Calle Cid, a narrow street in the small town of Buñol, Spain, is already packed beyond capacity.
My personal space bubble has been reduced to just 3 inches—and my internal alarms sound constantly as foreign objects—a pointy elbow, a stream of water from a neighbor’s hose above, a shoe that steps on mine—invade my ever-shrinking space.
And the Tomatina—Spain’s biggest tomato food fight—hasn’t even begun.
What is Spain’s Tomatina Festival?
An enormous tomato food fight in the streets of Buñol, Spain (a small town about 40 minutes outside of Valencia). It takes place once a year on the last Wednesday of August. Around 20,000 participants come to experience what it feels like to be covered in 150 tons of tomatoes.
We wait, packed like sardines, as neighbors look out from their balconies above us. They kindly dump buckets of water over the crowd—yes, kindly because it’s 90°F (32°C) out and the 12 o’clock sun beats down on us.
Music plays in the background, the crowd hoots and hollers—occasionally breaking out into the Seven Nation Army rhythm or classic Spanish nursery rhymes a todo pulmón (at the top of their lungs). It’s impossible not to be swept up by the energy of the crowd—the excitement, the anticipation, la emoción.
A cheer breaks out and I see a giant tomato-filled dump truck in the distance making its way through the horde of people.
How in the world is a truck going to make it through this street? My first existential question that day.
Suddenly, blue-shirted workers yell and push the mob into the side of the wall. “Atrás! Atrás!” they yell to a crowd of mostly tourists, who pick up on the context clues, despite not knowing the language. I’m now sandwiched between a chubby British father, his skinny teenage son, my husband, and a Spanish dude with hair like Cucurella’s.
My personal space bubble is now long gone, and I have discovered a new level of smush—one that goes far beyond “like sardines” and more closely resembles being-a-marshmallow-inside-a-bag-of-marshmallows, melting on a hot day.
What have I gotten myself into? Was my second existential question.
I cannot move. Let alone catch, throw, or dodge the tomatoes that the workers inside of the dump trucks pelt at us as they inch by. I squeal as a firm tomato lands directly on my cheek/upper lip.
The truck passes. The crowd breathes a bit. And the tomato fight begins. We reach down to pick up small tomatoes off the floor and throw them into the crowd. There aren’t many tomatoes—yet.
Trucks continue to pass, and the insane ritual continues—squeezing towards the sides of the streets, tomatoes raining down from above, the dump truck lifts to unload tons of tomatoes, the truck inches away, we move into the street to grab tomatoes and throw them anywhere and everywhere.
The layer of tomato guts in the street builds.
After the first two trucks, you can still see the cobblestone beneath a layer of mostly-whole tomatoes. After the third truck, it’s become a layer of smashed tomatoes. It builds as the fourth, fifth, and sixth trucks pass. Soon, we’re sloshing around in six inches of gazpacho (Spanish tomato soup).
At one point, the guy next to me scoops up two handfuls of tomato guts from the floor and smashes them onto my head, rubs them around, and laughs in delight. I turn around, bewildered, to see my husband laughing as well. Suddenly—wham! a Spanish abuela (granny)—not two feet away from my husband—launches a tomato that lands directly on his head.
Everyone participates in the chaos. The people behind us sneak smashed tomatoes down the back of our shirts. Tomatoes fly at us from out of nowhere. I scoop tomato sludge off the ground and launch it into the air, at my husband, and at anyone around me.
The fight lasts from 12 to 1pm, and when the final horn sounds, I’m absolutely drenched in tomato. It feels like at least three tons of the 150 tons of tomatoes ended up inside my shoes. I wipe the tomato out of my stinging eyes to be able to see clearly and walk down the tomato-covered street without slipping.
I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s over.
Would I ever do it again?
My third existential question that day.
While the Tomatina was certainly a memorable, new, and completely insane experience unlike anything I have ever lived before… For me, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing. One I definitely don’t need to do again.
Funny enough, my husband—who was very wary about the whole thing (and even told me on the bus ride to Buñol that I wasn’t allowed to plan any more trips this year)—disagrees. He had a fantastic time and does want to come back. (So, I might be back after all.)
The Tomatina Logistics: What to Know Before You Go
If you read this far and thought, “now that’s what I call FUN!” Here’s what you need to know before you buy your Tomatina 2027 tickets:
Wear old clothes you can throw away after. Find a white shirt you’re ready to retire and some comfortable old shorts. I wore an old swimsuit underneath my outfit, and all of it ended up in the trash.
Bring a hat and goggles. When tomato guts get in your eyes, it stings. Bring some snorkeling goggles so you can protect your eyes. To protect my hair, I went for bun > swim cap > hat, and it worked fantastically.
Buy a waterproof case for your phone. You can’t bring backpacks or anything into the tomato fight, so if you want to take pictures, you’ll need a reliable case.
Wear shoes, not sandals. Again, old shoes, because you’ll be throwing them out after. But you definitely want shoes that protect your feet from people stepping on them.
Wear a swimsuit underneath your clothes. After the food fight, you’ll wait in line for one of the showers on the street—either the public ones, or a friendly local who will hose you down for a few euros.
How Much Does The Tomatina Cost?
You can buy your Tomatina tickets online ahead of time. Most tickets include round-trip transport from Valencia (or other cities like Alicante, Benidorm, and Barcelona) and the actual entry fee. We bought our 2026 tickets online here; they cost 50€ per person.
☝🏼Pro Tip: Where to Stay For Maximum Tomatina Pleasure
If I were to go to the Tomatina again, there’s one big thing I’d do differently to maximize the fun and minimize waiting in line with thousands of other human beings…
You see, we decided to stay in Valencia and buy Tomatina tickets that included a round-trip bus ride from Valencia to Buñol. (This is the most popular option, and there are many different companies that offer tickets like these.) This meant we had to:
Meet at a parking lot in Valencia at 9am and wait in line for almost an hour to get on the bus.
Wait in line in Buñol for 30 minutes to store our things in a locker, only to discover that we were in the wrong line…
Wait in line for 40 minutes to be hosed down by some Spanish dude for 5€.
Take a 40-minute bus ride back to Valencia smelling like tomato (even though we did rinse off).
Now, there’s a way to eliminate ALL of the inconveniences listed above. All you have to do is find an Airbnb or hotel in Buñol and stay in the town for two nights. You’ll have a place to store your things, a place to take a good shower, and you won’t have to wait in line at all (well, maybe for a few minutes to get into the actual event, but that line goes fast).
This is a fantastic option if you, like me, despise waiting. Plus, you’ll get to stay for the Tomatina after party and enjoy the paella and sangria that they sell in Buñol.
However, it can be pricey if you try to find accommodation last minute, so make sure you book your accommodation in Buñol well in advance if you’re going to do this.
La Tomatina: An Unforgettable Bucket-List Experience
The smell, presence, and residue that smashed tomatoes leave behind is not one that’s easily erased. And neither is the Tomatina experience.
It’s the world’s biggest food fight, and it’s no surprise it belongs to Spain. This is a country that’s known for running with the bulls, parties that begin at 2am and last till sunrise, and unforgettable experiences.
And, while I might not participate in Spain’s Tomatina again, the experience is one that I will remember for the rest of my life. Not only because of the tomato residue in my ears. But because it was something that totally launched me outside of my comfort zone.
That’s the beauty of traveling—if you let it, travel won’t just change your perspective of the world, it’ll change you.
On your flight back home, you’ll smile as you remember launching tomatoes across the streets of Spain. You’ll close your eyes and hear the shouts of the crowd and feel the energy, the excitement, the pure emotion. It’ll feel like a dream, because it was—a dream come true.
So, when in Spain, let yourself try frightening new things, dare to do something crazy, and don’t be afraid of a little tomato gunk. Next year, the one writing a Tomatina story might just be you.