottles.

As I glance around at the characters that surround me I catch something big and threateningly blue reflected in the train's window. It takes me a minute to realize that it's my own head. I can hardly tell that it's me peeking out from underneath the hairy tower.

Arriving in Aviles, we pile off the train and follow a group of mohawked punk rockers to the center of the craziness. I pause to snap a photo of my friend, who's dressed in nothing but swimming trunks and Zinc Oxide, standing with some hairy ballerinas donned in pretty pink tutus.

All the streets in old town are still covered with the remnants of white foam that the parade floats had sprayed just a few hours earlier. Now it looks more like dirty sea foam brought in by the tide, but people later tell me that it had been all the way up to their bellies during the parade. The entrances to bars are decorated with streamers and crepe paper announcing drink deals for the occasion. Each has a different tempting theme to attract the masqueraders.

We decide to begin our Carnaval on the main square, mostly because there's a huge stage set up there and it seems like that's where the crowds are congregating. In the first bar we enter there are three Talibans standing at the counter ordering cerveza. One claims he's Bin Laden himself and asks that we call him Osama. This is the first of several encounters I will have with America's most sought-out man this same night. It seems to be something like a Carnaval theme. I don't notice this until later, but even the scaffolding surrounding the stage in the main square features a manufactured Bush perched at the top with bomb in hand, ready to drop in on an unsuspecting Bin Laden who's climbing stealthily below him. I wasn't sure whether to take it as a tribute or an insult.

Bin Laden, the one ordering cerveza at the bar, and his crew of plastic rifle-toting Talibans said their costumes were inspired by nothing more than "moda," or fashion and that they were just trying to keep a sense of humor. Considering the light-hearted Spanish character, I took this as explanation enough.

Later, the same group takes my Zinc Oxide-wearing buddy to First Aid after he cuts his foot on one of the millions of pieces of glass that begin to fill the streets.

As the night goes on, the sea of people in the plaza grows exponentially. Streams of colored light pour onto the stage and illuminate a no-name rock band that could have come straight from the 80s hair band era. But the music doesn't even matter, people are dancing and singing just the same, some of them stopping to hand out ladles full of alcoholic concoctions from buckets. Nobody is a stranger, but only because everyone is a stranger. Spunky cheerleaders with balloon breasts, cavemen waving burly clubs, dark robed figures with gory bleeding masks, and feather-wearing flappers from the 20s cover every inch of the swarming plaza. The place is buzzing with energy. The party may have started in the bars, but it now pours into the street and pumps through each alleyway like the lifeblood of the once-tranquil fishing village.

It's hard not to get carried away in the Carnaval flow. At some point in the night/early morning, the blue icing to my costume cake disappears from its crowning position, and I acquire a pointy-nosed gargoyle mask. The mask becomes even scarier when paired with my pink ruffle skirt and sequin top. Now that the night has progressed, it's harder to tell what exactly people are, as they shed sweaty layers and their make-up begins to run.

Even later still, a decorative fountain seems like an inviting wade pool, a place to dip our feet for a few seconds... with our shoes on. The fun doesn't end until we are well into the morning, and exhaustion forces us to catch a bus back to Oviedo, and back to reality.

The next day will be the Carnaval celebration in Gijon – and my costume is ruined. I consider for a moment what it would take to transform the whole thing into a Taliban suit, then decide to wear a pair of pajamas and say I'm an escaped mental patient. "La Loca", once again. Or maybe I'd just check out the parade and contests during daylight hours instead. Perhaps the kiddy Carnaval was still open. One night of indulgence as "La Loca" had more than satisfied my appetite for excess, but the Carnaval celebration was nowhere near being finished.

Questions?
If you want more information about this area you can email the author or check out our Europe Insiders page.