Something about this date tends to feel both solemn and celebratory at the same time. The streets fill with flags — those deep, slightly muted blue-yellow-red tricolors that flutter differently when the air is cold. Bucharest feels especially awake on this day. You can almost hear history breathing behind the grand architecture, feel it woven beneath the modern energy, and sense the quiet pride sitting in the hearts of people walking bundled in scarves toward Aviatorilor Boulevard for the military parade.

Some national holidays feel casual, almost effortless — picnics, beach days, music drifting from open windows. October 12 in Spain is not one of those days. It arrives with formality, uniforms, symbols, and a kind of choreography that feels inherited rather than invented. The morning belongs to precision, ceremony, and centuries of story; the night belongs to celebration and fire. The photograph from the parade captures the first heartbeat of the day: ranks of horses moving down a wide Madrid boulevard, their steps measured and unhurried.