Exploring the Secrets of Ancient Alexandria
From Alexander the Great's inception to its modern form, the city has stayed a lighthouse of knowledge, variety, and beauty. Its ageless appeal stems from…
Across continents, carnival erupts in vibrant displays of color, sound, and centuries-old ritual. For many cities around the world, the weeks before Lent mean one thing: Carnival. During those frenetic days, everyday life yields to a riotous pageant. In Venice, festival-goers slip on ornate masks and capes; in Port of Spain, steel drums and soca music shake the streets; in Rio, samba parades turn stadiums into sweat-soaked theaters; in New Orleans, jazz and parades flood the French Quarter; and in London’s Notting Hill, Caribbean flags wave overhead on a summer night. Each city’s celebration is unmistakably its own, yet all share a spirit of collective release and revelry.
Carnival has roots in ancient pagan and medieval customs, often marking one last indulgence before the austerity of Lent. Most famously tied to the Christian calendar, the festival also absorbed local cultures. Some carnivals have kept aristocratic pageantry; others grew out of colonial histories or diasporic solidarity. Yet in each place the result is similar: a communal lapse of norms, a reclaiming of the streets, and the chance for society to reinvent itself, if only briefly.
In the pages that follow, this article journeys through 10 iconic celebrations, each a glittering lens into its city’s soul. These are not travel-brochure blurbs, but immersive portraits from a curious observer’s perspective. One might slip through Venetian alleyways among masked revelers, then feel the drumbeats at sunrise in Port of Spain; hear the samba call from Rio’s Sambadrome and the trumpet fanfares of Bourbon Street; and feel the bass of steelpan in London’s summer sun. Each carnival tells a story of people — past and present — celebrating identity, freedom, and the extraordinary power of festivities to both reflect and reshape culture.
Venice’s carnival conjures images of a bygone era, when the Serenissima Republic celebrated with grand spectacle. Legend says it began in 1162 after a victory over Aquileia, but it flourished during the Renaissance and Baroque centuries. From dusk to dawn, masked nobles danced in palazzos and strolled through St. Mark’s Square every Carnival season. This tradition ended abruptly in 1797 when Napoleon forbade the masquerade; Venice slept through Lent with no revelry. Nearly two centuries later, in 1979, the city revived the carnival. Now, up to three million visitors gather each year, ushering in the old celebrations on misty February mornings once again.
The masks of Venice are the event’s heart. From dawn’s first light, one might see the ghostly profile of a Bauta – its broad protruding chin and nose beneath a white mask and tricorn hat – or a half-mask Colombina adorned with feathers and jewels. The elusive Moretta, a black velvet oval held by a button between the teeth, adds further mystery. Under these disguises, class dissolves: a senator and a silk weaver walk side by side, equally hidden. Entire palazzos host masked balls; a highlight is the “Flight of the Angel,” when a costumed acrobat descends by zip line from St. Mark’s Campanile to the square below amid fireworks. Gondolas drift by with masked couples in powdered wigs, and even Rialto Market vendors may don cloaks and masks to sell their wares amidst the fantasy.
Venice Carnival feels lavish and ethereal. A chill mist rises from the canals, mingling with lantern light and the scent of roasted chestnuts. Costumed figures drift through narrow alleys and under arched bridges, footsteps echoing on brick. Music — sometimes Baroque trumpets or cellos — leaks from cafes and palace balconies. After dusk, candlelit balls whisper with laughter as revelers in extravagant costume waltz in gilded halls. Amid the revelry there is a poignancy: this wild freedom will vanish with the dawn of Ash Wednesday, and the city’s ancient stones will stand silent through Lent.
Port of Spain’s Carnival is a baptism of fire, born at the crossroads of empire and emancipation. Its origins lie in the 18th century, when French planters and free people of color held lavish masked balls in the lead-up to Lent. Enslaved Africans were forbidden these assemblies, so they created their own parallel festival known as Canboulay (meaning “burnt cane,” recalling the sugar fields). Canboulay was marked by drumming, chanting, stick-fighting, and the carrying of torches through the streets. After Emancipation in 1834, these traditions merged into the emerging Carnival. Over time, Trinidadians of all backgrounds shaped it into the massive, world-renowned celebration it is today.
A key moment arrives before dawn on Carnival Monday: J’ouvert, Creole for “daybreak.” At 4 AM the city streets flood with barefoot crowds slathered in paint, oil, and mud. They dance and laugh as reggae, calypso, and parang music spew from open trucks. In the darkness, one might see people dressed as devils with glowing eyes or as masked spirits wreathed in feathers, whooping and smeared in black coffee paste. J’ouvert is primal and liberating: the sacred becomes profane, the ordinary thrown into joyful chaos as everyone escapes the confines of their daily roles.
By midday the Grand Parade takes over. Thousands of masqueraders march in coordinated bands along the Savannah and city avenues. Their costumes range from elegant (beaded queens with towering feathered headdresses) to absurd and satirical (giant caricatures poking fun at politicians or pop culture). Each band elects its King and Queen of Carnival to lead the way. Music dominates: calypsonians belt witty social commentary while driving soca rhythms and booming steelpan surround them. Judging stands in the Savannah score every detail, but to onlookers each group is a spectacle of equal wonder. The air fills with the scent of coconut oil (used for body paint) and street food like corn soup and plantains.
One cannot describe Carnival in Trinidad without the sense of raw exuberance. The Caribbean heat presses down, sweat mingling with shimmering paint on skin, yet no one slows their dance. Drums and horns quicken the heart: even pedestrians on the sidewalks step into impromptu congas. Strangers clasp hands and whirl; a man on stilts towers above, machete in hand, leaping through the crowd. Social barriers temporarily dissolve: the city’s African, Indian, and European heritage mingles freely. Carnival here is a reclaiming of identity — every drumbeat is a heartbeat of emancipation. When the celebrations end and Ash Wednesday dawns, thousands stagger home exhausted and elated, carrying forward the memory of a people who turned struggle into spectacle.
Rio de Janeiro’s Carnival is the nation’s grandest party, a living pageant blending Portuguese, African, and indigenous elements. Its earliest ancestor was the Entrudo, the rambunctious medieval water-fight festival brought by Portuguese colonists. By the 20th century, the true soul of Rio’s Carnival had formed with the rise of the samba schools. In 1928 the first samba school — Mangueira — danced through the streets, and soon dozens of others emerged, each representing a neighborhood. Samba, born of Afro-Brazilian rhythm, became the festival’s heartbeat, and communities began year-round preparations.
Every February or March, Rio’s iconic Sambadrome – a purpose-built parade stadium – becomes ground zero for the Carnival. Each samba school parades in turn, performing for about an hour in front of judges. The entry is ritualized: a small comissão de frente (front commission) dances theatrically to introduce the theme, followed by the abre-alas (opening float), a towering spectacle. Next come the Mestre-Sala and Porta-Bandeira (master of ceremonies and flag-bearer), who twirl the school’s banner in elegant harmony. Behind them, hundreds of dancers in elaborate costumes march past, the bateria (drumline) closing the section with a thunderous wave. Spectators packed in the concrete stands erupt in applause at every new formation, and the city’s balconies overflow with cheers.
Outside the stadium, the entire city is carnival. In Lapa and dozens of neighborhoods, bloco parties surge day and night. On nearly every corner, surdo drums and cuíca squeals pour from mobile sound systems. Revelers in elaborate headdresses dance atop cars and rooftops, igniting impromptu parades. Vendors sell açaí, cheese bread, and cold beer to fuel the revelry. Rio’s carnival is a democratizing spectacle: bankers dance beside favela kids; tourists lose themselves in music. Yet each performance carries meaning. Samba school enredos (theme songs) often honor Afro-Brazilian heroes or local folklore, and choreographies may satirize politicians or celebrate history. In this way, Carnival becomes both spectacle and social commentary. As dawn breaks, tired Cariocas head home with samba still in their veins, having given their city’s spirit everything.
New Orleans’s carnival wears a French name, but it has a distinctly Creole soul. Mardi Gras was celebrated here by the French in the early 18th century, and by the 1830s parades and masked balls were a beloved local tradition. When the revelry became unruly, city elites formed the Mystick Krewe of Comus in 1857 to restore order. That model spawned dozens of private krewes – secret societies each staging lavish parades and invitation-only balls. The Krewe of Rex, established in 1872, crowns the annual King of Carnival and symbolically hands him the key to the city.
When Mardi Gras Day arrives, the city’s streets burst with color. Nighttime floats rumble by, each a themed wonderland lit from within, their riders tossing beads, doubloons, and trinkets to the crowd. The air rings with shouts of “Throw me something, mister!” as hands scramble for strands of purple, green, and gold. Marching bands and brass ensembles follow each float, blasting jazz and funk. On the neutral ground, street musicians spark impromptu second-line parades: revelers with handkerchiefs and umbrellas dance and clap along behind them. For many, catching a tossed fleur-de-lis cup or a handful of beads becomes a treasured trophy of Mardi Gras lore.
Food and ritual add to the pageantry. From Epiphany (January 6) onward, families bake King Cake — a braided cinnamon bread iced in Mardi Gras colors, hiding a tiny plastic baby. Whoever finds the baby in their slice is crowned King or Queen and must host the next cake party. Meanwhile, the all-black Krewe of Zulu offers its own legacy. Zulu Indians parade in grass skirts and beaded suits (a radical act in 1910) and are famous for tossing decorated coconuts into the crowd. These heavy, painted prizes – often gilded or brightly colored – become fierce symbols of Mardi Gras luck when caught.
A poignant counterpoint is the Mardi Gras Indians, a deep-rooted African-American tradition. Tribes of masked “Indians” spend months handcrafting elaborate feathered suits inspired by Native American regalia. On Carnival night they silently parade through the French Quarter with drums and chants, paying tribute to ancestors and resistance. They often appear unexpectedly, a reminder of the city’s layered past. By dawn, Bourbon Street quiets and recovery parades drift through the calm streets. Locals say Mardi Gras reveals New Orleans’s soul: music and food unite people across all divisions, even in the wildest of times.
London’s Notting Hill Carnival is the world’s largest street festival celebrating Caribbean culture, but it had humble origins in protest. In the late 1950s, racial tensions erupted into the Notting Hill race riots. In response, activist Claudia Jones organized the first indoor “Caribbean Carnival” in 1959, featuring steel bands and calypso to uplift the West Indian community. Seven years later, Rhaune Laslett and others staged the first outdoor carnival parade through Notting Hill’s streets during the August bank holiday. It was a free, multicultural street party meant to foster unity. By the late 1960s the community parade had become an annual spectacle, and the celebration has grown every year since into London’s iconic summer fest.
The modern carnival runs for three days. Saturday often features Panorama, the steelpan band competition in St. Peter’s Square. Sunday is Family Day, with children in creative costumes parading to calypso and soca under the summer sky. But Monday is the grand marathon: for nearly 24 hours, dozens of mas bands snake down Westbourne Park Road. Each band is a moving pageant, with themed costumes ranging from jungle warriors to mythical queens. Sound-system trucks blare bass-heavy reggae and Soca hits on loop, encouraging everyone to dance and sing along.
Notting Hill’s atmosphere is that of a giant summer block party. The air thickens with jerk smoke and curry aromas as steel drums clash beside powerful speakers. Revelers of all ages and backgrounds jam the streets: befeathered queens, grandmothers in African print, teenagers with dreadlocks, and tourists in bright prints. People climb lampposts, children chase confetti, and everyone moves to the collective rhythm. Police remain visible but generally unobtrusive – a reminder that Carnival once faced resistance. In one weekend, this London neighborhood belongs to the festival: flags of Trinidad, Jamaica, and beyond wave next to Union Jacks. Notting Hill Carnival asserts that music and identity know no boundaries.
In the heart of the Canary Islands, Santa Cruz de Tenerife erupts each winter into a riot of color and music. The city’s pre-Lenten carnival is a grand folk pageant that transforms its streets into a stage, blending Spanish and Latin American rhythms under the subtropical night sky. Originating as a modest 17th-century festival of masks and merriment, the carnival has grown into a two-week spectacle marked by lavish parades and elaborate costumes. Thousands of participants parade along Avenida Anaga, from troupes of dancers and comparsas to musicians pounding out salsa and Caribbean beats.
At the peak of the festivities comes the famed Carnival Queen gala, where a host of contestants unveil breathtaking gowns built over months of work. These costumes, often made of feathers, sequins, and steel frameworks, can cost tens of thousands of euros and weigh as much as a small person. In a ceremonial crown-setting, the winner embodies the spirit of the carnival, towering on a float like a living jewel. Elsewhere, neighborhood parties spill into midnight streets, with locals in costume handing out sweets and wine.
The carnival scene in Santa Cruz is both festive and freewheeling. By day, children and families join face-painted processions beneath the Atlantic sun; by night, adults follow pulsating murgas and samba bands through narrow alleys. The streets throb with the sound of tambourines and electric trumpets, and revelers dance shoulder-to-shoulder in a collective leap beyond daily life. This dynamic atmosphere is tinged with a hint of whimsy and satire: in some acts, men don outrageous drag outfits, while the Cabezudos (giant-headed figures) poke fun at local politics.
Cultural roots run deep in Tenerife’s carnival. It was historically a time to cast off social strictures before Lent and to celebrate the island’s connections with the Americas. Over centuries, influences from Cuba, Brazil, and even West Africa blended into the canaries’ revelry, which is why the celebration feels unexpectedly global for a European city. At the very end, the festivities traditionally conclude with the burning of a papier-mâché sardine – a symbol of bidding farewell to excess. The Carnival of Santa Cruz de Tenerife, with its Spanish flair and tropical warmth, remains a testament to communal creativity and the enduring tradition of welcome indulgence before the sober weeks of Lent.
High on the Andes plateau, the city of Oruro holds a Carnival like no other. This Bolivian festival is a living relic of pre-Columbian faith woven into Spanish colonial pageantry. Over six days, Oruro’s streets become a pilgrimage to the Virgen del Socavón (Virgin of the Mineshaft), a patron saint with roots in indigenous worship of Pachamama. In this context, carnival feels both sacred and ecstatic. The air vibrates with Andean drums and flutes as tens of thousands of dancers in embroidered costumes march through the city in a religious procession.
At the core of Oruro’s Carnival is the Diablada, the dramatic “Dance of the Devils.” Demonic masked figures with gilded horns twist and prance, reenacting the triumph of the Archangel over Lucifer. The devils’ outfits are astonishingly intricate: glass beads glint in the sunlight, multicolored fabrics swirl, and each headdress is a mini-workshop of metalwork and feathers. Alongside them are caporales, whose leather armor jingles with bells, and the stately Morenada, whose dancers wear ornate African-influenced masks and carry whips to the pounding rhythm of the heavybeat. Over forty dance troupes, each representing a different province or community, perform such choreographies. Musicians – trumpets, cymbals, and the haunting panpipes called zampoñas – keep the parade in relentless motion from dawn to dusk.
Though jubilant on the surface, the festival carries weighty symbolism. Historically, this celebration evolved from ancient mining rituals: colonial-era miners adapted their worship of earth spirits into a Catholic framework of the Virgin’s honor. Every costume and step in Oruro’s Carnival can be read as a fragment of this syncretic narrative – a communal expression of identity and faith. Spectators travel from across Bolivia to witness it; in fact, in 2008 UNESCO recognized the Carnival of Oruro as Intangible Cultural Heritage. Even in the chill highland air, the crowds press together, entranced by the hypnotic music. As midnight falls, flames from torches flicker on the faces of masked dancers, revealing eyes shining with pride. For Bolivia’s many indigenous peoples, Oruro’s Carnival is more than a party: it is a parade of ancestral memory, a grand affirmation that life and spirituality are inseparable under the Andean sky.
In sharp contrast, Carnival in Cologne unfurls against the backdrop of its Gothic cathedral and cold February skies. Here it is called the Fastelovend or Karneval, and it is rooted in Europe’s oldest guild and church traditions. The season officially opens on November 11 at 11:11 AM, but the real madness comes between Fat Thursday (Weiberfastnacht) and Ash Wednesday. On Weiberfastnacht, women caper through the streets with scissors, symbolically cutting men’s ties to turn tables on patriarchal order. The week culminates on Rosenmontag (Rose Monday) with one of Europe’s largest parades.
For weeks leading up, the city’s secret carnival councils meet in silk trousers and tricorn hats to plan the festivities. On parade day, the famous “Prinzenwagen” floats – often satirical replicas of city landmarks – roll by in a procession over two kilometers long. Each float is a mobile joke or commentary: cabinets of toothy jesters lampoon politicians, bankers, even celebrities with absurd papier-mâché heads. Revelers line the streets in colorful costumes – jesters, devils, or folklore figures – catching sweet treats (Kamelle) that carnival princes shower into the crowd. Brass bands belt out familiar K\u00f6ln songs, and at every public bar and beer tent, locals sing along or raise glasses of Altbier.
Despite its party atmosphere, Cologne’s Carnival has an old-world dignity too. Every year a trio known as the Dreigestirn (Prince, Farmer, and Maiden) leads the festivities, harking back to medieval heraldry. The Maid is traditionally played by a burly man in drag – an example of the carnival’s delight in reversal of norms. When midnight strikes on Ash Wednesday, the foam floats and feathered costumes vanish overnight; only the burning of the Nubbel – a straw effigy blamed for all sins – marks the bittersweet end of the revelry.
The carnival here is saturated with regional pride: “K\u00f6lle Alaaf!” echoes the city’s rallying cry, which means roughly “Cologne above all.” In those streets of Rhineland exuberance, ordinary people find a rare license to laugh at authority and at themselves. Cologne’s carnival spirit is as much about community as comedy – each year the city temporarily exchanges its serious face for a carnival mask, knowing the transformation is as old and inevitable as the seasons themselves.
On the French Riviera, Nice springs into bloom every February under a very different carnival sky. In this Mediterranean carnival, the air fills not with tropical drums but with whimsical floats and showers of fresh flowers. The Nice Carnival dates back to 1294 but took on modern form in the late 19th century. For two weeks, the city’s grand boulevards host nightly parades of artful floats and day parades of floral pageantry. Each year’s procession is guided by a chosen theme and its Queen – a local celebrity or performer – who is carried down the Promenade des Anglais atop a chariot decked in blooms.
Daytime highlights include the fabled “Battle of Flowers.” Floats made entirely of roses, gladioli, and chrysanthemums pass in front of onlookers while costumed models atop them toss blossoms into the crowd. Children and couples dance amid whirling petals; even strangers in the street join hands to catch the rainbow shower. As evening falls, the Carnival Parades illuminate the city: towering mechanical sculptures blaze with light, each animated float playing out a story or scene. A brass band might suddenly erupt with carnival tunes, and dancers in elaborate suits and masks swirl under spotlights, briefly turning Nice’s palm-lined promenades into a phantasmagoric dream.
Nice’s approach to Carnival is elegant and theatrical. The costumes often recall Commedia dell’arte or historical aristocracy, though occasionally caricatures of modern figures appear on floats. Humor here is gentle; the spirit is more poetic than raucous. Even at night’s end, the festivities wind down with a unique tradition: brave revellers leap into the cold Mediterranean sea for the “Carnival Bath,” symbolically washing away the revel of the past days.
Throughout, there is a sense that the city’s refined carnival reaffirms its cultural heritage – an assertion that art, beauty, and a touch of satire belong even in the coldest depths of winter. The Nice Carnival may look like a moving art exhibition by the sea, yet it is grounded in the same pattern of renewal shared by carnivals everywhere. Behind the flower-laden floats and puppets of world leaders burned in effigy, one hears the universal laughter of a city that, for a moment, chooses celebration over routine.
In Montevideo, carnival unfolds under a summer sky and lasts longer than anywhere else on earth. From mid-January well into February (often stretching nearly 40 days), the streets of Uruguay’s capital throb with rhythms and satire. Here carnival roots trace back to the African slaves of the colonial era, who preserved their drumming traditions by celebrating around the city walls during Carnival time. After emancipation, these traditions blossomed into “candombe”: street parades of drums and dancers that still form the beating heart of the Uruguayan Carnival.
At dusk on parade nights, long filas (lines) of drummers called cuerdas de tambores march through Barrio Sur and Palermo. Each cuerda has dozens of players of three drum sizes, their skins rolling a contrapuntal drumbeat that shakes the air. Ahead of the drums leap costumed characters: the comical Old Woman and Old Man, the playful Chimney Sweep, all moving with jerky, theatrical steps. Neighborhood comparsas (drum troupes) paint their faces, don brightly colored sashes, and make their way to the famous Desfile de las Llamadas. There, countless candombe groups converge in a jubilant contest of style and rhythm. Spectators line the Old City’s streets and balconies, clapping and chanting along, as night after night the drumming parades refuse to let even sleep take hold.
By day, other elements come into play. In the open-air tablados (temporary amphitheaters), murga troupes perform witty musical theater. In city plazas and parks, groups of masked performers — comparsas humoristas, parodistas, and carnival children — sing satirical songs about the year’s politics, love stories, and mundane scandals. Murgas dress in patched coats and top hats; their chorus sings choral verses punctuated with call-and-response refrains, while actors pantomime slapstick scenes. These performances brim with local references and biting humor; during times of political hardship, such shows have even become vehicles of social critique. In the dusty summer heat, clapping audiences pack these street stages, cheering the choirs who speak frankly of collective grievances and hopes.
Montevideo’s carnival is as much about renewal of spirit as it is about tradition. The extended season means it weaves through daily life rather than replacing it. Schools close, families gather for picnics by the drums, and even the Office of the President pauses. When the final procession of drummers fades, Uruguayans feel a bit more united for having danced and laughed together. In a society that prides itself on multicultural ancestry, the carnival’s roots in both African and European heritage make it a yearly affirmation of identity. The Montevideo Carnival lives on the sweat of thrumming tambours and the clever verse of its people; it celebrates the freedom and creativity won by past generations. As the drumbeats echo on into night, it becomes clear that this is more than the longest party — it is a cultural heartbeat that keeps the city awake with pride and resilience.
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