KATTENSTOET FESTIVAL, YPRES, BELGIUM
T he Pillar and I are licking ice cream at Il Gusto d'Italia, one of the most famous places in Ypres. It's not like we've come here for the ice cream, but licking it while staring at the madness around us is the best way to hang on to sanity.
The Kattenstoet parade is immense. Many people, a lot of them children, come from all over the world to celebrate that crazy day. It's only seconds before we're pushed among the crowd, urged to walk ahead in the parade. In my modern-day Alice outfit and the Pillar's blue suit, we look like freaks. People are dressed as cats, wearing feline ears and hanging cat's tails, or meowing like cats. Girls have whiskers drawn on their faces, and elders have cat ears on, along with other medieval clothes and accessories. It's beautiful, actually—if only it didn't represent a horrible memory of killing cats.
"This place is nuts." I laugh, holding the umbrella Fabiola gave me. She told me I would need it, but I still don't know how.
"Every dog's dream." The Pillar puffs his pipe. He doesn't look happy. All he is looking for is a sign to spot the Cheshire.
Among the parade, we pass by a famous clock tower, which shows the time is three in the afternoon.
"Ding dong, something is wrong," the Pillar says.
I don't know what he means, but we come across the belfry, where a huge bell rings, and people start to throw candy in the air.
Colorful marching bands begin to fill the square in front of the famous clothes tower, where the Cheshire family was probably thrown out in the past—the Pillar educated me all about it this morning. He had his chauffeur research the Cheshire's background in Ypres.
More children dressed in feline costumes make clawing gestures while elders twirl the flag of a Flemish lion. It's Ypres's national shield. How ironic, I think. A lion on the flag where they killed the same species in the past.
"Balloons!" I cry out like a little child. Huge balloons gather and take the shape of one huge cat in the sky.
I see young girls march next to us. They are dressed as Cleopatra as a tribute to Egyptian cats, which were considered gods back then. Viking-costumed flutists follow them with dancing girls in blonde braids as a tribute to Celtic cats.
Things look ordinary until I spot horses drawing a wagon of a caged witch, who is acting as if she is pleading not to be burned. She is holding on to the bars and flipping her stiff black hair.
"Gotta love humans," the Pillar blurts out as he still looks for the Cheshire.
"Why? What's going to happen to the witch?"
"In the grand finale of the party, they are going to burn her." The Pillar pushes a couple of cat-clothed kids away. "Woof. Woof," he blows at them. "Of course, they won't burn the girl herself. They will burn a feline version of her. Can you believe this is the twenty-first century? People still believe that cats and witches are the cause of their misery."
Then I am distracted by a huge carriage made of feline fur. It looks like a huge red cat with scary jaws. They call it the Cradle. Children cheer upon seeing it and start climbing on the top and sides. I wonder if the huge cat on wheels is just hollow from inside because it's big enough to have a dining table and chair inside. For a moment, I wonder if the Cheshire is hiding inside.
"And here comes Garfield." The Pillar points his cane at someone in a Garfield costume, walking next to a Puss in Boots.
I try to act as the Pillar, not worry and enjoy the parade for a while. The buildings all around us are works of art. The houses are Renaissance style, and the fact that the place is full of people makes me happy. Again, for a girl just out of an asylum, this is heaven.
Suddenly, the parade stops as we're approached by a huge number of pro-cat activists. They are holding big animal rights signs, protesting against the cruelty that has been imposed on the cats of Ypres in the past. Their voices are loud and angry. I find myself pushed to the first row, with the Pillar next to me. When I get a closer look at the pro-cat activists, fear prickles the back of my neck. The Pillar holds my hand for assurance. What we're looking at might be normal for others, but not for us. All the activists in front of us wear the same orange mask on their faces. A face of a grinning cat, just like the mask the Cheshire Cat stole from Pott Shrigley.