Monthly Archives: July 2014

Last week, Amy and I had the privilege of watching a mountain stage of this year’s Tour de France. It’s not like either of us are huge cycling fans, but I like to watch the Tour every summer, and since we were in the area, and we both enjoy taking part in big sporting events and festivals, we figured this would be something cool to check out.

The best part is that my sister Beth and her husband Rick joined us. They’d been touring Europe themselves for a few weeks, along with my nephew Kevin and his girlfriend fiancé Michelle, and we all met up in Barcelona a few days earlier. Kevin and Michelle had just gotten engaged in Orange, France, so the mood was buoyant, and after the newly engaged couple left for home, the remaining four of us piled into Cleo, the Renault Clio, and headed towards Saint Lary Soulan in the French Pyrenees for Stage 17 of the Tour de France.

Thankfully the trip was only about four hours, but it was probably three-and-a-half hours too long. Cleo, the Renault Clio, is not a large car, and in addition to our oversized world-tour bags, laptop bags, and various bags of food and souvenirs, we had to add Beth and Rick and their baggage to the car. This was no small feat. The baggage compartment of the car was packed like a sardine can. There was a piece of luggage dividing the back seat, which worked like a very large armrest, and also supported my laptop bag.

Each person (except the driver, me) held some kind of bag in their lap, and some had a bag of some kind between their legs on the floor. By the way, Rick is about 6-foot-3, and was stuffed into what would have been an uncomfortable front seat WITHOUT baggage. He was chewing on his knees. Amy, seated behind him, tried to give him some space, so she, too, was chewing on her own knees, and she had so many bags on her lap that she had to be let out of the car by Rick each time, because she couldn’t reach the door latch. Beth, luckily, only had to contend with a grocery bag full of wine, canned mussels, paper towels, various candies, and a six-pack of beer between her legs (we’ll get back to this beer later). By the time we rolled into Saint Lary Soulan, Rick was turned sideways facing the window, trying to alleviate the pain, and Beth and Amy were swimming around in a sea of luggage, shifting the bags, and their weight, to get comfortable. The clown car was ready to explode.

St. Lary is a beautiful mountainous area. In the winter it’s a ski destination, with massive powder runs high in the mountains, serviced by multiple gondolas and lifts covering an open mountaintop. In the summer, it’s covered in wild flowers, and a clear blue-green stream runs through the middle of town. It’s fairly picturesque, and it was a beautiful setting for the race, and our short stay.

We were fortunate enough to have rented a ski condo up on the mountain itself, St. Lary Pla d’Adet. It was perfectly situated for the race. The views out the back of the condo looked down onto the village and the opposing mountainside where the riders would enter the valley, and then up the nearby hill where the riders would approach. The front of the condo was situated close to the end of the race, just one kilometer from the finish line, marked by the “flamme rouge,” a red flag indicating the short distance left.

The throwback, however, was the size of the condo. It was perfectly situated, but small. Beth and Rick shared a fold-out futon couch, basically guaranteeing that Rick’s feet would be hanging off the bed up to his shins. Meanwhile, Amy and I shared bunk beds like Bobby and Peter Brady, with me getting the top bunk. Quarters were tight, and the slightest bodily noise or use of the facilities was a matter of public record. I saw London, I saw France, I saw everyone’s underpants.

And our lifestyles are also a bit different. Beth and Rick are the sort of people who’ll get up at 5am to go play tennis, then take a 10-mile bike ride, only to be home by 8am for a breakfast of fruit, yogurt, and muesli. Amy and I, on the other hand, will get up at 9am to eat ham, eggs, and sausage, which will help sustain us through our 10am naps.

For example, while I watched crappy French TV, ate candy, and drank a few beers, Rick decided to take a hike up the mountain for an hour or two. I should add that my only saving grace in all of this is that those beers (mentioned earlier, the ones Beth bravely sheltered between her legs for four hours in Cleo, the Renault Clio) turned out to be non-alcoholic, because yours truly couldn’t read the damned French label. Though the big “0.0” should have given something away…

Another example: on arrival we all went to Carrefour, the big French supermarket, to get supplies. We were all stocking up on food for the few days we’d be there, when suddenly they started turning out the lights, letting everyone know the store was closing. Beth and Rick sprinted to the produce section and grabbed a bunch of fruit and vegetables before it was too late. I, in the meantime, holding a duck sausage, turned to Amy and said, “Drop the broccoli!! – Get the wine!!”

So the day before the race, we all compromised a little (Beth and Rick sleeping in a little, and Amy and I getting up earlier), and went to get the lay of the land. First we walked up to the finish area. It was still empty of any official-looking set-up, though the parking lot was blocked off. And at one point on the road, someone had spray-painted a line at just about the point we assumed the race would end. Could this be the finish line? There was no indication. And otherwise, it was a ghost town.

So we hopped on to a gondola and went into the village to check out the vibe. There was a lot of buzz in the air, and a bunch of people milling around, some wearing cycling gear, just like tailgaters at a football game. We did watch that day’s Tour stage over a beer at a café, and eventually we took the gondola back to the condo. We all wondered when the actual Tour organization would show up and start getting things ready for our stage the next day.

That evening, after making dinner, we were playing cards, and between hands I went out onto the balcony and saw a string of vehicles coming up the mountain. The lead vehicle was a massive red truck that kept blowing its horn, and other cars were blowing their horns in return. This had to be it. The circus was coming to town.

I ran in excitedly and told everyone: “THEY’RE COMING!” We all ran out on to the balcony and watched the wagon train of vehicles coming up the road in the distance. Soon, they’d all be at the top, and we’d see them start setting up for the next day – the finish line, the flamme rouge, the award stage – all of it. We put the cards down, and all got dressed to go outside. Soon enough the truck came into view, still blowing its horn. And that was basically all there was to the excitement. It was followed by about ten cars – various Renaults, Citroens, and Peugeots – all stuck behind this slow-moving truck. We looked around at each other, and all went back inside, slightly disappointed.

But sure enough, as the night went on, more trucks kept coming, and before we went to bed, we went up the to the summit once more. By now the road was covered in various organizational vehicles, and more kept arriving. The circus had truly come to town, and it was all starting to become real.

The next morning we got up and went outside to take a look around. Like the Elves and the Shoemaker, someone had been up working all night while the rest of us slept. To our surprise, the road to the summit was lined with barricades, the trucks had been transformed into a finish area, massive TV screens were up, the awards podium was set up, the flamme rouge marker had been inflated – everything was in place. How had all this been done in so few hours? It was miraculous.

People were already starting to claim their spots next to the road. From early morning, families were setting up tables and chairs, some picnicking, some reading, all waiting for the racers to arrive. Many walked up and down the roadway, which was open to foot traffic, and we joined them as well. Eventually, we took the coffee table and some chairs out from the condo and grabbed our spot next to the road. The wine and beer started flowing. It was getting exciting. In the condo, we turned the TV on to monitor the day’s stage, and with little fanfare, the racers were off. They would be to us in a few hours time.

Here’s something fun about the Tour de France: the spectators. If you ever watch it on TV, you see that the spectators really get into it. They line the road as the riders go by, wearing crazy costumes and getting within inches of the cyclists as they pass. They paint the names of their favorites cyclists and teams on the roadway, and they camp for days in advance, waiting for the stage they’ve come to see. And as with any dedicated sports fan base, the Tour knows there’s money to be made from this. There are concessions, souvenir stands, and there are big-time sponsors. Carrefour, the supermarket – they’re a massive sponsor. Haribo candies, Bic pens, Ibis hotels – all sponsors.

And with all these sponsors comes something called “The Caravan.” Before the riders actually start to race, this parade of vehicles takes off about an hour in advance of them, riding along the stage route and handing out goodies. While Mardi Gras has people tossing out free beads, the Tour de France has the Caravan, spewing out cheap samples and shoddy souvenirs. And if there’s one thing that works drunken people into a frenzy, it’s brightly colored cars, manned by cute French babes, throwing free junk into the air.

I was no exception. I told everyone, well in advance, that I wanted one of those red bucket hats that I’d seen people wearing along the Tour on TV. I, too, wanted to be seen on TV wearing a red bucket hat. And earlier that morning, my dream came true when Rick, out for one of his morning mountaineering excursions, got a few from a prematurely passing sponsor. Rick, however, wanted one of the polka-dotted Carrefour cycling caps, so we made this our Caravan goal.

When the Caravan came by, though, we nearly forgot about the polka-dot hat. There were FREE THINGS flying through the air! We got TWO PACKAGES OF DETERGENT!! Then there were the bags of Haribo gummy candies. Amy scrambled and caught a collapsible Frisbee thing. We started fighting kids to get stuff. One car came flying by and about a dozen bags of some horrible cheese doodles came flying at us. We got about ten of them. One car tossed out a bunch of white Skoda bucket hats, and Rick, with his extensive reach, basically grabbed a bunch out of the guy’s hand. I dove under a car to grab a keychain, tearing up my knee on the gravel. Beth caught some kind of disgusting soft drink sample. We fought for wristbands, flexible rulers, erasers, and an inflatable plastic pillow. And yes, we got Rick’s polka-dotted hat – three of them, in fact. I turned to Beth at one point and yelled, “I’ve never been more excited to get all this cheap crap I’m going to throw out tomorrow!” It was an orgy of avarice, and we were worked into a state of Gallic commercial ecstasy.

That said, once the Caravan passed, and we returned to a state of calm, we gave away a bunch of stuff to some nearby kids – a lot of candy, much of the cheese doodles, and some other junk. But we still had all this other stuff below to ourselves:

Much of it currently sits in a landfill somewhere in the south of France.

With the brief high of consumption now behind us, we were ready for the riders themselves make their way in our direction. The condo’s TV let us know they were somewhere on the other side of the ridge across the valley, and soon we started to see helicopters in the distance as the riders got closer to the pass. People with binoculars and good cameras signaled that the leaders and the rest of the peloton were crossing over into the valley, and with a squinting look you could see the team cars and tour officials coming down the valley roads towards the village. At speeds of 30-40 miles an hour, the lead riders would be below us in St. Lary in no time, and up to us in Pla d’Adet in a half-hour or so.

We started to strategize. We’d told people to look for us somewhere slightly past the flamme rouge, and now we tried to figure out where to best be seen on TV. Amy and I both have degrees in television production, and I spent the last dozen years before this trip working at a sports network. With the lead riders fast approaching, and now on the mountainside roads winding their way towards the summit, we needed to make a decision. We were on the outside of a wide turn. I figured, with the shortest distance between two points being a straight line, the lead rider, heading uphill, would take the turn tight. This would force the motorcycle with the TV camera to take the turn wide, shooting towards the tight side. I hopped the barriers and ran across the road, out of the view of the local gendarmerie. I stood alone, facing a good hundred spectators on the opposite side, many looking at my ridiculous outfit, which I wore specifically to stick out like a sore thumb. In that endeavor, I was successful. I looked like an idiot. In others, I would not be as successful, as we’ll see.

Then the murmur of the crowd rose to cheers, as the lead rider approached. A few police motorcycles and official cars came flying by, and then – ZOOM – with great pace and remarkable uphill speed, the lead rider, Rafal Majka, a hill-climber, raced by TAKING THE TURN WIDE, with the TV camera passing me looking the other way. My TV chance was blown. Amy, however, in her blue hat, and Beth, fully dressed in yellow, may have made it on TV, if you can pick them out of this freeze frame as Majka flew by.

Soon afterword, a few more riders approached. Among them was Vincenzo Nibali, the overall Tour leader, and eventual 2014 Tour winner, in the famed “maillot jaune,” or yellow jersey. He took the turn tight, with the TV crew shooting towards me. This may have been my shot.

After that, a flurry of riders went by, and soon enough, it was all over, with a trickling of team and official cars coming by, and then nothing more. For all the build-up, all the excitement, all the days of preparing for this moment, it was over within minutes. We grabbed our table and chairs, and went inside the condo. We took naps. We played cards later that night, and ate leftovers from our ill-fated excursion to Carrefour. Rick wore his polka-dotted hat.

A few days later, Beth and Rick flew back home, their bags full of bucket hats and cycling caps. We drove on through the south of France, with Cleo, the Renault Clio, considerably lighter, roomier, and handling the roads with ease.

We never heard whether any of us were actually spotted on TV.

[Editor’s Note: this is gonna be a long one. Sit back, relax, and enjoy.]

Earlier this week, Amy and I were in Pamplona, Spain for three days of the San Fermin festival. Most people know this festival better for the “Running of the Bulls,” and if I’m honest, that’s really why we went. I’ve wanted to run with the bulls since my early 20’s, back when my brother and I talked about going together. Of course, this is the kind of talk brothers have in their 20’s, but we just got tattoos, and then got jobs, and eventually got married, and so it goes. But with this trip Amy and I are on, I finally got the chance, and I took it.

Here’s a little of what I can tell you from my limited knowledge of the San Fermin festival: San Fermin (or Saint Fermin) was an early Christian martyr who’s the patron saint of the Navarra province of Spain, where Pamplona is the capital. Fermin was the first bishop of the region, but then he went to France and got his head chopped off, and now they have a big party to celebrate his life. It goes on for a week or so every year, and Ernest Hemingway made it famous in “The Sun Also Rises,” so now the streets of Pamplona are filled with all nationalities of all ages, many of whom are drinking beer and sangria from dusk ‘til dawn and throughout the night. It’s like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but if every street was Bourbon Street, and instead of beads, you have to wear a white outfit with a red sash and a red handkerchief around your neck. Sure, it looks a bit ridiculous, but it’s a tradition, and everyone does it, and it isn’t Labor Day yet, so what’s the harm in wearing white and looking like Liza Minelli?

The obvious highlight is the running of the bulls, and I can provide you with a little backstory on that as well. It’s another tradition that’s well over a hundred years old, and what basically happens is they take six bulls from a pen in one part of the old town over to the bullring in the other part of town, so they can take part in the bullfight later that night. At some point very early on some wiseacre decided it would be fun to run with the bulls, and then the next year more guys joined in, and 100 years later it’s mayhem in the streets of Pamplona. There is a religious aspect to it as well, because in celebrating the life of San Fermin, there is the experience of facing death as a celebration of living a full life. One guy gets his head chopped off in France, others run through the streets of Pamplona being chased by a half-dozen pissed-off death-row cows.

Amy and I arrived just after the opening ceremonies of Day One. There are no bull runs that day, just a lot of pageantry and singing, and eventually the streets clog up with drunken teenagers, drunken adults, and drunken elderly people. There are no rules. People drink everywhere, pee everywhere (even the ladies), vomit everywhere, and spray sangria all over their brand new white clothes. It’s bacchanalia at its finest, and we enjoyed it for several hours while we scouted the course of the bull-run, but eventually we’d had enough of the crowds and we headed back to our hotel.

A note about our hotel: we were a little late in booking a room for the festival, so we couldn’t find anything nearby at a reasonable price. So we stayed about 45 minutes outside of Pamplona in a rural village called Riezu. Our hotel was a 16th century palacio, the former home of the village’s medieval lord. Our room had massive wooden beams that were basically rough-hewn trees, and huge stone masonry. It was a bit dark and cold, but it was pretty fantastic, and our host Stef was a great guy. The only issue was that it was 45 minutes from all the action.

So the next day, we had to wake up early – very early, at 4:30am – to see the first running. We had to put on some clothes, drive to Pamplona, and then meet a tour guide at 6:15 to collect some tickets before the 8:00am running. We’d read that the best place to watch a run was from a balcony, and Amy, ever-the-planner, arranged for us to get balcony spots and tickets for the bullfight later that night. By 6:45 we were in someone’s home, on a balcony overlooking Calle Santo Domingo, ready for the run to start. It was like a carnival atmosphere – a band playing right in front of us, and people with kids walking the course, some already drinking wine.

A loudspeaker recited the rules in Spanish and English: no drunks, nobody under 18, no backpacks or cameras, don’t interfere with the bulls (in fact, you’re not supposed to touch the bulls – while some people do touch them, people get fined). By 7:30 the cops were locking up the streets, tossing drunks and other rule-breakers, and clearing out the families. By 7:45, it was just nervous runners on the streets. And at 8:00am, the main event began.

The Running of the Bulls takes less than three-minutes. Six bulls (normally black in color) will be guided by a group of castrated steers (slightly bigger and brown & white) through the old town to the bullring (see map below). A rocket goes off, signaling the start for runners who may be several blocks away, and the bulls are let loose from a paddock just outside the old town. They take a slight turn, and at this point they meet the runners (a second rocket indicating this moment) and head up a cobblestone straightaway called Calle Santo Domingo. Then they reach a small square in front of the City Hall, and take a wide left turn, and then head straight for a few more blocks on Mercaderes. Then comes “Dead Man’s Corner,” a sharp right turn where many of the bulls lose their footing on the cobblestones and slam into a wall, often taking out a number of runners with them. From here on it’s the lengthy homestretch, down the cobbled Calle Estafeta, and they eventually reach the chute and gateway that takes them into the Plaza de Toros (another rocket blast), the bullring where everything finishes, where the bulls run into another paddock, and await their time in the spotlight in the bullfight that night. Once the last bull has entered the ring, a fourth and final rocket goes off, indicating it’s all over.

At 8:00am, the first rocket went off, the crowd went crazy, and the runners started running. A mob started running up the street from our left, and here’s what we saw:

They were past us in the blink of an eye, and I ran off the balcony to another room with a TV. They broadcast the runs live in Navarra, and I watched for the next minute or so. Then a noise came from outside on the street – two more steers had been let loose a few minutes later!! They came roaring past, and up Santo Domingo, away towards the bullring. I believe they do this in case any bulls are still loose or lost for any reason – the steers know the way and will guide the bulls in if there’s any problem. (This happened two days after we ran – a bull got separated from the others in the crowd, and actually turned around, heading back into the crowds).

It was thrilling to see, and great research for our run the next day. We watched a bunch of replays, and then left the balcony, and headed on to the streets for some food and drink. The town was buzzing with excitement, and we spent several hours walking around and taking in the sights, and eating delicious tapas (or as they call them in the Basque region, “pintxos”) at the bars. But with our early morning, and a bullfight later that night, we drove back to the hotel for an afternoon nap and shower.

I also spent part of the afternoon doing research, trying to figure out the best way to run. We’d gotten some advice from friends who’d done it before – thanks Erik, Caroline, and Lee – and the internet was a great resource. There’s even a fantastic website, sanfermin.com, where they break down all the bulls, and have stats about that day’s gorings, and injuries, and the bull’s weights and backgrounds. It’s hilarious. I’m trying to figure out a way to set up a fantasy bull running league.

The next day was the big day. We got up early again, put on our white clothes, and drove to Pamplona. After the online research the afternoon before, we discussed how we’d go about it. Your goal as a runner is to a) run with the bulls, and b) get to the bullring at the Plaza de Toros, basically crossing the finish line, and celebrate there with the crowd in the stands and the other runners. If you get to the bullring before the bulls, the audience in the Plaza will boo you. But if you start too far back on Santo Domingo, near the beginning, it’s doubtful you’ll make the Plaza de Toros. You’ve got to run nearly a kilometer in three minutes. So there’s a lot of strategy involved.

We decided we would start on Santo Domingo, right under the balcony we watched from the day before. We were familiar with that stretch of road, we knew how the bulls ran down that street, and we knew where you could get in and out of the barriers. It seemed like a natural choice, even if chances of making the arena were slim. With a little over an hour to go, we were in the street and waiting for 8:00am to come around, chatting with the occasional stranger, and constantly asking people, “Que hora es?” It seemed like an eternity, and I felt jittery and nervous. We both had to leave a few times to take a pee.

If you know Amy, you know she’s constantly meeting people and striking up conversations. I don’t know how she attracts them, but it happens all the time. She was an NBC page (just like Kenneth on “30 Rock”), and she’s got the solicitous kind of face that seems to say, “Can I help you?!” Well, sure enough, a woman wearing a press credential, with a huge camera hanging from her neck, came up and asked Amy, “May I interview you?” She was from the local newspaper, the Diario de Navarra, and she was doing a story on women who run with the bulls. Amy answered her questions, and agreed to meet up with her after the running to tell her how it went. She asked me a couple of questions, too, and here’s the big difference – Amy was smiley and polite; but my nerves were so jangled, and I was so preoccupied, I looked like a total schmuck. I could barely spit out an answer or work up a decent smile for the camera.

Amy and I agreed that after the race we would meet back by where we started for her post-game interview. We picked a spot, knowing we might get separated, and waited the last few minutes for the race to start. I could barely stay in my skin. I was a bit shaky and full of nervous energy. The last few minutes went by quickly, and then – BOOM. The first rocket. The bulls were out of the pen.

It all went by in the blink of an eye. The minute the rocket went off, the noise became intense, and a wave of runners started heading towards us in anticipation of the bulls, which would only be seconds behind. I immediately got separated from Amy.

Amy told me what happened to her – she saw the wave of runners, got close to a wall, and watched the bulls run by. The bulls passed, the wave of runners dissipated, and it was over that fast. She started to look for me. Here’s a picture of Amy during the run (a bit out of focus because we had to blow it up from the original):

Things were much different for me. Remember all that research I spoke about earlier? I read that the best approach was to make an “arc” – stay on the sides, and as the bulls get close, swing out into the street with the bulls, run for a while, and then drop back off to the side of the street and avoid getting trampled. That was my strategy. When that wave of runners started to approach, I ran like hell ahead of them up Santo Domingo, trying to make some space. The bulls would get to me soon enough – it was the runners I was worried about. There’s only about 12 bulls (with the steers), but there’s thousands of people, and I was more concerned about avoiding them than avoiding the bulls. Sure enough, the bulls were nearby – you could hear the stampede of hooves on the cobblestones, and the constant ringing of the cowbells, not to mention the roar of the crowd, and, oddly enough, the heavy breathing of yourself and the guys running next to you.

As we approached the City Hall square, I was ready to make my arcing move in, looking over my shoulder as the bulls got close. And then…cleanup on Aisle 9! Someone about five yards ahead of me tripped, and there was a massive pileup of bodies, about ten people deep. I ran right into it, and all progress stopped. The bulls thundered by. I didn’t even get close. So much for the arc. Here’s a photo of my run, taken about two seconds before the pile up.

I was quickly able to get around the pile of runners, but by then it was too late. The bulls were a good ten yards ahead of me, and I could barely see them as they thundered off, surrounded by throngs of runners. But I kept running. I don’t know why. There was no chance I would catch them, and the bullring was another 700 meters away. But I kept running. I guess it was all the excitement, and the energy, and the fact that a thousand other runners just kept running as well. And when the hell would I ever run with the bulls again? And I thought to myself, “Can I actually make it to the bullring before they close the gates?”

Within 30 seconds I was at “Dead Man’s Corner,” and as I took the turn with hundreds of other people, I started seeing people putting their hands up, basically telling the crowd, “slow down, it’s over, don’t get hurt.” Which was sensible, considering the bulls were gone by this point, and with all the running mob, people were still falling and tripping on the cobblestones and getting trampled. Things slowed down to a jog, more like running a 10k than sprinting with angry farm animals.

Let me tell you a bit about my fitness level. It ain’t great. I’ve never been the type that works out a lot, and while I do like to swim, there haven’t been a lot of visits to the YMCA on this trip. And while I might have been more slender in Asia, all the beef in Argentina, the beer at the World Cup, and the jamon and red wine in Spain has got me feeling a little…bloated. I may have been at my bantam wrestling weight in Asia, but I’m approaching my sumo wrestling weight here in Spain. I was huffing and puffing like a madman, and the cobblestones were doing a number on my knees. But I was so full of adrenaline, I could have run through a wall.

As I kept jogging down Estafeta, I noticed a bunch of runners who kept looking back over their shoulders, and I was wondering what for – was there a lost bull out there somewhere? And then I remembered: the two steers they send out later for cleanup duty. We hadn’t seen them yet. And if we hadn’t seen them, then the gate to the bullring wasn’t closed yet. I picked up my pace, determined to make the bullring. A minute or so later, and I saw the approach. I was going to make it.

As I headed down the tunnel towards the ring, a loud cry went up in the air, and everyone started sprinting again, like the same noise and commotion, and the same wave of runners at the beginning. Clearly the two steers were approaching. I ran like hell down the tunnel, heading towards the ring, and cleared the gate that leads into the arena – the same gate that would be closed seconds later. It was really crowded in the tunnel, and if the steers were anywhere close, it would be a tight fit. Seconds later I made it out of the tunnel and into the ring itself, where I jumped out of the way to the left, and saw the two steers run by me. I had made the ring, uninjured.

I was euphoric. There was so much energy and adrenaline in my system, I took off my hat and waved it around, and yelled aloud to no one in particular. I was there with a thousand other runners, but alone in my glory. I smiled and looked around at the cheering crowd in the stands. It felt awesome. I caught my breath, and felt my legs tremble. My lungs were burning. But I was still full of nervous energy, and I kept wishing my brother were there to have done it with me.

They started to replay video of the running on the jumbotron. Who knew the bullring had a jumbotron? But sure enough, they started to show the running, and all the runners turned to watch. But we never finished watching.

About two minutes in, a massive noise went up in the stands, and runners in the ring started to surge in one direction. And I heard someone say (in English), “it’s the young bull!!” I had read about this. Once the run is over, they send a young bull out into the crowd of runners. The young bull is much smaller, and his horns are blunted so he can’t really do any damage (in fact, I was later told that it’s not a young bull at all, but a female!). But she’s damn feisty, and angry, and goes after anything that moves. Some folks would try to touch her to prove their bravery, and all kinds of guys were constantly getting trampled, or head-butted, or kicked by the young bull. The crowd loved it. Anytime the bull trampled someone, they went wild. And if someone was toying with the young bull too much, like pulling their tail, they’d boo.

At one point the crowd started to move in my direction, and like the parting of the Red Sea, everyone in front of me started moving out of the way. The young bull was headed our way, and as fortune would have it, they cleared a path with the bull heading right at me. I started to run backwards with everyone, and now there was an open circle around the bull as he kept heading in my direction. And then I tripped, falling directly on my ass. There I was, out in the open of the undulating circle of people, with the young bull bearing down on me. The crowd sensed my imminent trampling, and you heard a collective gasp. I was frozen. All I could think of was me telling the doctor, “No, it wasn’t one of the big bulls, it was only a couple hundred pounds…” But within three feet of me, she changed direction and started going after some other jackass. Bulls go after the motion. My chicken-shit freezing had paid off.

At this point I figured I had had enough, and should probably get back to Amy, who was likely nervous and dreaming up scenarios in which I had a bull’s horn stuck in my lungs. So I left the bullring with a bunch of other runners and started to head back to our meeting point. She wouldn’t know I made it all the way to the bullring, and I knew she would be waiting and worried about my delay. And sure enough, a few minutes later I saw her looking for me on the streets, well away from the meeting point, and relieved to see me in one piece.

We did meet up with the reporter from Diario de Navarra, and the next day, Amy was featured in an online story about women who run. You can read the story here, and see us in the video, at the beginning and the very end. And once again, I was so full of adrenaline and nervous and fidgety… Amy comes off happy and smiley, I come off like a dolt.

http://www.diariodenavarra.es/noticias/san_fermin/san_fermin_2014/2014/07/09/las_mujeres_aunque_pocas_tambien_corren_encierro_166771_2941.html

(You can cut and paste the body of the article into Google Translate and it does a pretty good job.)

And lastly, here’s the video of that day’s running (with stats!). At about :35 seconds (on the graphic clock) is where the bulls run by Amy. You won’t be able to see her. At :40-:41 seconds, if you watch a few times over, and very closely, you might catch me on the right wearing my Yankees hat. And a second later, at :42, on the right, you can see the pileup of bodies I got caught in.

(http://www.sanfermin.com/index.php/en/encierro/encierros_2014/8-julio)

So, to answer your question: would I do it again? Absolutely. In the blink of an eye.

Hi Mom! I know you’re anxiously awaiting the Pamplona post…it’s coming! John is finishing it up today and we should have it done and posted tomorrow complete with photos, videos and news coverage (yes, we made the papers!). But in the meantime, here’s a little “appetizer” for you. We had dinner on Wednesday night at Mugaritz in San Sebastian. Three Michelin Stars of deliciousness! And this gem. Enjoy!

Check back tomorrow for the complete tale of our Running with the Bulls!

Hey there, friends, followers, visitors, and the merely curious! I realize we’re waaaaaaay behind with a blog post, so I thought I’d update you on our last several weeks. Truth is, we’ve been on the move a great deal, and the radio silence happened because we just haven’t found much time to sit back and write a lengthy recap of our activities. If you’re one of our Facebook friends you’ve seen small doses, but here’s what we’ve been up to:

Santiago, Chile

We spent a week in Santiago, but unfortunately a few things made it less-than-perfect. First off, it rained almost the entire time. We did get to see a bunch of sights, but we weren’t able to get to wine country as planned, and we actually spent one day in a mall (though it allowed us to go bowling on yet another continent).

The other issue is that Amy was sick for most of our stay in Santiago, so we spent a few days holed up in our AirBnB apartment, which was pretty nice, actually. We got it through a company called “Chile4Rent,” and that was also the wifi name. So every time we logged into the wifi, we would sing “CHILE FOR RENT!” to the tune of “Baby Come Back!” (Sing it with me: “Chile For Rent!”) The problem with spending two days holed up in the apartment was that we only had one English-speaking channel other than CNN, so we watched about 20 episodes of “Two-and-a-Half Men” in those 48 hours (mathematically that’s fifty men in 48 hours, or just over a man-per-hour). Jon Cryer does not get funnier when subtitled in Spanish. And if you work in cable TV, you know programming – you repeat the same episodes several times every day. So we saw the same fart jokes two to three times a day while eating some half-decent take-out pizza.

Side note: we also saw the same promo for an upcoming One Direction concert movie in just about commercial break. “That’s what makes you beautiful!…let’s go CRAZY, CRAZY, CRAZY til we see the sun! – you’ve got that…ONE THING!” I love One Direction now (or as I call them, “1D”). Harry Styles is the cutest, but they’re all very talented in their own right, and super-cute, and oh-my-god, I just can’t…

Speaking of Chilean food (like half-decent take-out pizza) – we did have a few great meals, including one at a place named Borago, which according to the good folks at the San Pellegrino list, is ranked #91 globally, and the 8th best restaurant in Latin America. And as the best restaurant in Santiago, Amy and I decided to get reservations. Borago is known for using locally foraged ingredients, and it has a 12-course “endemic” tasting menu that makes the most of some uniquely Chilean ingredients. Here’s a few of the courses:

This is “Tartar of Guanaco from Tierra del Fuego.” What’s guanaco? It’s basically llama. Check it out – llama tartar! And to answer your question, yes, it was very good.

This is “Quail Egg in the Nest with Mushrooms.” To me it looks like the Charlie Brown Christmas tree, but the quail egg was fantastic. Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!!

If there was ever a dish that is evil incarnate, this was it. “Veal and its Milk.” I know some people don’t like eating veal. Now imagine the veal is prepared in “its milk.” The irony of this did not escape me. It was crazy. And it was crazy delicious.

(A side note: did you know that almost all veal is male? I learned this from my father, who befriended a number of farmers living in the rural area by my parents’ lake house. All farmers need is a lot of ladies for milking, and one very lucky bull. The young male calves: not so lucky…)

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present, the “Frozen Glacier.” Yeah, it looks like we’re making kissy-face lips. We’re not. We’re blowing sweet, cold, minty smoke into the air. Not tobacco smoke, but literally some kind of super-cooled dessert that looks and tastes like a freeze-dried Mento, and you blow out the cold air like when it’s freezing outside. It was totally cool, and I wish the picture did justice to the novelty of it all.

It was a great meal.

Brazil and the World Cup

You read a bit about this in our friend Mark’s previous post. We first spent two quick days walking along the beach in Rio de Janiero. It was great, and the city had World Cup fever. All sorts of television crews and people from around the globe. The highlight was the opening match between Brazil and Croatia. We watched the first half on TV, and then we had to get to the airport for our flight to Recife. We got to the airport in record time – the streets were completely empty because everyone was watching the game. It was seriously post-apocalyptic. If there’s ever some sort of virus that kills everyone off, it will be great for your commute, trust me.

Recife and Natal were fun beach towns in the north, and I can honestly say other than going to the games in each town, our time there was uneventful. We’d go see a match, or sit at an outdoor café/bar and watch another match. It was pretty relaxing, and we had a lot of fun with Mark, it was great having him around.

Going to the games was great as well, even if it wasn’t a USA match. There are so many people in great costumes, and the passion and pageantry are catchy.

One match of note, however: Mexico vs. Croatia. The Mexican fans are very passionate, and they had some pretty nasty words they called their opponents, in unison, regularly. It’s like the whole stadium had Tourette’s on cue. And as the match went on, and no one was scoring, the tequila-fueled mob (seriously – we’ve got photos) got restless. They started throwing cups and getting more angry. And when the breakthrough goal came, so did the mayhem. In the first half, a security guard gave Amy grief for putting her feet up on the chairs. By the second half, however, it was beyone control – he was overlooking the flying cups, flying beer, flying garbage, and the unruly nature of the Mexican fans. Fights erupted in various sections of the stands, and riot police (seriously!) came into one section.

With the Mexicans well ahead in the 85th minute, Amy requested we leave early to avoid whatever celebratory violence might occur at the final whistle. By the end of added time, we were on a bus headed back. Like Lot and Lot’s wife, I told Amy not to look back at the orgy of destruction, and fortunately, she did not, and thus did not turn into a pillar of salt. Otherwise she would have been used to make thousands of margaritas.

And before we leave South America, a note about death and loss. They say these often come in threes, and in this case, we lost three things very near to us during our stay in Brazil.

First, Amy’s favorite travel umbrella was confiscated by the security folks at the USA vs. Ghana match. Apparently you can carry a mock assault rifle to go with your Rambo costume, but no umbrellas, please. You could block someone’s view.

Second, please say a silent prayer for my blue button-down shirt. You’ve seen it in a hundred pictures until now. It had a big rip in the back near the bottom which happened about two months into the trip in Asia, a few paints spots from when I sat on a freshly-painted bench in India, and a greasy oil stain from some steak dinner in Argentina. And it was always wrinkled. But it was lightweight, and it served me well. And when we got into our cab to go to the airport (and Europe), I asked Amy if she had seen my shirt. And she hadn’t, because I left it perched on a nearby bicycle while I loaded the bags into the cab. You can’t see my eyes getting misty right now, but please, look away — I don’t want you to see me like this.

Lastly, and most painfully, while sitting at the gate waiting to board our flight to Europe, I dropped my watch on the tile floor of the airport. The face cracked, badly, all the way from 11 o’clock to 5 o’clock. I think this might be repairable, and if anyone out there knows anything about this, let me know. I’ve worn that watch every day for close to 10 years, and it’s traveled the globe with me several times, and they don’t make them anymore. So…any ideas?

Flight to Europe

Our flight to Europe was uneventful, but one thing was memorable. We flew the German discount airline Condor to Frankfurt, and it was like any other transcontinental flight, but we ate what was probably the most delicious coach airline meal we’ve ever had! I don’t know what the secret was, but it was some kind of chicken and rice dish that was… well…amazing! It was really fantastic. Sure, it came in the whole microwave/tinfoil dish thing, but I could have eaten two more of them. Kudos, Condor.

We then had a seven-hour layover in Frankfurt, and eventually got to Madrid at about 8pm that night. And in Madrid we picked up the newest member of our travel family. Please say a big blog hello to…CLEO!

For the next three months, we’ll be driving around in this brand new 2014 Renault Clio. We did the math and figured this long-term rental would be cheaper than all the trains to all the places we want to go, and the flexibility of it all helps a great deal. The name “Cleo” is pretty obvious, and generally it’s a pretty good vehicle.

But I do have one issue with Cleo. Cleo has a navigation system that clearly wants some attention. Instead of simply saying “stay on the motorway for the next 88 kilometers,” Cleo, at regular intervals, will turn down the radio, and say in her robot voice that sounds like Emma Thompson, “At the next exit, in two-point-five kilometers – go straight on the motorway. Keep left.” Then, “In one kilometer, stay straight.” Then, “In one-hundred meters, keep left…(you go 80 meters)…Keep left…” What?!! Tell me when to get OFF the highway, Cleo. Otherwise just shut up!! One Direction is on the radio!

Madrid

We spent two fantastic days in Madrid. We ate all kinds of great food, including a stop at the Museo Del Jamon – the Museum of Ham!

We also ate pig’s ears at a tapas bar…

We went to the Prado and were overwhelmed by great art.

And we ate at the oldest restaurant in the world, called Restaurant Botin. It was quite good, but it had this line on the bottom of the menu:

I’m hoping that’s just a cultural thing, and not a precursor to antibiotics.

We also visited this really fabulous bullfighting bar. There were all kinds of mounted bulls heads, all former bull greats, famous for battling the greatest matadors. It would be like walking into a bar and having a beer and marinated octopus, while the stuffed heads of Joe Louis, Sonny Liston, and Mike Tyson – if he was dead – looked down on you. (That’s actually not a bad idea for a bar, though I’m not sure it would be up to health code to have the stuffed corpses mingling with the stuffed peppers).

There were also fantastic pictures of bullfighting, some just utterly gruesome. Take a look at this guy – Dios Santo!!

Obidos

From Madrid we drove to Obidos, Portugal, on the recommendation of friends. We booked three nights there, but what the friends didn’t tell us is that Obidos is basically a day-trip. It’s a spectacular medieval walled city, and tourists come en masse to walk the fortress walls. We spent the first day exploring the town, then we watched some World Cup matches at a local bar. But then, at night, they roll up the welcome mats, and the place shuts down by 10pm. It’s eerily silent after dark! Nothing is open. So we went back to our hotel. On the second day, we explored more, met a dog (who we named Simon for no real reason), watched more World Cup, took a nap, went window shopping, and then at 10pm – BOOM BOOM. Out go the lights.

By Day Three we wised up. We hopped into Cleo, and explored some 800-year-old monasteries in a few neighboring towns. We also went to Fatima, the site of a vision of the Virgin Mary nearly 100 years ago. It’s huge, and tens of thousands of pilgrims visit every year to celebrate the miracle. But what I found interesting were the souvenir shops, where you can get a Fatima bucket hat for about 10 euro. There’s also the “Ave Maria” restaurant at the complex. I guess even pilgrims have to eat.

Porto

Our next stop was only a few hours away, in Porto, Portugal. We’d been there before, and really loved it. We arrived a bit after noon, and spent the afternoon exploring the hills of the city, drinking beer and wine down by the Douro River, and having a port wine tasting. I’ll tell you this about the port tasting – our host gave a generous pour. He also gave us four glasses for a three-glass tasting. And these were glasses full of rich syrupy dessert wine. We hadn’t really had that much to eat that day, so by the time we left, we were feeling slightly light-headed.

Later that evening, we walked around trying to find a place to watch the USA-Belgium World Cup match. We were about five minutes from kickoff, and still couldn’t find anywhere that looked full of people excited about the World Cup. And then the syrupy port wine caught up with me. There was a rumble in my stomach that indicated impending disaster. There we were, too far from our hotel, and nowhere near finding a place to watch the match. And if you know Amy, you know she hates to miss the National Anthem. Well, I’m sad to say, Amy tragically missed the Anthem that night. At the twilight’s last gleaming, she gave proof through the night, while I was deep in the bowels of a coffee shop, bombs bursting in air.

We did finally find a place to watch nearby, and it was totally empty, we were the only ones there for most of the first half. It seemed the excitement was lost on the Portuguese. I imagine being out of the tournament already, they couldn’t care less about the possible snooze-fest that was USA vs. Belgium. So we got on the bar’s wifi and searched for something more lively. And we found it. Right in the heart of the tourist area by the river, about a 10-minute walk away, was an Irish bar. This had to be the place. So at halftime, we gathered our things, and sprinted downhill to the bar. And when we walked in – it was dead. There was one Belgian couple, and of course the Flems were drinking Stella and eating frites. Well, you know how the game turned out…

Santiago de Compostela

Which brings us up to date. We’re now in Santiago de Compostela, in the Galician region of Spain. It’s the end of the “Way of Saint James,” in which pilgrims walk from France, along the length of northern Spain, to eventually finish here in Santiago (“Saint Tiago,” or “Saint James”). The remains of the Apostle James are located in the cathedral here, and for over a thousand years, people have been making the pilgrimage, which is believed to forgive you of your sins. It’s pretty cool, actually. The town is full of history, and we’ve enjoyed our two days here: exploring the cathedral and the medieval town, getting a tour of the roof of the cathedral, and generally enjoying sitting at cafes and watching the tired pilgrims finish a month-long walk across the country. Seeing the joy on their faces as they finish, it makes you want to give it a try.

I will also tell you this, though – a lot of them smell funky.

Happy Independence Day, everyone! John is almost done with a loooong blog post which should be perfect reading for your holiday weekend hangover. Check back again tomorrow. But in the meantime…What’s more American than pickled pigs ears?! Wishing you a great holiday from Santiago de Compostela, Spain!

Here’s where we are and where we’ve been: https://werefinemom.com/the-map/