There and Back Again: A Soiree Into a Place Where I Could Understand What People Were Saying Around Me

(DISCLAIMER: This is a very long post. If you are hoping to just catch up with me while your baby is in the bathtub filling up with water, please wash your baby first and then read about my adventures; they are less important than your child’s life, despite what you may think. But please do persevere through the whole thing; several  important topics are discussed, and if you read it all, you might just discover how to levitate)

I believe I left you in Marseille. Well, I am separated from there now by many kilometers and new experiences, several days, and one worn-out tire. I successfully took a succession of successively slower trains from Marseille, in the maw of magnificent Provence on the Mediterranean, to Bayonne, in the belly of the Basque country on the…Batlantic. My last train arrived at the unwieldy hour of midnight (or thereabouts, I can’t quite remember now), so my plan had been to simply spend the night in the train station. However, the small station in Bayonne, unlike the larger stations that had prompted me to think this plan was feasible, closed a few minutes after my train got in. So I was left outside the deserted station with no clue where I was going to sleep. My Europe road atlas that I may or may not have mentioned that I bought in Sweden showed that there was a campsite on the coast in Biarritz, a few short kilometers away. I set off to ride what would prove to be the most surreal part of the trip so far. My senses seemed strangely heightened as I pedaled through the deserted darkness. The mist-dimmed light of the streetlamps cast indefinite shadows off of the grotesquely exaggerated spires of Bayonne’s gothic cathedral. The steady click of the gears, hum of the tires, and rhythm of the breath that one becomes accustomed to while riding expanded to fill my whole being, making it that much more startling when the odd late-night driver raced by at speeds that wouldn’t be allowed in the daytime. The river slithered oilily along, adding its hiss to the nocturnal whispers. Then I was suddenly surrounded by bars bumping the Black-Eyed Peas and crammed with inebriated college students. The transition was so unexpected that I had to stop for a minute to absorb the fact that people lived in this, what I had unwittingly begun to think of as a post-apocalyptic wilderness or something. After the existence of the drunkards was duly absorbed, I continued on and, after the obligatory couple of wrong turns, found the campsite. It had a large space with a few tents scattered about and a sign out front that stubbornly proclaimed “COMPLET.” Tired and grumpy, I turned around and saw the first good place for free camping since northern Italy. So that’s where I spent the rainy night. I got up a measly 4 hours later still very tired but determined to make it to Pamplona. First, however, I needed to buy a new tire. The one that I had put on at the Danish-German border was reaching the end of its days, and I wanted to carry another one just in case it didn’t make it all the way to Pamplona. After a circular search, I eventually found a bike shop, waited for them to open, bought a tire, asked for and received directions, and was on my way. I won’t say much about the ride, other than that it was beautiful but steep thanks to the Pyrenees. Oh, also there was this goat.

 I made it (without having to change my tire) to Ezcaba Camping, Pamplona’s only campground (whose prices reflected this monopoly), around 4 pm on July 10, leaving me the next 4 days to experience Pamplona’s claim to fame: the Festival of San Fermín, the central event of which is the encierro, or the running of the bulls. This thrillseekers’ Holy Grail happens every morning of the festival (July 6-14 every year) at 8 am. Thus my plan was to watch the first day since I was as yet undecided whether I wanted to run or not, then possibly run the next day. But that night (after laying waste to 3 kebabs to quell my ravenous Pyrenees-climbing hunger), I met a group of New Zealanders who had arrived the day before and had already carried out the watching part of my plan. They assured me that if I watched the next morning, I would just want to be in it the whole time. So I agreed to run with them the next morning. Yikes!

Maybe I should elaborate a little, for anyone who’s unfamiliar with this event. It started a couple centuries ago with the simple need to get the bulls that would be used for the night’s bullfight from their corrals to the bullring. The animals’ shepherds would drive them through the city streets to accomplish this, and it wasn’t long before the locals started to join in and run alongside them. It got more and more popular, despite several attempts to get the dangerous practice banned. The rest of the world heard about it in the early 1900’s when Ernest Hemingway described it in his book The Sun Also Rises. Now people come from all over the world for this event, resulting in about two thousand people every morning running through the narrow alleyways of Pamplona being chased by six fast, pointy, and incredibly strong bovines. The whole run is around 800 meters in length and takes only about 3 minutes. Then, once the bulls are safely in their pens and the people that weren’t trampled have been let into the arena, 6 smaller cows with blunt tips on their horns are let out one at a time for about ten minutes each into the ring. They charge around and (relatively harmlessly) toss and trample people to the great amusement of the crowd.

So that’s what I took part in. Some may say I’m crazy, but it was fantastic fun. The part in the arena was, at least. For me, the running part was actually a bit of a letdown. This was entirely my fault, or at least the New Zealanders’ who decided where we should stand. There is one 90-degree turn on the course (reassuringly known as Deadman’s Corner), and it was on the inside of and directly after this curve that we decided to stand and wait for the bulls. It is a relatively safe place to stand, since the bulls’ momentum usually carries them to the outside of the corner and to the other side of the street from us, but if you wanted to get close to the bulls, as we did, it was not the best choice. Here’s what the run was like from my perspective: Arrived by bus from the campground at 6:45. Walked to our selected spot. Spent the next hour in nervous conversation and sporadic stretching and calisthenics. Oh, and I impressed all the Kiwis when they tried to ask another guy next to us if he’d run before, but he didn’t speak English, so I translated a rather lengthy conversation between them. It was fantastic finally being in a country where I spoke the language. Okay, back to the run: we spent the last few minutes before the run chanting “¡Toro!” and discussing our battle plan.  Then, when the rocket that signifies that the bulls have been let out went off, we hollered mightily and readied ourselves. 30 seconds or so later, we started seeing people sprinting around the corner toward us and looking behind them with an almighty terror in their eyes. My adrenaline started pumping. The crowd on the other side of the barricade was making a deafening din that I barely heard as I prepared to run for my life. And then…dozens of people pushed me against the wall, the bulls ran by on the other side of the street, and that was it. We ran after them and occasionally looked behind us, hoping there were more, but we knew that the run was over. Once we got into the arena, however, it was a whole different story. After we spent a few minutes milling about, taking congratulatory pictures, and watching slo-mo replays of the casualties of the run on the two big screens in the arena, the pastores started beckoning people to come lay down in front of a section of the round arena wall. Behind this wall running all the way around the ring was about a meter-wide space where all the pastores and other event organizers were standing, and behind them was another wall going up to the stands. In the second wall, directly across the inter-wall space from where people were lying down, was a rather ominous-looking door with a sign over it that said “TORIL”. A minute or so later, this door and a section of the inner wall were swung open, and a cow jumped over the lying-down people and began charging energetically around the arena to great cheers from the crowd.

Those in the ring tried to get out of the way, but many could not and were thrown comically around by the bull. As the animal began to tire and slow down, people got ever braver, running along behind it and slapping its rump with rolled-up newspapers, jumping over it, and trying to entice it to charge. This continued for about 10 minutes, when the pastores brought out a huge ox to herd the cow back to the pens. And that happened 6 times. On the third or fourth cow, I wasn’t quite quick enough and got tossed and subsequently trampled, bruising my leg and knocking my camera out of my pocket but bringing me loud cheers from the crowd and congratulatory yells from my Kiwi friends. It was awesome.

Now, some of you are probably feeling sorry for the poor, confused cow. And it’s true; it was definitely befuddled and several times just ran around the outside of the ring to try and escape the unending harassment of all of us thrillseekers. But to the locals’ credit, there are very clear boundaries about what they think is too much for the creature, and these are strictly enforced. Emphasis on the “force”. What I mean is, if some drunk Australian (as was usually the case, because there was a disproportionately huge amount of Australians at the festival) decided to try to be funny and grab the cow’s tail, or ride it, or do some other stupid thing, the locals immediately became way more dangerous to him than the bull. Let me give an example. One guy was face-to-face with the cow, about to get butted. I don’t know if he did this to avoid being hit or just because he wanted to wrestle it, but he grabbed the animal around the neck and held on while the bovine bucked around and tried to toss him off. The crowd immediately started booing and yelling “¡Puta!” (which is a word that I’ll refrain from translating here for fear of offending anyone’s delicate sensibilities). The guy didn’t seem to get that no one liked what he was doing, and kept his arms firmly wrapped around the cow’s neck. This continued for an extraordinarily long 10 seconds or so, at which point he came into reach of one of the local Pamplonese, who viciously fish-hooked the offender until he at last let go of the creature’s neck. This ended the moment for the bull, but it was far from over for his erstwhile passenger. Immediately after his unceremonious dismount, he was engulfed in a punching, kicking, and slapping mob of angry Spaniards. He somehow managed to get to his feet and back up against the arena wall. Defiant to the end, he indignantly yelled at the advancing mob that he hadn’t done anything bad, but they ignored him entirely, partly because most of them didn’t speak English but mostly because the guy was a stupid douchebag. They didn’t stop their threatening advance until it finally got through to the guy and he climbed over the wall and out of the arena. Although their methods of communication could use a little work, I’m glad that they don’t allow any excessive harassment of the animals. The bullfight that I watched that night, however, was a completely different story.

I wasn’t planning to go to a bullfight, as I already disagreed with them on a moral level. I had also read in my guide book and in a few brochures that it was really difficult to get tickets to the fights, so I wasn’t even going to try. But the New Zealanders had heard otherwise about the availability of tickets, and were resolved to go obtain some for that night. Since they were fun to be around and bullfighting is such an ingrained Spanish tradition that I figured I should experience it once, I went with them (tickets were incredibly easy to find; they were being sold at the main ticket window and by hawkers all around the arena. I think you need an update, Europe On A Shoestring). Since this post is already going to be long-winded, I won’t go into a whole lot of detail on the fight, but I will depart briefly from my avoidance of profanity that I have thus far exhibited on this blog because something as fucked up as bullfighting needs to be called what it is. You may all have an image of a brave matador in a one-on-one deathmatch with a lethal animal, but what is probably missing from that image is what happens to each bull before the one-on-one starts. The bull is severely tired out and wounded, first by picadores (lancemen) on horseback (the horses have protective padding), then by banderilleas (…banderilleas) who jam barbed sticks into the bull’s upper back, all the while being made to run around and chase the matadors and their helpers. Only then, after the bull’s blood is pouring out by the gallon, it is foaming at the mouth, and it is heaving with pain and exhaustion, does the “brave” matador begin his exhibition. After several minutes of demonstrating his mastery over the dying beast, he stabs his sword up to the hilt into the bull. Then the helpers come back out and make the bull swing its head back and forth between two of them so that the meter-long sword inside it slices up its vital organs, then when it collapses to its knees, it is stabbed in the back of the neck to finally end its suffering. When the bull entered the arena, it was a truly magnificent animal, a 600-kilo marvel of strength and vitality. When it left less than half an hour later, its mutilated and blood-soaked body flopped limply as it was dragged away by three horses and the crowd of 20,000 roared its bloodthirsty approval. I could have cried.

And then it happened five more times (yeah, 6 bulls a night. 9 nights. They kill 54 bulls in that way during the festival). When the we left at about 9 pm, I was not in a mood to do anything but go back to camp and try to sleep away the memories of what I had just seen.

But I was soon to be cheered up by the amazing events of the next day. I decided not to watch that morning’s running and took a bus around 10 am into the city. On the bus I met a Dutch guy named…something. Maybe Andrew. Anyway, we decided to explore the city together, vaguely guided by a program of events that I had picked up for a euro the day before. Most of the events on there were not super interesting, but my attention was drawn to something that simply said “Espectáculo Taurino” (bull show) and had no other description. We decided to check it out and headed to the bullring. After paying the entry price of one euro (and happily receiving tickets that read “un espectáculo sin muerte”- “a show without death”), we somewhat dubiously joined a crowd that was made up mostly of kids and their parents. The show started with a mock bullfight with a five-year-old kid as the matador and a teenager pushing a wheelbarrow-bull chasing him. We weren’t sure if we wanted to stay for the whole thing at this point, but I could see guys on dirtbikes in the tunnel leading out of the arena, so I had high hopes that the show would improve. And oh man did it ever. Next up were bull jumpers. Yeah. The guys whose existence I’d first learned of through YouTube a couple years ago and have worshiped ever since. I saw them live.

Then they ridiculously dressed up as clowns and dodged the bull using a teeter-totter-like contraption for a while until the grand finale of the show: jumping a bull with dirtbikes. Okay, when I tell you to think of the most intelligent person the world has ever known, who do you think of? Albert Einstein? Sir Isaac Newton? Peter Jackson? All outstanding humans, but I hold that the unrecognized genius who had the idea to jump bulls on dirtbikes deserves to be ranked among them. I can’t believe such quality entertainment was to be had for only one euro, while I paid 22 the night before to simply be disgusted and have sangria thrown all over me for two hours.

The rest of the time I spent in Pamplona is largely inconsequential. While I was in the city I watched the encierro a couple more times, street performers, fireworks, and the plethora of bands that marched the streets all day. While at the campsite I ate, slept, swam in the pool, and tried (and failed) to understand cricket by watching the Aussies play. It was not great all the time, however. A lot of the time I felt ridiculously out of my element. I am happiest doing interesting, healthy things with a few intelligent people. If I wanted that, I came to the wrong place; close to a million visitors descend on Pamplona during San Fermín and, with the exception of the encierro, do nothing but drink themselves silly and make utter fools out of themselves. The streets constantly reek with the smell of cheap sangria and the bodily excretions that inevitably follow its excessive consumption. I was so happy when, on my last day’s siesta by the pool, I met an Australian girl who didn’t drink. Up until then, I had thought I was the only one in the entire campsite. We had a fantastic conversation about books, IRB (Inflatable Rescue Boat) racing, kangaroos, and comedians.

Anyway, I got up early on the morning of the 15^th, packed up my tent, and rode into town to catch a train to Paris. Or several trains, as is the norm when traveling with a bike. Up until now, I have done quite well with figuring out the sometimes convoluted schedules and quirks of the trains in different countries. But my small sample of the trains in Spain was incredibly stressful, and almost catastrophic. When my first train of the day pulled up to the station in Pamplona, I thought there would be no problems. The car with a picture of a bike on the side was on the front of the train, right where I was expecting it to be. There were no dedicated bike racks in it, but I had encountered that before, and there was ample space for me to tie it to an out-of-the-way handrail, which I began to do. But then the conductor came in and told me that it couldn’t be there, and I should put it in the last car. Okay, fine. I rode down to the last car, which also had a picture of a bike and no bike racks. I began again to tie it to a rail. Then the same conductor said no, this car was bad too, and led me to a car in the middle of the train that likewise had a bike picture and no racks, although this one did have the system that I had also seen before of folding-up seats with anchor points between them where bikes were supposed to go. Finally I got my bike all fastened and flopped down into a seat, only to immediately jump up as if I had sat on a pin. In all the commotion, I had left my Eurail pass on the seat in the car at the end of the train! The train was already moving, so I couldn’t run out and get it, and neither could I walk through the train to the back because despite being in the middle of the train, my car was an engine car and had a locked door going to where the driver would be (there wasn’t one in there, or at least he paid my repeated knocks no mind). I resolved to sprint down and get it at the next station, but the train stopped only halfway onto the platform, so the end cars were inaccessible. Slightly more stressed, I waited for a better opportunity at the next stop. But there, inexplicably, the train doors would not open no matter how much I pushed the button on the three different doors that I tried. This whole time, my state of mind was not helped by the inebriated Spanish teenagers who were smoking and making fun of my stressed pacings the whole time, and who apparently could not grasp the concept of talking a little slower. Finally at the next station I made it back to my thankfully still-present pass, but as I began to run back to the car that had my bike, the train started leaving! In utter desperation I pounded on the door open button, and miraculously the conductor stopped for just long enough for me to get back on the last car again. I was forced to wait there until the next stop because of the aforementioned locked door. At the next stop I finally found myself with all my belongings in one car. Whew! But the challenges weren’t over yet. I don’t think I’ve made clear how little time this train spent at each station. When I went back for my ticket, I was sprinting (or, as the Aussies amusingly call it: pissbolting), and I was only 3 or 4 cars from the back. That, with time to get on the car, grab my ticket, and get off, was probably a grand total of 10, maybe 12 seconds before the train started moving again. I don’t know if the conductor was late for a hot date (unlikely, considering the state of his teeth) or if that is just standard stopping time all over Spain, but either way it was about to cause me even more stress. At Araia, where I was supposed to get off and catch a train going to Irun, I missed my stop. I still can’t believe it. At every stop up until this one, I had been waiting at the door, ready with all my stuff, long before the train got into the station. But because I had been so stressed out, and was tired anyway since I had gotten very little sleep the night before, I was dozing in my seat right up until 5 seconds before the train stopped. I flew into motion: first I hit the door open button so that the conductor would know someone was getting off. Then I grabbed my backpack, untied my bike and hurried back over to the door. This all only took about ten seconds-mostly thanks to a quick-untie knot that I have developed for the shoelace that I use to tie my bike up-which would have been plenty of time on any other train I have ever been on. But because this conductor must have found an attractive lady who doesn’t mind bad dental hygiene, I got to the door as it was closing, and none of my button-pushing or despair could do anything to stop it. I was left standing aghast as my station disappeared around a curve and the smoking teenagers’ harsh laughter grated away at my soul. I turned desolately around to look at the rail map on the wall, and dared to hope a little bit. The route that I was supposed to have transferred to started in my current train’s destination, meaning they ran parallel to each other in opposite directions for 3 or 4 stations. I reasoned that since if I had gotten off at Araia I would have had 30 minutes before my next train came, I would probably still have enough time to catch the same train at the next station. Long story short, I did. This train was in stark contrast to the last one: it had nice bike racks, air-conditioning, and a screen that had all sorts of wonderful information, like a list of the next stops, how long until each one, and our speed. Oh, and it stopped for almost a full minute at each station! This veritable magic carpet of a machine brought me at last to Irun, the last station in Spain. From there, I had to bike to the first station in France, Hendaye. I found out there that I would have to take a night train to Paris that didn’t leave for 5 hours. I had no problem with the wait, or that I would have to cancel my first night’s reservation at the hostel in Paris. I was a little more upset that I would now have less than one day to explore Paris, and more than a little upset at the 75 euros I had to pay for the train. My Eurail pass technically still bought my ticket, but it doesn’t cover reservations, which are obligatory (and expensive) on night trains. Interesting aside: During my wait for the train in Hendaye which was otherwise uneventful, I had a conversation in Chinese with an Englishman and a Korean girl. Coupled with the facts that we were sitting on the border of France and Spain and an Afro-Brazilian Batucada group was playing outside, I think this takes the cake for the most multicultural experience ever. If you have one that can top it, please tell me about it. Aside over. Despite (or I guess because of) the price, it was a very nice train ride. I love sleeper cars, and I arrived rested and eager to explore in Paris. I found my hostel and left my bike there so I could use the Metro to get around. I’m not entirely sure what to think of Paris. Of course the architecture and history there are amazing, but I didn’t much like it otherwise. The aggressive drivers and general attitude made it feel like I am in Los Angeles. Just with cooler buildings. None of which I have pictures of, incidentally, because my camera, which had (unsurprisingly) been acting a little erratically since my encounter with the bull, finally decided that it didn’t want to open anymore sometime during my last day in Pamplona. I can find pictures of any of the buildings or pieces of art that I saw in the Louvre, but I am sad that I don’t have documentation of the absolutely amazing sunset that I saw from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Okay, this post has gotten entirely too long for its own good, but at least you are all caught up now. I am now on a train to Cherbourg (which I also had to pay for…grr), from where I will get a ferry to Ireland. I’ll let you know how that goes. More on levitation in the next post.