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Across the Pyrenees into Spain, we enter Spain, the first of many new countries for me on this trip. A glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean, the first sighting of palm trees, and an endless procession of unreadable signs for a speaker of only one language, English. Perhaps the cash machines here will be friendlier. The French ATMs liked the Spousal Unit but sneered at my VISA card.
We picnic on guacamole sandwiches at the border under leaden skies. After lunch we dash back across to France to rid ourselves of French coins, then load up the truck and roll south through the hilly countryside of northern Spain. Passing a road sign for Pamplona, a Spanish town immortalized by Hemingway, I remember my recent running with the bulls on Black Friar’s Bridge back in London...
Revitalized by consecutive, twelve hour comas in our London hostel, the Spousal Unit and I finally recuperated from jet lag and predeparture stress. Setting forth in search of adventure, we walked along the Thames in the brisk air. The wind bit into our layers of fleece and polypropelene but we were driven by the adrenaline rush of being in an unfamiliar city. Double decker buses rumbled by, freezing loads of tourists in their open tops like ice cubes in a tray.
’Look at all those people, Sue!’ I said, pointing at the crowds ahead surrounding the bridge ahead of us.
’Is that London Bridge?’ She asked.
’No, it’s called Black Friar’s.’
The connecting streets were blocked by bright red buses parked bumper to bumper. Emergency vehicles idled on side streets with lights flashing and policemen on horseback milled about.
’Wot’s going on?’ I asked in my best British accent when we reached the fringe of the crowd.
’The bulls are coming.’
’The bulls?’
’Yea, mate, it’s the first running of the bulls ’ere in London.’
’Wait a minute, doesn’t this usually happen somewhere in Spain?’
’Sure but the town of Pamplona has franchised the concept all across Europe. The bad part is that they put the Queen at the bottom of the list so here we are freezing our bums off in February waiting for the bloody beasts!’
What would you have done? It was the chance of a lifetime. I vaulted over the barricade before the Unit could say anything. My comrades were an odd lot - barrel-chested rugby players, fine-featured poet types, even a few prim Indian gentlemen but absolutely no women. No one would talk to me because nobody would stand still. They jumped up and down and chain smoked, never taking their eyes off the south end of the bridge for more than five seconds. Second thoughts swept through me and I began to think this was a KlimaGram episode that could be faked. I tried to maneuver toward the edge of the mob but it was too late - I had been swept onto the bridge itself.
A roar went up from the far end of the bridge, increasing the level of agitation in the crowd tenfold. A minute later pandemonium took hold of the mass of humanity, turning it into an avalanche of bodies rushing north. I could see nothing except frantically pushing bodies. I twisted and shoved, then stumbled. Catching a light pole, I jerked myself up above the sea of heads so I could take a look behind me.
My God! There were bulls not twenty feet behind me! I panicked big time. Everyone else around me did likewise so details of what happened to me next is rather vague. I wound up sprawled on the ground in front of Black Friar’s Tavern, a hundred yards north of the bridge. I remember a bull standing over me laughing. Laughing? As it ran off, I was shocked to see it had human legs! The ’bull’ was actually two people in costume.
Later I learned there was a legal problem bringing the real bulls from Pamplona across the English Channel on the ferry. So the British, ever keen on making the best of the situation, substituted human volunteers from a local cricket league. And if you believe all that you read here, I may just switch to preposterous fiction for the remainder of this trip.
Back in Spain we stop in a town whose name I never did learn and hole up in the Pension Joel because it is cold, windy, and dark. The room leaves a bit to be desired security-wise but the Unit and I tape our seventh floor window shut, padlock the bags to the sink with steel cables, and forge out into the snowflakes to find a Valentine’s Day meal. All the bar/cafes are filled with middle-aged men but we walk and walk until we run into a Chinese restaurant. It always amazes me how one can always find a Chinese restaurant in almost any city in the world.
The next morning is even colder. Fixing breakfast on the sidewalk next to the truck, the cooking crew discovers that the truck’s water tank has frozen. Worse yet, I find my giant, economy size jar of Nutella, the chocolate-like hazel nut spread that is God’s gift to bread, has frozen as well!
The long johns become a second skin and it is not until 12:30 PM on February 16th just outside Seville, 200 kilometers from Gibraltar, that the Unit removes her ear muffs for the first time. Her ears were frostbitten when she was younger, leaving them hypersensitive to the cold. The ear muffs are as precious to her as an American Express credit card. I never touch the holy muffs for fear I might somehow break or lose them. The consequences of the latter are close to unthinkable. The rest of us are down to t-shirts, one to shorts, so the group, with yours truly as ringleader, marks the appearance of the Unit’s ears with plenty of inappropriate remarks.
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