The Adventure

I had heard stories. Great ones.

I had kicked myself for not going last time. I made sure not to make the same mistake again. I tried to convince people. Ten of them stepped up, others had excuses: tired, sick, heard rumors that it was going to be boring, that it wasn’t worth it. They made the same mistake I did.

The Segorbe flaming bull run was incredible. Thanks to my fellow Valencianos back home, I had a general idea of what to think, where to go, what to do, what not to do, but honestly I really didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I was told when I got there to walk uphill. I was told to not fall down while being chased by the flaming bull. I was told to kill the time before the morning train in a nightclub called Eden. I was told that some of the locals wouldn’t want us there.  I was told to befriend a family that lives in the streets where the bull ran.

The advice was golden.

 We got there, walked uphill, loaded up on snacks and drinks in the supermarket. Then we had a few hours to kill. So we walked around the small town, took pictures, found a restaurant, watched a soccer game. Just regular ole Segorbianos.

Kinda.

I had patatas bravas. They were good. I love alioli and you should too. Specially with patatas bravas. Or with chicken, on sandwiches, in pasta,  by the spoonful.

I digress.

We scope out the bull run. It is a loop of barricaded streets through the center of the city. There are main barricades that are about twenty feet high and made of wood.  There are smaller barricades at the entrances to people’s homes, or the apartment style buildings that are all over the old European cities. The buildings sometimes have restaurants or stores on the first floor and apartments above. Well not the first floor, the ground floor. The first floor is the second floor. The ground floor is floor zero. It’s complicated.

I digress.

There is a ringing of a bell. Actually sounds like a group of bells being rung. The crowd starts running; I dip behind the closest barrier I can find. I see smoke, then fire, then a huge brown bull blazes by me. I could have touched it. Might have been singed by the flaming horns, but I could have touched it. Spaniards are taunting it, whistling at it, throwing rocks at it, trying to keep it active. As if flaming horns aren’t enough.

The Americans that are with me are loving it. One has a ‘go-pro’ on, a small camera that attaches to his chest.

The locals somehow figure out we don’t belong.

 One tells me I can’t stand behind his barricade. He points to a rickety fence as though he wants me to sit on top of it. It didn’t look like it could withstand my weight, never mind a five hundred pound flaming charging animal. I play dumb. I stay behind the barricade and begin talking to a woman and her boy. She asks me where I live, how long I am here, if I have ever seen anything like this before. I ask her about the bull, about other festivals, what to do until our nine o’clock train in the morning.

 It is a blur of Spanish, flaming bulls, running, laughing.

The flames are out. They are trying to get the bull into the back of a truck. The bull is being a bit grumpy. I can’t understand why.

They bring out other bulls to help lead it into the truck. A man approaches with an electric prod. If that is what it is called, a stick with a taser on the end. The bull finally gives in; the woman tells me he is heading back up into the mountains until next year. She says he is treated well and respected.

What a life.

We make our way to a bar, then to Eden. I wouldn't quite describe it as Eden, but it was fun. The local kids were nice. They loved my beanie, not going to lie; I thought one of them was going to steal it. We drink, we dance, we have six hours to kill. We leave about 6am, and walk to the train station. At first I am not cold, and get some sleep, but an hour and a half of sitting on cold concrete in forty degree weather gets the best of me. I have to move. I wander through the town at dawn. I don’t remember the last time I saw the sun rise.

 I stumble into a busy coffee shop. Twenty men stare at me. I can’t imagine what I look like after staying up the whole night, running through the streets, drinking wondrous amounts in a club, then sleeping on cold concrete. I sit down and manage to mumble a barely audible café con leche por favor. I get a small pastry as well and zone everything out. The coffee warms me and gets me out of my daze.

All of the sudden everything is quiet. I turn around, everyone is gone. It is time for work; the men are laborers, most likely construction workers. It is me and the bartender, whom I have a feeling doesn’t like me. We exchange a few words and he disappears into the back. I get up to leave and say Chao he answers with hasta luego.

Hasta luego. I will never see that man again.

 Well I guess that is what I thought about the study center, the chino guy, the man who kneels and prays while begging next to the Cathedral, the fat gypsy lady who hands out rosemary, the short scary ancient lady with patchy hair who begs near Wok to Wok, the gray haired woman who walks two little white dogs, the cheese man in the Central Market, the Pan de Queso guy, the Consum cashiers, Lola from the tour of the cathedral in Cordoba, the hippies who sell pieces and small trinkets in Reina, the guys that wear twenty hats and never sells any, the old man with a turban who is very insistent that you buying a rose for the beautiful girls, the poop smears, the Torres, the fountain, the smooth tiles, the black pillars, Valencia.