Not the Marakesh Express

I love the old movie Casablanca?  I've watched Humphrey Bogart and Inger Bergman suffer heartbreak so many times.  In our Lonely Planet Morocco travel book, we read that a former American diplomat had taken it on herself to build Rick's Cafe, imitating the design and atmosphere of the old movie.  We knew we had to go there, but first we had to make it to the city of Casablanca.  Besides, that was where we were supposed to meet up with our GAdventures travel group to see the rest of Morocco.  We were about to find out it wasn't going to be easy to make it to Casablanca.  

https://maps.google.com/maps/empw?url=https:%2F%2Fmaps.google.com%2Fmaps%3Fq%3Dthe%2Bbay%2Bof%2Bgibraltar%26ie%3DUTF8%26hq%3D%26hnear%3DBay%2Bof%2BGibraltar%26gl%3Dus%26ll%3D36.138798,-5.399965%26spn%3D0.236229,0.237236%26t%3Dm%26z%3D12%26vpsrc%3D6%26output%3Dembed&hl=en&gl=us

Leaving our hotel in LaLinia, we hauled our bags back out to the bus stop and sat there almost a half hour waiting for our ride back to Algeciras.  At the bus station, we walked about 600 meters toward the ferry station.

Seeing a huge sign across the street from the station, "Ferry tickets," we bought two there.  The store keeper gave us Moroccan money for our Euros.  The sidewalks and streets were really bumpy, so as I was pulling my suitcase across the pavement, I took a tumble, skinning on my knee and gashing my elbow.  A man who had supposedly been trying to help us tried to pull me up until Jerry yelled at him to let me get up in my own good time.  If that was the worst fall of the vacation, I would be fine.

Inside the ferry station, we found out we could have bought our tickets there.  The girl at the information desk told us we had bought tickets for the slow ferry, to go back and trade them.  We didn't want to go all the way back there.  Instead we went upstairs to a virtually empty waiting room, where another man told Jerry we were on the slow ferry, and it was three hours late because of Ramadan.  We walked through security, and inside, the policemen told us the same thing, so we decided it would be better to get tickets for the "fast" ferry instead.  After a girl at the ticket counter told us to go back to the guy we'd bought the tickets from and exchange them, that's what Jerry did, while I waited there with the suitcases.  

Generally in our travels, our ferry experiences have been terrible. (I'm thinking now of Puerto Rico, a slow, crowded ride where I had had to sit on the floor, packed in amid strangers, for two hours.) Here, there were so many Muslim families with huge suitcases, cardboard boxes tied with rope, and enormous vinyl bags stuffed with something heavy.  They had obviously gone to Spain to do some serious shopping.  The Muslim men were so grouchy at 3:00. They hadn't had a sip of water or anything to eat since dawn and had to wait until sunset. They couldn't smoke either--no sensual pleasures between dawn and sundown. 

In the waiting room, Jerry met a handsome couple from Denmark who were hitchhiking their way across Europe and Morocco, sleeping in hostels along the way.  They told him people had been so nice and helpful in every country.  In fact, they had asked a Spaniard with a boat to take them across the Strait of Gibraltar, but because of the choppy waters, he couldn't, but nevertheless gave them 100 dirhams so they could buy ferry tickets.

We followed the mob onto the claustrophobic halls of the ferry, stuffing our bags in a baggage room.  Upstairs, we had to stand in line to fill our papers and have our passports stamped.  I was glad the authorities did that on the ferry instead of making us all wait outside before boarding to do it.   There wasn't a good place to sit, and it was really muggy and dirty inside, so Jerry and I decided to go out on the deck.  

There, we met a man from Jordan traveling with a Moroccan woman. We four sat out on the grimy deck.  The outside was hot, too. Smoggy. Nasty smokestacks made it hard to breathe. The Rock of Gibraltar was masked in smog as we passed. A Muslim man walked by, shaking his finger and admonishing the Jordanian for eating a plum. "Ramadan!" he scolded.  Jerry had to be sneaky to smoke.  It would have been rude to smoke in front of a Muslim.

Algeciras

As soon as we made it to the port, a Muslim man with a beard met us.  "Taxi?"  He led us outside where several taxis were waiting.  He took us to one.  The rate seemed high. We were in Tanger but had no idea how far it was to the train station.  We negotiated what we thought was a fair price, according to the Lonely Planet.  In the car, I would have enjoyed looking at the scenery, but I had to keep my eyes on the road.  This man drove like a maniac--way too fast, considering all the traffic. We were almost killed when we topped a hill; there was a traffic jam right in front of us, with cars almost at a standstill. Our driver crammed on his brakes to keep from slamming into the car in front of us. The brakes were still squealing as I looked over my shoulder to see a car bearing down on our taxi.  That driver, too, was slamming on his brakes.  I had time to ponder the possibility that our vacation was over--or that we were dead.  We would have been smashed between two cars if the driver behind us hadn't surged alongside us instead,  in the space between us and cars heading the other direction.  It took a while for my heartbeat to settle back down, and I don't think it was normal until we made it to the train station.

We thought we had planned well, with about and hour until time for the train to leave.  But the clock said 6:15 instead of 8:15.  I showed my iPhone to a man, who said, "Spain time."  He tried to explain there was a two-hour time difference because of no daylight savings time in Morocco and an hour change in time because of Ramadan.

We had a three-hour wait in the train station.  Hungry, I checked out the single food counter and picked out a sandwich of olives and corn.  A Canadian couple with two sons in motorized wheelchairs asked us to watch their luggage while they went for a walk.  They walked while the boys buzzed around them in loops.  When they came back, we listened to their travel stories--traveling with two handicapped children.  The boys, the mother told us, both had cystic fibrosis.  At one time in their lives, they had been able to walk but now were bound to their wheelchairs.  That, however, did not keep them from acting like teenagers, wheeling around the train station, enjoying the large space to cavort with each other.

Before it was time to leave, we had to use the restroom.  Two Muslim women held out their hands as I went in.  I remembered reading in the travel book that in many places in Morocco, we would need to pay the attendants to use the bathroom.  I didn't have a Moroccan coin, so I went on in, and when I came out, Jerry told me he had paid them for both of us.

We noticed one of the families with all the luggage and packages we had seen on the ferry were also there at the train station.  At sundown, Jerry and the father of the family stood outside smoking.  He seemed calmer now than he had on the ferry.

When the train finally came, it was an ordeal to load the Canadian boys' wheelchairs.  The family had a sleeping car, but the chairs were too big to go through the doors.  The father lifted each boy and carried them one-by-one into the cabin.  With help from Jerry, some train conductors, and several kind strangers, they were able to load the two-hundred plus pound chairs onto the back of one train car and the back of another by the cars' connectors.

  

Jerry and I had decided to go first class--it wasn't that much more expensive--and we had assigned seats.  Our compartment had seats for eight passengers, four on each side facing each other, but we had the whole coach to ourselves.  It had been a trying day of travel, and I was exhausted.  My main concern was that I wouldn't know when to get off the train.  Its final destination was Marakesh, although we were told this was NOT the Marakesh Expresss, since it would be stopping at several towns and villages.  At the first stop, people got off, but I didn't know how they knew where they were.  There were no signs I could read.

During one of the stops,  Jerry watched the conductor harassing two women trying to sneak into a compartment on our car.  We guessed it must be common for people in the crowded second class seats to try to find a better spot for the long ride.  

In our cabin, Jerry poured some of our Gibraltar scotch into our water bottle, and we were able to relax a little.  I put up all the arm rests on my side and stretched out across four seats.  Jerry did the same on the other side.    At one stop we were awakened by the conductor, who announced the name of the town.  We said, "No, we're going to Casablanca."  "Casablanca," he repeated, and I was pretty sure he'd wake us up at the right time.  Sure enough, later in the night,  he opened our cabin door as the train was slowing down, and announced, "Casablanca." We grabbed our heavy bags and climbed off the train.  It was 5:00 in the morning.  Later, Jerry realized he'd left his Thunder cap on the train.

The Rock of Gibraltar

Arriving at the train station in Algeciras, we had to drag our suitcases across the street to the bus station.  We stood in line to get tickets, almost missing our bus because we didn't know you just pay the bus driver.  The drive to La Linea seemed long.  This part of the country was more like Southern California, dry and rocky.  We rode a windy pathway, stopping at several bus stops on the way.  The area was very industrialized, the lots of smoke stacks spouting gray smoke and oil pumps in the sea.  A cloud of smog hung over the area.  In the distance I saw a big mountain poking up out of the blue water and wondered out loud if it was the Rock of Gibraltar.

It turned out to be.  When Jerry asked a lady if she knew where our AC hotel was, she pointed it out, and we hopped off the bus, saving ourselves a longer walk or a taxi ride back from the border.  We had to drag our suitcases a few blocks but made it to the hotel, no problem. 

The view of the Rock and the beachfront of La Linia were just gorgeous.  It was still light, even though it was already 8:00, so we took a taxi the short ride to the border crossing into Gibraltar.  We walked through, having our passport stamped then climbed on a bus to take us into the city.  I was disappointed they stamped it with numbers instead of "Gibraltar."

I didn't realize, I guess, that the city of Gibraltar is nestled on the Rock of Gibraltar.  I had always wanted to go there, ever since my daddy had talked about cruising by it during World War II.  I have to admit it was a relief to hear English instead of Spanish and Arabic for a little while.  It was very strange to have a little hunk of Great Britain here between Spain and Africa.

The bus was a double decker like the ones in London.  We waited on the bus a long time, so by the time we made it to the arched wall separating the new city from the old, it was late.  Jerry spotted a store that sold cheap Scotch and cigarettes.  

The shop owner, Maggie, was trying to close the store, mopping her way to the front door.  Jerry said something which she started giving Jerry grief about, and I smacked him lightly in the back of the head.  I said, "Jerry!" Then she took off.  "Ah, you're the boss of the family!" she said, "All right, Jerry, come in.  Just for you...  Only one comes in!" she hollered, afraid I might mess up her freshly mopped floor.  She continued giving him grief as one by one, other customers lined up outside the door.  When Jerry said, "Where is the best place for fish and chips?  We only have a little time until the last bus," she shoved the other customers away, put her arm around his shoulder, and pointed to Ron's Fish and Chips.  "His are the best on the Rock," she proclaimed.  "Jerry, go there and buy her some fish and chips, and I'll join you soon."

The fish was different from what I expected. I was thinking it would be like Long John Silver's, but no, it was a really big fillet of cod with crunchy batter.  The chips were good French fries.  I guzzled down two cold beers, not realizing those would be my last because of Ramadan in Morocco. Maggie didn't make it to eat with us.  I wondered if she was still letting in one more customer... 

 

We walked back through the time tunnel and onto the top of our double decker bus.

No time to go up the tram or see the monkeys or the caves or even the market in Gibraltar.  I wish we'd planned another day there.  We took the last bus back to the border then walked the rest of the way to our hotel in LaLinia, about a 15-minute walk, as an enormous orange sun set on the horizon.

L'Alhambra

July 9, 2013

Shortly after Jerry had celebrated with other members of our group at Hemingway's, we were whisked away to the train station to begin the next leg of our trip--to Granada to see L'Alhambra.  We had a layover in Madrid, where we were able to buy some books in Spanish for Carson and to grab a quick bite of mushy artichoke pizza and a salad.

The train station In Madrid is spectacular with a whole little jungle inside it. 

Lacking time, we took the salad with us, and Jerry accidentally dumped a little of it out when he set the bag down on the bag security check.  We stood at the suitcase and ate it, happy to have a few veggies in our stomachs.

The trip from Madrid to Granada was beautiful, with miles upon miles of olive orchards and views of some beautiful mountains.  Parts of Spain reminded me of Kansas, with sweeping planes and wind turbines and rows of growing corn.  Some mountains reminded me of New Mexico and Mexico, and I thought No wonder the Spanish settled Mexico.  It seemed like home!  Some parts reminded me of Oklahoma, the huge fields of freshly baled hay, the cities far apart, with large areas devoted to farming. The villages are small and ancient.  You see no suburbs.  In the cities, everywhere tall apartment buildings, both old and modern, fill the view, and every apartment has a balcony, many with awnings to protect them from the scorching sun.  Outside the cities, the train reaches speeds of 150 kilometers.

The Spanish seem to be ecologically conscious.  We saw hundreds of wind turbines and numerous solar panel "farms."  In our hotels, we had to insert our room key before we could turn on the lights.  

We enjoyed a sandwich and beer in the food car (I wouldn't call it a dining car since there were no tables), enjoying the sights flashing by the big windows as we ate.

We arrived at a gorgeous hotel to meet the best hotel clerk of all time, Javi, who helped us arrange for tickets to L'Alhambra the night before when I'd discovered I had booked for the wrong date and saved us again the next day when I had to confess I'd lost my credit card at L'Alhambra.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alhambra

The Alhambra^] is a palace and fortress complex located in Granada, Andalusia, Spain. It was originally constructed as a fortress in 889 and later converted into a royal palace in 1333 by Yusuf I, Sultan of Granada.^[1]

The Alhambra's Islamic palaces were built for the last Muslim emirs in Spain and its court of the Nasrid dynasty. After the Reconquista by the Reyes Católicos ("Catholic Monarchs") in 1492, some portions were used by Christian rulers. The Palace of Charles V, built by Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor in 1527, was inserted in the Alhambra within the Nasrid fortifications. After being allowed to fall into disrepair for centuries, the Alhambra was rediscovered in the 19th century by European scholars and travelers, with restorations commencing. It is now one of Spain's major tourist attractions, exhibiting the country's most significant and well known Arab-Islamic architecture, together with 16th-century and later Christian building and garden interventions. The Alhambra is aUNESCO World Heritage Site, and the inspiration for many songs and stories.^[2]

In literature it is most famous today for

• Washington Irving's Tales of the Alhambra. This is a collection of essays, verbal sketches, and stories. Irving lived in the palace while writing the book and was instrumental in reintroducing the site to Western audiences.
• Philippa Gregory's The Constant Princess, depicting Catalina the Infanta of Spain as she lived in the Alhambra after her parents took Granada.

What can I say about l'Alhambra?  I had always dreamed of going there, having studied about it in college in my literature and Humanities classes.  For Jerry, it was too much.  Too much to see, too much to process, too much to remember, too huge, too much walking, too much beauty to be able to  appreciate the millions of examples of art in front of us everywhere we turned:  the designs in the rock paths, the woodwork, the water paths, the gardens, the flowers, the hedges, the doors, the tiles, the stained glass, the arches, the views.  Even the smells were delightful--rosemary, thyme, petunias, roses, chrysanthemums, trickling water.  Everywhere you stepped, whether it was a grand scene or a tiny room, you had to look at your feet, in front of you, behind you, on each side of you, above your head, or you would miss some masterpiece of beauty.  If you opened a book of pictures and looked at each one separately, the beauty, the balance, the intricacies of each design, whether one inch big or as big as the sky, are almost incomprehensible.  To see it all in seven hours is overwhelming.  As with almost all museums, this is one you need days, weeks, years to enjoy before you can put the experience in perspective.  

Before our appointed time to queue up for entrance into the Palace, we had Lite Cokes and a couple of delicious sandwiches in the Hotel America.  One was tuna on a hard bun; the other was vegetables--cucumbers, peppers, lettuce, corn, shredded carrots with Picka Peppa sauce (Mr. Rickerts' favorite) instead of mayonnaise or mustard.  Spanish music played in the background.  The room didn't have a ceiling but instead a canopy of some kind of vine.  Spanish music played in the background.  Because we had to spend 25 euros to use our credit card, we ordered two cups of Sangria.  Inside the clear cup was one cube of ice, diced apples, and an orange slice.  The waiter brought us spoons to enjoy the goodies at the bottom of our empty cup.

Fortunately, we were able to do the main things we wanted to do in Granada: visit the Alhambra and see the sunset over Granada.  Unfortunately, that's all we got to do.

Running with the Bulls?

July 6, 2013

First View of the Streets

Before we left on our adventure to see the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain, we signed up with a tour group called Spyns, who promised to prepare us for the experience, giving us a chance to walk through the streets of Pamplona where the bulls would run and guaranteeing us a place on a balcony to watch the ordeal.

Our Pamplona crew (Charlotte, a Scottish-French girl), met us at the train station and took us to our hotel, where we met Ryan, the originator of the tour.  We arrived at our hotel shortly after the opening ceremony, where we received our white T-shirts, red sashes, and red bandanas. Ryan took us on a walking tour through the streets of Pamplona.  He said, "No one can get lost here," but I'm pretty sure I could.  

The streets were packed with people who had attended the opening ceremony--300,000 people all waving their red bandanas, spraying champagne and slinging sangria over everyone else.  Everyone was wearing white and red, but you couldn't tell because almost everyone was splattered with sangria.  In no time at all, we ran into Dan, a guy we had met at the train station the day before.  Dan had told us about his experience with the Spyns group the year before, but this year he was going it on his own.  He was pretty drunk, even though it wasn't even noon, but so was almost everyone else who participated in the opening ceremonies. 

The cobblestone streets were covered with trash and broken glass, so we had to watch where we stepped.  Lots of people were passed out in the grass, on benches, on the sidewalks.  One guy was actually just sitting in the middle of the street, where people politely sidestepped around him but left him there.  I'm sure I've been that drunk before, but I think I would have been able to crawl over to the side of the street.

 Ryan walked really really fast.  I guess  you're supposed to be in shape if you're even considering running with the bulls.  He explained where the race began, where the two dangerous curves were; showed us the pen where the bulls are kept.  I wanted to hold onto Jerry's belt loop like a little kid so I wouldn't get lost in the mob, but I kept up OK.  Ryan took us to a store where we could buy white pants and white shirts.  Jerry tried on some white pants, and we both bought a souvenir T-shirt.

                  

              

We weaved our way through Constitution Square to the gate of the arena, where the bulls run in.  The runners, if they're brave or crazy enough, can follow them in.  They put cows in there with the bulls, but if you go into the arena and try to crawl out of the pen, the natives push you back in.  So, we were told, "Don't go into the arena unless you're ready to dance with the bulls for an hour or so."  

After that, we all went to Hemingway's bar, where Ryan bought us several pitchers of Sangria.  My memory of sangria was from college days, and I found out I liked it better than I remembered, maybe because I like wine more now, maybe because I was thirsty.  We got to know some of the people in our group a little better.  Jim, the other guy from the train station, showed up to say hello to Jerry and me.  He told us Dan had had to go back to the hotel for a nap, but he was going to stay up all night and run with the bulls in the morning.  Dan might have had a better idea.  Jim's clothes were solid purple from the wine.  He and Jerry had a good, long conversation.

By the way, no one that I know of ever went to the bathroom from 4:00 to 7:15.  I did see some drunks peeing in the street. I must insert this little story from a guy named Randy:  "When I was a little kid, my parents took me to the Mardi Gras.  I really needed to pee, so I tugged on the arm of a policeman to ask him where a bathroom was.  'Hell, kid, just piss on the street like everyone else.'"  His conception of policemen was forever shattered.

We came back to the hotel at 7:15.  This hotel his fancy with hardwood floors and green marble bathroom.  (Lots of marble in Spain.)  The hotel was like the one in Lima, where you have to put your room key in a slot before the electricity will come on.  Good idea, I think.  Do any hotels do this in the U.S.?

Jerry and I walked a few blocks away from the hotel, where we found an inviting cafe with outdoor seating.  It had cooled off, like Denver in the summer.  Most of the people seemed to be from the neighborhood, celebrating in their white clothes and red bandanas while their children played soccer in the small square.  

Jerry and I couldn't read a word on the menu, and our waiter couldn't speak a word of English, except "water," so we decided to just point to something on the menu.  The waiter was relieved.  We were pretty sure we were getting seafood, and I thought maybe salad since I do know the Spanish word for salad, but when the tray came, we had potato salad with french fried onions on top, mussels, whole shrimp, octopus, calamari, and squid, oh, and four fried peppers.  Every single bite was delicious.  This came with a bottle of cold white wine.  We realized we hadn't eaten anything all day except for a pastry early in the morning and some peanuts and raisins on the train.  

Back to the hotel, I realized I was not really going to have time to blog.  I was just going to type up my journal, and when I got back, post the blog.  For now, people would have to have to be happy with Facebook posts.

July 7, 2013

Watching from the Balcony

We met downstairs at the hotel at 6 a.m., left with an entire busload of people to be taken to our respective balconies.  Ryan had given us red rubber bracelets with a number to designate which balcony was ours.  We hiked through the streets still covered with trash, broken bottles, and plastic bottles and cups, smelling like hominy and sangria and beer.  

Jerry and I were led to #61, a law office, with seven other people and a guide.  We just walked right in as if we owned the place.  There were three balconies for all of us.  We stood on our balcony with a couple we had met the day before at Hemingway's.

Lots of runners milled around in the street below us, thinking they could find a good spot to run with the bulls.  They were standing in the doorways of the buildings, thinking they'd be able to jump in as the bulls ran by.  They didn't realize that the police would be coming shortly to shoo them all off the street.  Runners have to start at a designated point in front of the bull pen.  You're not allowed to sneak ahead like a Sooner.  These Sooners were being shepherded by the cops, exactly like the bulls and the pastoris (cowboys). Sure enough, at the end of the street, we saw a human barricade of guards wearing red to make sure they didn't weasel back in.

Looking toward the east, we could see the barricade behind which the runners were held.  They were packed together in a crush, waiting for the rockets to go off.  The first rocket means the bulls are in the pen; the second rocket means they're out, and you can start running.

There are six bulls and six steers running the course.  Until today, the day of their death, these bulls have never been anywhere except the pasture they grew up in. The steers, having run the course many times, supposedly calm the antsy bulls giving them other bulls to follow.  The steers are generally bigger, brown and white, while the bulls are dark brown or black, shorter and sturdier, not fat but hunks of muscle.

When the first rocket fired, everyone squealed.  When the second rocket fired, in practically no time the bulls were right below us, surrounded by runners.  One steer started kicking at the runners, and one of them fell to the ground.  The rule is to stay on the ground until you're tapped on the back that it's safe to get back up; otherwise, as you climb up, you can easily be gored.  (Ryan told us a story of a man he knew who fell and got back up, only to be gored in the heart by a bull, dying instantly.) This fallen runner, however, lying in fetal position in the street, caused a road block, and several runners toppled on top of him.  No sooner had they all recovered until another group of steers and bulls ran by.  It was all over as fast as it began.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8ffvqcgc2E&feature=youtu.be

Afterwards, we watched the office TV to see the bulls after they arrived inside the arena.  Several of the runners were there, and the bulls charged at some of them.  We saw one girl crawl between the rails of the fence to escape one of them charging toward her, head lowered.

Tonight there will be six bullfights.  Before the fight begins, the cowboys with lances sever the neck muscles that will keep the bull from being able to swing his head around.  The bull fighters start with a large cape, tantalizing the bulls, to determine if they are right-horned or left-horned so they will know how to approach the fight.  The matador trades capes--they get smaller and smaller--until the end, when he finally gores the bull.  

At least, this is how Ryan explained it to us.  Rather than being enthused about the process, he acted as if he would be surprised that we would actually want to watch such a thing.  His description made me decide I probably did not want to see a bloody bullfight.

After watching the process from the balcony and talking to Dan about his experience, Jerry decided he would definitely be Running with the Bulls.  All he had to do was to find a safe place on the run, hover in a doorway, and trot along beside the bulls for a few yards as they ran through the street.  (The next day, he would find out it wasn't all that easy.)

Jerry and I rode the bus back to the hotel and then later caught a local bus #2 to go back down to the square. It's very different in Pamplona today than yesterday.  Yesterday, everyone had been splattered with sangria and drunk or hung over.  Trash had littered the streets.  I had seen one guy literally sitting in the middle of the street, while people just side-stepped around him.  

Some people who had earlier been lying in the shade were now passed out in the sun.  I wanted to go tap them and tell them to move, but I left them alone.










 Jerry and I had fun at the Running of the Bulls statue in Pamplona, crowded with tourists with cameras and sangria- splattered runners.  All around it, people were posing in various ways.  Jerry had to take his turn as well.



Today seemed so much calmer and cleaner.  The locals were coming out to celebrate San Ferfin Irunea. The women were dressed in white eyelet and white cotton dresses, wearing red shoes and red belts.  They had dressed their little girls in precious white dresses trimmed in red, red bows in their hair, red shoes.  The little boys wore white shirts and pants with red sashes and, of course, red kerchiefs.  

We had dinner at the same restaurant, this time with a nicer waiter. Inside the restaurant, before we sat down, we watched the first bull fight on live TV.  The bull had already been stabbed in the back of the neck.  He was dripping with blood.  He wasn't moving very fast, so the matador, dressed in his finest pink regalia, tried to make the bull look fiercer than he really was.  Watching him stab the bull was gross and gruesome.  (Just so you'll know, to me, it looked like the matador had a sock stuck in his pants.)

We went to bed fairly early, hearing the fireworks display at the end of the bull fight.  We found it on TV.  It was weird, watching it on TV but hearing the fireworks outside the window before we heard them on TV, like an echo.

July 9

Jerry Runs with the Bulls

Last night, Jerry was so full of adrenaline that he could barely go to sleep, worrying about all the things that could happen.  But when he woke up this morning, the fears of the night before were back in perspective, and he was fired up to go.

We had planned to meet up at Hemingway's after the bull run, but luckily, a friend named Randy we had met on our Spyns shuttle from the train station had an extra balcony spot to give us because his girlfriend had decided to run rather than watch from the balcony.  I was able to see Jerry in the street below right before the bulls were set loose, and he was able to see me.  He stayed in that area, waiting for the bulls, and I was able to video his entire experience.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kTCvuveJmGs

Staggering with the Steers

Last night I was scared shitless. When we first booked the tour and I was asked if I was running with the bulls, I said, "No way."  And then after research knowing we had the tour, I said, "Well, if it's safe, I will."  By the end of day,  I was pretty sure I would run.  When we had balcony time, I thought, Piece of cake.  I'm doing this.  As the day wore on and I thought about it, I realized that I had no control over where I would be when the bulls came, and that's when I was freaking out.

This morning I woke up before the wake-up call, and I was excited.  No real fear today.  The worst part of the day was waiting.  We had to wait an hour and a half in the holding area on the course.  A lot of nervous energy, a lot of interesting characters including a cool Italian who looked like one of the Three Musketeers.  Everyone was paying attention to the time.  As our time neared, I could see and feel the intensity level rise.

No one looked scared, but I could see everyone's focus start to narrow.  There was more bouncing and stretching and people warming up.  I was standing with Norbit, a Hungarian, who I lost once we started moving forward.  I didn't see him again. I hope he was okay.

Once the crowd started moving, all I could do was walk, and pretty soon I started worrying that I was going to be in a bad place if we didn't start making progress.  I had planned to run a little bit, but all I could do was walk because of the crowd.  I made it past the first turn and was halfway to Deadman's Turn when I saw Janis on the balcony.  So that's where I had to stay.  I did have a hidey hole door to hide in, so it was OK.  

I was watching intently and talking to two gentlemen at least my age who were experienced runners.  They were there to "watch."  One of them said he had run 41 times (8 opportunities a year).  He had a cool little goatee with twists on it, a very interesting character.  

When the rockets went off, I knew it would be at most a minute before the bulls came. I was very intent on seeing the bulls come (obviously) and then I saw them coming.  As soon as what I thought was the last bull passed me, I was starting to run.  Then a steer went down in the street right behind me.  I was very aware of everything around me.  I was waiting for him to get up--a great opportunity to run with the steer as soon as his horns went by.  Then some jackass grabbed this downed animal by the horns.  I yelled at him to stop, but the pastori with the big stick took care of him.  The pastori finally helped the bull up.  I was afraid he had a broken leg the way it was situated under him.  But he finally struggled up and took off.  

I tried to move forward just to run a little bit, but the gate was already closed to prevent animals that fall down in dead man's corner from going back against the crowd--very dangerous.  I was walking back to meet up with Janis when people started running towards me--the wrong direction.  I knew something was up and wham I heard something hit the gate and then people started running toward me, yelling.  My fear was that a bull was coming back, so I headed to the other side so I could bail through the fence if I got in trouble.  It was a steer, not a bull, and he went back to the previous gate, which was closed, so he had to turn around and here he came again.  As soon as he passed me, I did my only "running" with the "bulls."  I took my three or four cumbersome, awkward steps--(Chris, I know you'll laugh at my old-man attempt when you see the video)--the only running I did.  Janis thought I was hamming it up, but that was honestly my best old-man effort.  After my short jog, the steer was too far ahead of me, and there was no reason to continue.

Two people near me were carted out on stretchers and left in an ambulance.  The actual bull encounter was very short-lived but very close.  I never felt in danger except when I didn't know what was coming back, a bull or a steer.  

Because of the preparation of our tour operators, I felt prepared and relatively safe.  Seeing the running of the bulls has always been on my bucket list, but not running with the bulls.  I had no desire to get in front of a bull and run a hundred yards trying to stay alive, but my experience was age appropriate.  It was an adrenaline rush I'll never forget.