Prologue
July 10, 2006…the end of a ten-day European trip was nearing. The journey began in the Netherlands and went through the UK and down into Spain and back again. Two years had passed since my last trip across the Atlantic and I was eager to find out what had come of my Dutch friend, Selma, and take my chances at becoming a bull runner. The year had proven to be ruff. I found myself indefinitely out of graduate school and working intensely as a nightclub manager. After weeks of no-pay frustration, and missing money I was owed, I felt it was the right time to make the trip. Not necessarily the best financial move, but it was needed personal time. As is my custom, I was off to Europe for perspective on the current events of my life and maybe a little adventure.
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Pamplona, Spain
A reddish-orange color tinted the buildings and streets in the morning twilight. As the minutes passed, the morning’s light glow increased, and then, the sun came out. The streets were still filled with people walking around in the traditional festival colors of white and red. Jetting down the street toward the other side of town where the Welsh’s base camp was located, I thought about the girl I met the day before and the ease with which we connected despite one annoyance. It was nearly time to make it to the starting chute where we would begin our run with the bulls for the day. “One more chance at being a bull runner,” I thought and slightly whispered.
The loud crackle of deep snoring could be heard several feet from the car as I approached. The event was just over an hour away, and it was obvious the “boys” needed a little help waking up. Unlike the previous night’s sleep in the back seat of their car, I spent the night elsewhere. With a couple of taps on the car door window, the guys started to rouse. “Over-slept and apparently over-buzzed,” I thought while saying, “Another chance to run with the bulls!?” My flight out of Bilboa was now leaving earlier than previously planned not allowing for a third run. Within a few minutes, the boys were ready and we were off to join the numerous runners that were either still up from the previous night’s festivities or, like us, just barely entering back into reality.
As we arrived at the chute, we selected to start our run, cheers from the crowds standing in the hotel balconies and store windows filled the air. It was only 7:16 a.m. We waited for the police to do their crowd checking for cameras and other random things that could serve to cause a crowd of runners to trip or potentially hurt a bull. Eventually, the cannons would fire indicating the start of the run and necessarily the release of the bulls from the starting pen. The world-famous event was again in full swing. Every day for the duration of the celebration, six to eight bulls are guided down a winding and narrow pathway 800 meters in length into an arena where bullfighting would end the bulls’ day and ultimately their lives. The whole course is usually run within six to nine minutes—fast. “Maybe the day’s run would prove to be worthwhile,” I thought. It had to be. I was now leaving earlier than planned, and for a few moments, I regretted not chasing after the girl—again. I had wondered if I should’ve flown to the UK from Madrid affording me a little more time with her, but now, it was too late. The inevitable back-up plan, “sticking to the plan” mentality had kicked in.
“So many people already running again!” I said to Brian. “Bull-shitters!” He smirked. “They’ll get booed when they get into the stadium too soon,” he said while pointing out one of the well-known Spanish runners wearing green. The cannons hadn’t fired, but the masses had already started inching toward the arena in herd-like fashion. “Keep your eye on the Spanish guy. You run when he runs,” he said turning to take a moment to pay religious or spiritual homage to what seemed a variety of deities who might help. “Nervous today?” Brian asked wondering if the previous day’s encounter with the bulls birthed any fear into me. I could tell he was uneasy. “Not yet,” I replied calmly. “And the American girl…Carrie?” He smiled with a certain level of interest. “I put her and the Swedish kid in a taxi and sent them to the train station.” The Spanish guy noticed me and nodded his head at me in recognition of our conversation from the previous day. He too made the sign of the cross. “A Catholic,” I thought while recollecting odd childhood memories of my junior high school. Somehow I ended up with a Catholic nun as a godmother even though I wasn't Catholic, but she funded my early education that gave insight into what later in my life would be a reference point in my developing spiritual odyssey.
I should’ve been nervous, but I wasn’t. The truth is I really didn’t care what might happen. If it was my time, I was ready. I had already seen more of the world than anyone I knew and had gone on many adventures while seeing it. I’d known the love of at least one good woman and had many other pleasant experiences with other girls and women alike. I had enough memories of my life to write a book. “A super-star from the projects,” I thought to look toward the sky whispering the remnants of once religious life, “Thank you, Father, for being good to me today. Thank you for having mercy on me.”
The American and the Swede’s train was bound for Madrid, and it left at 7:00 a.m. The early departure necessitated an early wake-up and afforded time enough to meet up with guys before the day’s run. I didn’t mention to the guys where I stayed. It was rude to not offer the gentlemen a chance to shower or at least a good shot at cleaning up. They had, for the most part, been every bit helpful to me even though we had only met a few days before in an airport in a completely different country. They were there to have a good time and share the experience. I was fortunate to run into them when I did. Otherwise, the time would have passed much differently or not at all considering the transportation problems due to the event.
Now, we were waiting for what the run might bring. Good or bad—it didn’t matter. We were attempting to live life to the fullest and every second seemed to count. Breathing a little more deeply and concentrating on every breath that eased out of me, I thought of a few people back home. With only a few seconds remaining, I sent out a text message to as many people as I could. It simply read, “One last run with the bulls…for love and glory.” As the cannons fired, I hit the send button.
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The Spaniard
The Spaniard and I had met the day before at the Grand Plaza. We were watching Sunday’s playback of the run on the jumbo screen. Only this rendition of it had orchestra music attached to the various parts of the race with a few play-by-plays of previous events and runner misfortunes. I made light of the fact that it was one of my childhood dreams to run with the bulls and be a bull runner. Like most people who have dreams, following them typically comes second to work or school or the lack of money. Worse, someone might actually tell you can’t do something and you believe them. Our dreams go from one list of things-to-do before age 25 to the things-to-do list before you hit 40. Before you know it, dreams become part of a different past....a different person—the one you wanted to be and not the one you’ve become. The Spaniard laughed at first but then had a pondering look on his face. He smiled after a few seconds and told me I was lucky. “Lucky?” I said. “People forget to dream or how to dream because of what you said; life gets in the way or we let other people tell us what we can do or be. You have to live in order to keep dreaming, but if you only dream and never go after those dreams, they become much less pleasant things in your mind's memory. So, you are lucky to be able to live this dream out and run with the bulls… Again tomorrow?” “Si,” smiling back in agreement.
The Welch guys disappeared after the first run on Sunday or maybe I just lost them. It was easy to do with everyone wearing white clothes with red neck and waist pieces. There were 100’s of people running that day. It was nearly impossible to stand and wait the hour before the cannons were fired. Finally, when they did, the mass of runners was so strong that standing off to the sides of the street to wait for the bulls to get closer was not an option—well at least not in that leg of the run. I was being pushed and yelled at to “Run!” So, as to not get trampled by the crowd, I started my way through the section of the coarse into the arena leaving a fair distance between the guys and me. “Meet at the jumbo screen if we get separated…” was our agreement. Now the task would be to find the jumbo screen.
I had no idea where the jumbo screen was, and when I thought about it, I had no idea where the car was either. I had spent every minute of my time with the Welsh guys since we met at the airport in Bilboa because my stuff was in their car. It was by chance that we began speaking to each other about our plans to run with the bulls at the airport terminal in London. I left my arrival at the event unplanned to see what opportunities might be available en route. The guys happen to offer me a ride down to the event in their rental after we met up again in Bilboa. Being as there were no buses available going to the event at that time of night, I kindly but cautiously accepted their offer.
But now, I didn’t know where they where. I had a general idea where the car was parked and might have been able to get directions to Danny’s bar—their base camp—but had no clear direction to go. The question was more a matter of belief; the boys seemed believable, and strangely, I was calm. I spoke the language and would only have to ask where to find things. If the guys had left with the car, I could always report the theft to the local authorities and maybe claim it on my travel insurance. All the real valuables, including my passport, were in my back pocket. I’ve done plenty of traveling to know where to keep those types of items. Honestly, I’m generally not a very trusting person of strangers or anyone else for that matter. I took a photo of the car and license plate with my camera phone “just in case” back at the airport. The boys, Brian and Tony, were seasoned bull runners and incidentally bothers. It would be there sixth time running the event. A few scars on their arms spoke of previous runs that hadn’t gone as well as planned. Having looked over the situation and the guys, I figure I could handle anything that might come up.
We arrived in town late parking on what I thought was the Northside of the Grand plaza. We wandered around finding pints of beer to drink and random seafood to eat. Before long we had made our way down to what would be known as “base-camp.” Besides it including the car, a small street, and bar owned by a Basque gentleman named Danny, it’s where the boys would retreat to in between and after the day’s events. Just outside of the main town was a single level bar with a few apartment buildings and markets. The overflow parking lots were also located in the area filled with RV’s and people living out of their cars.
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On the Straight Away
The frenzy had begun. Brian reminded me to mind the runners. They could trip in front of you, throw you off balance, run right into you—or worse, knock you over, which would lead to a trampling. Anything could happen. The bulls were at least a sure thing, but the runners—not so much. I watched the Spaniard and waited for him to make his move. We waited for the cameras to start flashing, and only then did he budge. Brian had crossed over to the other side of the road without my noticing. I started to walk along the roads edge with my feet at the ready allowing other people to run by. There were no outs in this section of the run; it was a straightaway with only store-fronts and balconies one floor level above the streets. The option to slip through the fence to safety was down another 100 or so meters—you had to run or get run over. The Spaniard and Brian had also started to move a little more briskly.
A hard-packed group of runners came into view. Just as they passed the Spaniard made a dash into the center of the road leaving an eight to ten-foot space between him and the bulls. Without knowing it, I was now nearly running. My left hand was out in front of me much like a football player pushing people out of the way. My right hand held a rolled newspaper to swat away a potential horn if I managed to not get out of the way in time or if the bull shifted his stride. The smell of sweat and body heat filled the air. I was in the middle of the crowd now attempting to decide which way to go.
I decided to wear a black polo shirt instead of the traditional all-while shirt and pants in order to stick out in the crowd for a potential television opportunity. The red handkerchief and sachet were affixed to me loosely so as to not give the bulls something to catch with their horns if things got rough. Looking back quickly, the Spaniard had crossed over to the right side of the road staying just arm’s length away from the lead bull. He was now less than 15 feet behind me and closing fast. One of the runners fell in front of me nearly sending me into a tumble. As I staggered forward back into a run, the packed group of guys pressed me toward the wall creating a human barrier between the bulls and me. As I turned to look, two of the bulls passed within a foot of the guy next to me as the others passed behind them. The Spaniard was out of the way concluding his run for the day. All of this in less than two minutes or so.
The danger had passed. Brian yelled from across the way, “Good run mate!… Good run!” The Spaniard also waved and yelling out “bull runner,” in Spanish. Again, I was filled with a certain type of emotion I’ve only experienced crossing a marathon finishing line. My throat tightened and my eyes slightly teared. I had accomplished something significant. I had accomplished one more thing I was told only certain people could do. Attempting to brush off the emotion, Brian and I headed down the road to find out what had come of Tony. When we found him, he was yapping with a few other runners who had also had good runs. We were all interested in a pint of beer to celebrate, and after a few laughs, I dismissed myself. I had to retrieve my things from the hotel room assuring the guys I would catch them at Danny’s Bar as soon as I could.
It was still early and there was enough time to shower and get in a nap. When I got to the room,
I hit the bed hard detecting the slight scent of a woman. “I at least got a chance to entertain her a little,” I thought and half said. “A gentlemen till the end,” closing my eyes. A few minutes passed before the sounds of the people and cars on the street below dulled as I drifted to sleep.
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The Harvard Girl
The girl was sweet and more courteous to the Swede than he really earned from his behavior and conversational tone the previous night. Like the girl and the Swede, I was trying to find a way out of town. My original plan was to stay another two days, which would’ve been fine except there were no rooms to rent and no showers to be had. After spending a good night of drinking, a full day sweating with nowhere to really rest, sleep or shower, I was dirty and wanted an out. The only answer to the situation was to change my flight plan or at least see if it was an option leading me to the only internet place in town that was open. This is where I met the American and her Swedish friend.
“What the hell am I doing here!” I mentioned to myself attempting to make sense out of the directions I was given. The town’s roads were winding and circular like most cities in Europe. I was lost and tired from the heat of the day. “Relax. You’ll find the café and see what the options are and then be concerned. No need to worry before you have something to worry about.” I thought. I half laughed when I finally found the right road. I dislike making decisions that will cost me money because of a day’s emotional ups or downs. You never really know why you might be feeling more or less irritable on any given day. You could be tired. You might be hungry. You might’ve had a bad cocktail, and sometimes it’s just loneliness…or any combination of the three. Knowing this, I waited till after breakfast to hunt out the café. While I ate, I reflected and wrote in my journal of my mind-set, the trip thus far and Selma my Dutch friend from a few years back. I had only connected with two people this leg of the trip, the Welsh fellows, and wondered if it was going to become a more reflective time. Whichever the case, I needed to know the options.
The café was small and had a dozen computers with nearly as many English-speaking tourists attempting to make sense of train schedules. I smiled speaking Spanish to the café attendant hiding my language and citizenship. As people planned the next leg of their trips, I listened to a girl give her account of being robbed while asleep in one of the nearby parks or ‘grassy knolls’ as it was. “They took our money, our ID’s and we missed our train back to Madrid,” she said. She was American and probably from the Midwest judging by her accent. I shook my head and smiled recalling other tourists I’d encountered with similar stories on previous trips. It’s a tough situation to deal with when you’re able to speak the local language, but they couldn’t speak Spanish making matters worse. To 'improve' their situation, many of the normal tourist outlets were closed during the festival or because it was Sunday making it hard for the girl to fix whatever problem she was having with her credit card. “SOL,” I thought… and as I turned to mind the screen, Bowie started to play in my head, “…cause love is such an old fashioned word…and love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night…
As she went on, I came into full awareness that the schedules on EasyJet don’t have the most favorable pricing for last-minute changes. The price in British pounds and fees were steep. As I pondered the cost of potentially leaving early and weighed it against the situation of being homeless, dirty and in extreme heat for a couple of more days, I detected a change in the American’s tone of voice—she was about to lose it... "...This is ourselves under pressure."
Turning in my chair, I asked where she was from in the US hoping to help distract her from the on-coming Niagara Falls. “Michigan…well Boston as of late,” she said. “You speak English,” she replied back with more stability in her voice probably having noted my entrance into the place and my use of Spanish with the attendant. “Yes. American and Spanish. I’m working on getting out of town. The festival is a bit filthier than I bargained for. I’m looking at flights out of Bilboa. If you give me a few minutes, I might be able to help you.” A slight look of relief came over her face. For a few more moments, I putz around on the website looking at fares into London from Bilboa and Madrid. Finally, I clicked the “Accept Changes” button and turned my attention toward the girl.
Introducing myself to the attendant, who was trying to help the girl out and understand what she needed, I motioned the girl to come over and explain what had happened. The two, her and the Swedish guy, were in town for a couple of days to celebrate the festival with a group of American students out of Madrid. They had managed to break away from the group and got lost after they had had a few too many pints. The rest of the group left town not knowing what had happened. It would’ve been impossible to find them among the thousands of tourists and must've figured they would just show up on the next train back to Madrid. Good thought but impossible without a phone, currency or any legal Ids, and her Ivy Leaguer card probably wouldn’t cut it but did raise a few mental notes.
After working out a few details with the train station, the café’s attendant got a couple of tickets put on hold for the next morning. The only problem might be not having the card to present when they picked up the tickets, but it was better than nothing and would serve as a short piece of mental hope. I was unclear if the two were actually an 'item' or just caught together in an awkward situation. It shouldn’t have mattered. I just wanted to be helpful, but as the girl continued to converse with me about their experience I began to take a slight interest in her. Wondering what their plans might be for the rest of the day, I asked, “Are you two involved?” Yes. I'm that kind of a direct person.
It was a question the Swede necessarily found too intrusive but not sure how to answer looking to the girl for guidance. The American was quick to respond with a “No.”
“I only ask because if you have to stay in town overnight, it’ll make a difference in the cost of accommodation,” I said to legitimize my inquiry.
“We don’t have any money or credit. What does it matter,” she said.
“I’m not sure about you, but I’ve been dying for a shower and a place to sleep besides the back seat of a very small car or a bench out in the open. I ran into a few places with vacancies trying to find this place. If I can find a one that’s available, I would share the room with you two. Your train leaves tomorrow at 7:00 a.m. What are you going to do till then?” A question I already knew the answer to but wanted them to come to grips with on their own.
I asked politely distracting them from the obvious—they still had nearly a full day before their three-hour train ride to Madrid; they had nowhere to go or stay, much less to eat or drink, till then. Without thinking about it, I gave Carrie a realtor card with all my basic contact information to help validate my identity but really to provide an opportunity for her to contact me if she was interested. A silence arose between the two. The time read 12:27 p.m. and the day had really only started to warm up as the sun reached its zenith. The two still needed a hand. As they continued going over ideas, I asked the attendant the cost and time of busses, cabs that went to the station. And invited them to join me as I made a trip to a cash machine.
“I spent a good long while figuring out how to get to this spot on the running course today. More because of the ATM but also because it’s where the internet place is.” I mentioned giving them a few more moments to think. The girl was taking in the scene while attempting to stay cool. “Here’s 40 Euros. It’s not much. You’ll need some basic things between now and when you leave tomorrow. You can mail me a postcard or something when you make it back to the States or wherever it is you’re going to out of Madrid.” I smiled handing the notes to the girl. She politely refused but eventually accepted the offer. I was going to leave the two to fate but extended them an offer to join me at the Welsh’s base-camp. That is, of course, they didn’t have anything better to do. Without too much hesitation, they joined me. I was hoping they would. I was interested in what the girl was like and what she knew of the world considering she was among the bright and wealthy at Harvard. As we walked, the two listen as I regurgitate newly acquired knowledge of the bull-running coarse and the history of the festival. I admit I knew nothing of the event’s set-up or anything about the town for that matter. I usually leave those details for points of conversation that I might be useful in a conversational lull or to avoid sounding like a babbling idiot. It’s a practice I began early on in my traveling days to keep social and for exposure to new things.
Giving the girl the money was for obvious reasons—she didn’t have any, and she needed it. Also, I wanted her to feel they were free to leave anytime necessarily allowing them to regain control of their circumstances if they chose to do so. Autonomy was now hers in between the two of them but also in the situation at large. If she elected to spend any further time with the Swede or me, it would be a free choice and because she wanted to. The money was obligation-free. If she chose to not interact with me any further, I would’ve been fine with it, but for the few moments, I hoped she would hang around for a bit. Speaking English with someone was nice and a break from the silence.
These types of social interactions are the norm in certain factions of culture. It’s a kind of show of arms except it’s more about the gesture and its presentation than the actual favor or gift. People will go to great lengths to avoid feeling obligated, and I wanted to save anyone from that sentiment. Sharing with the two what I learned that day from the locals was fun, and I did it much like a school kid would to his parents after an interesting lesson from school. More importantly, as we walked to the Welsh’s base-camp, I noticed something taking place in the air between the girl and me. Between glances and when the Swede was looking off into the sky or rambling on about this or that experience he had to offer up, an eye of exchange happened. “Hmm,” I thought, The Swede also noticed as the early signs of what he considered to be competition were now making their way into his method of conversation. I kept a positive mood for the walk and paid him little attention.
At base-camp, the attendant brought out a few bottles of water and a few dishes of food for that time of the day. It was just after 2:00, and the boys hadn’t made it back from their excursion through town. When they finally did arrive, introductions were made and conversations between the Swede and the Welsh guys went immediately into the World Cup final happening that night. As they yapped, I made small talk with the girl attempting to learn more about her summer plans and the events that lead up to the grassy knoll event. She was tall and her hair was sandy-blond—it was pulled back into a pony-tail much like tennis player's. Her teeth were straight and strikingly white compared to the rest of her. She was reserved but very aware of her surroundings and, more importantly, well mannered. As the hours passed, I continued ignoring the Swede’s attempt to draw us into his conversation with the Welsh guys. There seemed to be much to learn about the girl and not enough time to do it. Eventually, the guys decided it was time to go visit the bullpen where the next day’s running bulls were kept for public viewing.
It was a good time to leave the Welsh guys to do their thing while we did ours. For our part, this consisted mainly of the Swedish guy rambling on about relationships and the freedom and control women should have in them, the occasional odd fact about his past experiences with drugs, and my tactical use of his logic to point out his blatant disregard for the principles he was attempting to promote in the present situation—namely letting the girl decide she could do what she wanted. As it was, there seemed to be good potential for a little romance with the girl, but there was the issue of what to do with the Swede. Do we leave him roam around for a bit while we found better things to do and agree to meet him at a certain place? Do we watch the game and catch up with each other after the fact? Ask him to politely to give us a little time on our own? What!? Then, the obvious occurred to me—if he didn’t have direct access to the girl, he would avoid going anywhere. I suppose I should give him a little credit for that interesting show of chivalry.
This fact posed an interesting dilemma for me. If I try to move anything between the girl and me any further than he was comfortable with, it might verify whatever story he was feeding the girl about my “real” intentions for extending them a helping hand. Or the reverse, if I just left them to chance, it might have verify his suspicions of my intentions only giving him credit as having warded me off by interfering in every bit of conversation possible and placing himself between the two of us every step of the way to project he was in control. I could already see Carrie was annoyed by the Swede, and despite her annoyance, she stuck it out with him. She wouldn’t leave him. “Loyal to a guy she doesn’t know, but the ethics of the situation call for it and she responded. Hmmm. Quality.” I thought to myself further assessing the situation. As the night progressed, I did the only thing I could do—I acted as gentlemen giving the girl, as the Swede had purported women should do, every opportunity to choose what she wanted and included the Swede even if it was on my dime. Later, we watched the World Cup Final at a pub I had gotten coffee from earlier that morning and took a final spin around the town getting a little buzzed of the festival’s legendary “Calle Mucho,” which is a drink made of a cheap wine variant and coca-cola. Yeah. It was ruff.
The room was a few blocks from where the pub was located making it easier for the three of us to go and shower at our own pace while the other two could enjoy the scenery outside or continue watching the game. I took the first shower while the two stayed and watched the game. The room was small and had one big problem—there was only one bed with a ceiling fan directly above it. The mattress was a little smaller than a queen-size one. I had told the owner of the place that there would be two of us staying in the room so as to get the lower rate, but it also meant, I would be sharing the bed, or as I inquired earlier—with to uninvolved strangers!? I laughed fully realizing that it was bigger than the back seat of the Welsh’s rental. I made my way down to the bar wearing the cleaner of my remaining gear—a black polo and white shorts.
Getting back to the bar, the crowd began to yell as one of the Italians head-butted another player. Then, the kicking shoot-out giving the Italian’s the win. Joining the two, the girl smiled. “The shower was nice,” I said. “I can’t wait to get clean,” she mentioned turning to the bartender and necessarily to the Swede indicating her eagerness to shower. He was hesitant to give any response but eventually started commenting on some historical piece of information on the event. We made our way back to the hotel where we quietly made our way into the room. As the girl got her things together, I invited the Swede to join me for a beer or something attempting to not seem annoyed by him. As we sat on the patio outside the hotel bar, a silence rose between us. I was caught up in the scene. We were at a busy intersection with nearly five corners all leading to different places in the city. Attempting to remember which we needed to take to the main plaza, I vaguely heard the Swede mention something. I couldn’t quite make it out, but it seemed as though he was tired and wanted to stay in. “He wants to stay in?” I thought and noticed that a half-hour had passed. Getting up and making my way to the door, I mentioned I was going to check on the girl and would be back in a few moments. He intended to get up, but then suddenly realized he maybe should stay put.
As I got to the room, the door was slightly open. She was sitting on the bed combing her hair. She looked up slightly. Whatever she used to clean up with permeated the air and smelled amazing. “Hmm. The scent of a woman.” I thought. “How was the shower?” “Feels good to be clean and fresh. Where’s Rasmus?” She said continuing to brush through her hair. “I left him on the patio,” I whispered moving toward her. A few seconds went by as we realized we were, for the first time, alone. I tilted her head toward me and kissed her on the lips. Well, kind of. She didn’t really contribute to the event. As male instinct would have it, I went right for the lips in auto-pilot mode not being sensitive to the whole thing. I hoped to have another chance at it later, maybe. “It might not be the right time. Maybe there’s someone else,” I thought. She was hesitant. I noted it immediately and kissed her on the forehead inviting her to join me in finding the Swede minimizing any awkwardness of my romantic inclinations. It was the best thing to do and only that—kiss her on the forehead.
Approaching us with a look of eagerness, the Swede waited to hear what had just taken place. Fifteen minutes had passed since I left and we had come back. “We’re gonna grab a beer while you hit the shower and maybe run around for a bit. You mentioned you were tired, and I thought it might work out to meet up with you in a short while.” Hoping he might get the hint, and he did, he declined to take a shower and decided to make the scene with us. “I suppose.” I thought. Much like earlier in the day, a verbal jousting contest took place between the two of us, which ultimately ended up in a few long moments of silence only interrupted by the droves of people partying to their hearts’ content and the occasional couple going a little too far right there in front of you. It fit the bill for the place as most people took it upon themselves to urinate anywhere they could find a wall for a target. Beyond the filth, and in the smiles and screams of laughter in the air was real life happening. It transcended the small things and brought me into a higher plane of thought and appreciation for life as if I understood the Universe in a few brushstrokes of thought. I again glanced over at the girl only to find her staring right back. As the moments passed we continued to communicate silently. The remaining time went by without our mouths really opening other than to scuff at the Swede’s insanity. I found a deep sense of satisfaction getting to play the role of hero for the girl. I wanted to spend more time with her, but the clock was ticking.
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The Alarm Clock
The sound of the alarm clock came all to quickly. Without too much effort, we gathered their things and were out the door. It was just after 6:00 a.m. The night had passed in a manner that could only be described as, at best—odd. The girl slept between the Swede and me probably making it a little uncomfortable as the room was a bit warm. The two had gotten under the sheets. I took the cooler option placing myself on top of the sheets and closest to the door. Either way, the silence in the room by itself was enough to drive anyone mad. Eventually, I passed out only to wake occasionally to the scene of the Swede spooning the girl. “Nice, and I paid for the room,” I thought and probably said under my breath.
The direction that the train station was in was a bit of a mystery. Without thinking about it, I flagged down a taxi paid the driver giving him instructions as to where to deliver the two, and I sent them off. I hugged the girl goodbye attempting to enjoy her embrace one last time while asking her to text me when she got into Madrid. “Find me if you need anything,” I said to her in a soft voice. As the two drove off, the lyrics from some tune started to play in my mind. I started to sing the song as I found my direction and started walking quickly down the roadway. I didn’t think that I’d see her again, but we shared a moment that would last till the end. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. It’s true. I saw your face in a crowded place, and I don’t know what to do cause I’ll never be with you. …” As thoughts of how the story would read one day came to mind, I had to stop and ask which direction the arena was located making sure I was at least walking in the right direction. “One more!” I thought as the building started to take on a reddish-orange color in the morning light. It was time to make the scene.
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Knock, knock, knock. “What the..?!” I thought. Maybe I had slept too long and was now at or near check-out time. The time on my watch read 45 minutes past the time I had hit the bed. Knock, knock, knock. “Who is it?” I asked in Spanish. From the rustling in the hall, a familiar voice spoke. It was the girl. By the tone in her voice, something had was off. Opening the door, she stood just ahead of her Swedish friend. “What happened?” I said nearly guessing the events exactly. The train station wouldn’t run the card number without the actual card or without a passport for identification purposes. It wasn’t as tragic as it seemed; the Swede had proven to be useful and managed to find a few contributors to their tragic story fund. And with the remaining money I gave the girl, they bought a couple of bus tickets leaving for Madrid departing in a couple of hours. As we walked out of the room, I took a few moments to appreciate the fact the girl had come to me. “Why? She didn’t need to; she already had a bus ticket to get out of town and back to Madrid. She was free. Probably not going to make it back in time for her flight out but at least back and out of this mess.” I thought. Now I had time. Time to spend with the girl, and time to assess what to do with the situation as a whole.
The reason the girl came to me was unclear, but it didn’t matter. There she was in front of me, and all I needed to do was take all of her all in. The temperature was, again, unbearable and it was still mid-morning. I dismissed the Swede and instructed him to meet us at the bus station, only this time I wasn’t suggesting it. “Don’t worry. I’ll get her back in time to board the bus. We walked around to the tourist station for her to find a number for the airline she was flying out on later that day and to her credit card company. Instead of wasting time looking for a tourist office, we should’ve just relaxed and enjoyed the extra time.
There were things for her to be concerned; she was part of a research team out of Harvard that would be leaving without her later that day. Any direct instructions that would be issued to the group were going to be missed and would need to be made up along the way necessarily robbing her of due participation credit. It was a trivial thing to most people in the working world but the bread and butter of a graduate student. It was then that I could finally appreciate she was an Ivy Leaguer. A research team for a few weeks in Greece nearly cost-free isn’t the run of the mill credit generating activity. My previous encounters with the guardians of knowledge had generally ended in less constructive conversations on the mission fields where their lives afforded them the opportunity to ‘give-back’ to the very people they exploited. I suppose.
Reassuring her that everything would be fine, we walked toward the bus station. If she needed to stay another night, she would be my guest. But, she wanted to go. The look in her eye was now turned to getting to Madrid, and it was obvious the girl wasn’t used to this type of an unplanned event. Most people generally aren’t. They live their lives day to day never thinking that anything could happen potentially changing their world forever if not ending it. You could be in a car accident. You could be shot. We could be bombed. Anything could destroy a person’s paradigm and their reality. Unlike the Isrealies who grow up living in a state of constant awareness, most people go into trauma the instant something goes wrong. Fortunately, I’d been trained to search for the anomaly—the thing or event that might send the masses into a panic, and short of falling prey to the mass-mind, we have a plan. With a few other odd pieces of conversation, we made it to the train station again finding the Swede eagerly awaiting her arrival. “You win.” I thought realizing it might be the last time I saw the girl. If there was to be any further communication, it would have to come from her. Their bus was boarding. She again thanked me for the hand I had extended them. “Water!” I said handing the two a couple of bottles. This came as a surprise as I had boarded the bus just before it was about to depart. A last-minute gesture. It was really nothing but everything that needed to happen at that point in the trip giving the running of the bulls a new meaning…a new memory.
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As the bus pulled down the street, I watched for the two through the window. They were busy yapping about something. The moment had gotten intense for me. I was watching the highlight of the trip, thus far, drive off on a bus that I wasn’t on. I thought to run after the bus and drop everything I was doing and just continue my trip from wherever the bus would take me. All the important things were with me. I would lose a few key things leaving my bag as I did, but I had Brian’s mobile number. If necessary, I would contact him and make arrangements to pick up the bag in London or pay him to ship it. A few other thoughts of the nature came to mind, but the fact of the matter was, I was walking down the street toward base-camp again.
“Why did the girl come back to me after the train station incident?” The question continued to be on the forefront of my mind. I had stuck to the plan the first time she was to leave. I stuck to the plan. But, she disrupted it the ease with which I let her go earlier in the day. I had already sold myself on the “nice memory” play out and really had not planned on hearing from her again. Why would she bother; she’s an Ivy Leaguer, and I’m not. She must be wealthy, and I’m nearly broke. The situation isn’t exactly how I planned it, but then again, I realize we don’t always get to plan things—we have to respond to them whole-heartedly because our lives might depend on it. Bible stories, storylines from various authors and odd cultural tails from my childhood resurfaced with more or less the same theme--all we have to do is show up. Do I go after the girl or do I continue to stick to the plan?
Instead, I walked back into the bus station and asked when the next bus to Bilboa and Madrid were leaving. The desk clerk pointed to a schedule on the wall. “6:00 PM." It was enough time to find the guys, get my stuff, and develop a plan on how I might find the girl in Madrid. It would be a big shot into the dark but at least a calculated one. There are only so many airliners that depart MAD at the 5:00 pm hour bound for the islands. I could track them to the respective terminal and hit the check in-line. The odds of connecting with her might improve if she did text. I might be able to call the phone she texted me on and find a place to meet her. After all, she was headed to Madrid a city that has always been good to me in the past, and I knew her like the back of my hand.
This back and forth calculating scenario went on for the duration of my walk back to Welsh’s base-camp. Determining it was situational and really just a rip in the normal ordinance of things, I continued to walk. I was still a little bent about what had just transpired and probably suffered a little from what appeared to be the signs of heatstroke. I thought about the conflict I had lost with the university temporarily putting my doctorate career in suspension. I thought about the job I took on to cover my expenses and the fact that it wasn’t paying me and owed me a significant amount of cash. The financial gap between being off the federal dole and next to nothing income was catching up with me. It was why I was on the trip. “One last Hoo-Rahh,” as the chair committee person put it to me ending my last term in the program and the student publication I created to broadcast my political ideology. It proved to be useful to motivate the administration to take action from time to time. Little did they know I had found asylum at another university slowly beginning the march up the mountain. I was taking charge of my life again signified by being there right in the middle of another world-class event and my election to run another marathon.
“It must end here.” I said as I arrived, but it’s time to face the truth. I will never be with you. It was a hard pill to swallow. In fact, the emotion of giving up that easily started to choke me. I had worked too hard and tactically to get to that point in my life—the point where economics, class, culture and education mattered little when stripped of their social ramifications. We are all the same—human beings—with similar needs and wants. And like every other person brought up to believe there’s a special person waiting for you meet them, or in my case, catch up with them somewhere in the world. I’m a hopeful romantic in that regard. I had been fighting the good fight to be free and available to share a lane of life with to where ever it might take us.
I waited for the guys to make it back. It was hot, and I was starting to go delirious. I couldn’t drink enough water to keep up with what I was losing in sweat. A few French kids were babbling about something at the table next to me, and the bar owners were on break making food unavailable. As I wrote in my journal, I tried to make sense of why the girl came back to the room. It was a mystery or at least the heatstroke experience was clouding my judgement making it a little more difficult to think it out. I must’ve drifted into a daydream because I was now on the bus kindly chastising the Swede for his chauvinistic commentary and simultaneously praising them both for sticking with each other. “She didn’t leave you.” I mentioned to him. Eventually, the scene changed and I was on the beach in Mexcio relating to the Germans again. Only this time, we were laughing at the tale I told of how we met and ponder what role the American girl would play if I caught up with her in Madrid. “Madrid has always been good to you,” Michella said to me. I laughed because it was true. As the dialog continued, I realized it wasn’t just the Germans I was relating to but also my Swedish friend Kim from pre-requisite school, Selma the Dutch, the Mexican, Alicia, and all the people I had met from the beginning of my travels. As each told their tale on how we met and what part I played in their lives, I laughed and attempted to see the larger plan of my life even if it wasn’t obvious at the moment.
As the conversations continued and same question repeated, “What are you going to do?” As the long awaited reunion of old friends carried on, Brian shook my shoulder asking, “What are you going to do…today? “Are you Ok lad?” He asked offering me a bottle of water. I was drenched with sweat and must have looked a little delirious. “We’re going to the pool to cool off. You’re welcome to come along.” There are showers there.” He smiled. “It was a good run today wasn’t it!” He continued laughing and motioning me in the direction of the car.
When we got to the place it was supposed to be parked, it was gone. The city must’ve towed it or it was stolen. Fortunately for all of us, I had taken a photo of the car and it’s license plate making it easy to identify if it really was missing. We spent the next hour attempting to find the city’s tow lot. When we finally did arrive, it took all of ten minutes to pay the fine, get the car and leave toward the pool. The guys found it interesting that I took the photo of the car. I simple mentioned it might’ve been useful if I ever needed to describe the car, which had just proven to be the case. In reality, if my judgement was wrong about the two and I turn up missing, eventually someone would come across the photo in someone’s camera phone or my email. Or, if an insurance claim was necessary, I had some evidence. Either way, it was a subtle precaution.
The pools and shower proved to be refreshing, but ultimately gave me too much time to think. It was now later afternoon and surely the girl had made it back to Madrid by then or soon would be. “She’s probably got people waiting for the bus to pull up. That takes an hour max before she makes it to her friend’s place; it’ll take another couple of hours to relax and get clean; and then dinner, which will probably take place later like 10ish. So, maybe I’d get a text from her then…plus or minus an hour.” I calculated in my mind. For some reason, I was still trying to plan out a search and find mission with the little information I had. The bus ride to Madrid was five hours in duration and the last bus for it left at 6:00 PM. If I hustled, I might make the 5:00pm pending it wasn’t sold out. The guys decided to hit-up a few pints before the day cooled some bringing out the crowds from the shade. I had left my gear bag with one of the bar attendants this time around having established a little repour with the staff. The move would prove to be useful in the moments to come.
The beer was cold and the dim light of the bar welcoming. The heat index read somewhere between 105-110 degrees. As cold as the beer was, I should’ve been drinking water. I was still dehydrated and still suffering from heatstroke symptoms. As the guys babbled on about the cup, it came to me. “I could get on the bus, sleep some, make it to a pension in Madrid and meet the girl for lunch before she left.” I said this not realizing the guys had a lull in their conversation and were wondering what I was talking about. “The girl. You want to go after the girl! Brian said accusingly. I suppose the pointed statement brought a certain kind of decision process because I said yes, and as I said it, a surge of energy shot through me. Within moments, I dismissed myself from the guys mentioning my plan in short and was off to collect my bag and make it to the bus station. As I arrived, the line was out the door. All the busses to Madrid were full. “Next option, bus to Bilboa and wait.” I thought. It was the sensible thing to do as my flight was scheduled to leave out of Bilboa the following morning. In the event I didn’t hear from the girl, I would at least be in a better position to leave Spain without feeling I didn’t try.
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Bilboa, Spain
The city was starting to quiet. It was dark and nearing 10:00pm. The bus-ride had gone by without incident except for a drip from a leak in the AC condensation line hitting my head every now and then. Bilboa looked much different than it had from my previous visit nearly a decade ago. I made my way around to find if any busses leaving the station were headed to Madrid only to find it impossible to do till morning. I hadn’t heard from the girl, but I was determined to be within range. My muscles ached and my head felt as if it was going to explode—the signs that heat exhaustion might get the best of me if I didn’t get more fluid in me and find a place to rest.
I was now getting closer to my target town. Sometimes you just have to make the scene for things to happen. You never really know. It’s better to show up and not wonder than to wonder for the rest of your life. Reminding myself again, I found the train station, which I discovered the next train out to Madrid was leaving in a few minutes. It was now or some unforeseen moment in the future. Decisions of this nature are usually easy to make, but as the beating at the back of my head got worse, and not having any confirmation the girl was in Madrid, I headed for the street. It was late, and I didn’t have anywhere to stay till morning and nowhere to buy water and some salt and sugar. I got on the metro headed toward the city centrum hoping to find a pension with a vacancy. Operating with limited funds, it would be helpful to save a few Euros and use them in London where hopefully I might find a Scottish friend, Nicola, or a room to rent for the night.
Finding the room was easy. Finding somewhere to pick up a bite to eat and maybe a random internet place was harder. “God. The weather’s at least nice and the scene is descent.” I thought walking down the road toward one of the town’s PC hubs. As I thought about the trip and all that it signified in relationship to the rest of my life, I laughed. I was looking for love—still chasing a dream that offered strength and guidance to me in times past. All the places I’d visited and spent countless hours on buses, trains and plane rides had led me to this point in my life—walking down an unfamiliar road waiting for a text message to come in. The slight smell of burning wood passed through the night air. “This is our last dance. This is ourselves…under pressure,” the Bowie tuned played as random thoughts of Selma the Dutch came to mind. Three trips to the Netherlands to no real avail except the side stories that happen during and along the way to her. But, between us, at least for a few moments, we reached an understanding of each other—an appreciation for the existence of the other. I did get a few stories to tell the world about in the process of it all, but I didn’t get the girl. “Ha ha ha!” I laughed.
P.S.
There are a number of stories I wrote in the years that followed, and I will give you a few spoilers. I published this story the day after a surgery for cancer I had to undergo. Well, a friend of mine posted it just in case I didn't actually make.
Eventually, I resumed the chiropractic program at Palmer's College of Chiropractic West where I finished the program in June of 2010. Since then I've managed to work both in Minnesota and California where I've treated a number of the most famous people on the planet. It has been my humble privilege to exchange words with a historical figure's children and remember that all things are one and written by the same hand if you happen to subscribe to spiritual ideologies of old
I'm presently friends with all of the people I mentioned in the story thanks to FB and some old school writing actual letters. I may write a follow-up story for my most recent running of the bulls experience and bring you up to speed on what else has happened since my days of being ubiquitous.
