ezo!, arsa!, olé!, toma!, vamo!

The scooting of her chair broke the rhythm of their clapping but had been timed perfectly so when it tipped over backward, crashing to the floor, the relatives shouted ale. Marta's below the knee support hose came into view as her skirt parted. She felt like singing and pushed up on the table to stand. Òscar, her husband of fifty years, whom she grew up with on the Valencia vineyard, pulled a Marigold out of the bottle from his cousin Chimo's table and handed it to her.