look for me on TV and other gems

[averseortwo]

I have heard the phrase "once in a lifetime experience" before, always in relation to some amazing experience that is so great it can never be duplicated. Pamplona was definitely a once in a lifetime event for me, but it is because I will never, ever, ever go back. A few days ago some of my fellow Madridiens and I got this wacky idea that it would be really cool to go see the running of the bulls. We'd already heard stories about how everyone sleeps in the park, so, being the insightful and clever women we are, we chose a bus route that allowed us to arrive at 1 AM Sunday and leave ten hours later. Pamplona is a small town where the action is based around three major city blocks. Imagine Greensboro being chosen to host Mardi Gras. The bars were charging for bathroom uses, so everyone peed outside. I prided myself on foresight, wearing a skirt and schlepping my own toilet paper (token Yiddish reference requirement for entry now fulfilled. onto next topic). Most people went behind trees. Many more went in the street, along the bull route, wherever they were able to stop long enough. Having not been able to sleep on the bus, I switched off a sleep schedule on park benches or cozy patches of lawn with my three compatriots. At least two stayed awake to sleep and guard stuff. My mediocre at best Spanish was put to the test, as I was with a Honduran, Mexican-American, and Dominican-American who were able to charm a group of Bilbao boys who wanted us to share their drinks. The official drink of the Festival of San Fermin, patron of Pamplona, is calimocho-red wine and Coca-Cola. Although it is disgusting, I make a mental note to apologize to Jade for being so hard on him that time he tried to get us to expand our alcoholic horizons. Believe me, expanding my alcoholic horizons has been occupying a good deal of my time here, but that is a story for another time. The bulls ran at eight. We were smushed behind a barricade, holding the sweatshirt and knapsack of a friend who had decided to run. Everything smelled like piss, vomit, calimocho, and sweat. At around three that morning, just as the Bilbao crowd had made their appearance, I happened upon two men having very loud sex standing up in the middle of what I assume is usually a pleasant outdoor strolling plaza when not filled with the most drunk people in Spain. There are two layers of barriers in case someone who is running decides to jump over the rail, and, more importantly, in case one of the bulls decides to follow. All the while, I was torn between whether bull-racing is inherently cruel or to hit the annoying couple behind me who kept making out in my ear. I voted yes on both counts. I have actually declared myself a vegetarian while here. I don´t eat pork, which the Spanish use so often (even in salad. i am not making this up) that they often don´t list it as an ingredient. Yesterday in Plaza del Sol, the Times Square of Madrid, we passed the Museo de Jamon- Ham Museum. I came closer to puking at that point than I did anywhere in Pamplona. The running lasts about five minutes. After that, bullfighters slaughter the bulls, two each. I managed to get some sleep in the bus station and then on the bus. When the bus stopped, I got out for a tortilla- here, a quichelike mix of potato and egg which has become my new favorite food here. It´s cheap, yummy, and available almost everywhere- sort of the Spanish equivalent of a double mocha latte frappucino. The woman at the counter cut me a much bigger slice than she should have. ¨Pamplona,¨ she said sagely, looking me up and down, thereby affirming my suspicion that I looked like death warmed over. Luckily, so did everyone else. So there is my Pamplona story. I am sure that in twenty years I will tell it glowingly as an ode to my wild days, telling it in such a way that I am confident and thrill-seeking, but now it is a reminder to all of you who watch the Running of the Bulls on TV. By the way, if you do, look for me. Madrid is a city that I already love like a home, but there will be space for that later. Rest assured that, Pamplona aside, I enjoy the country, and I would probably also like Pamplona if it wasn´t clogged with drunk Australians and the like. I shall write more about it when I have slept well in some place that wasn´t a park bench or dusty bus station floor. P.S. This made me smile. Like, in the happy way. My Best Friend is peterpancomplexOur 11 common interests are: academia, adventures, creative nonfiction, downtowns, found art, guilty pleasures, guinness, live music, road trips, serial dating, wanderlustWho is your best friend?
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