Grown-up stuff and fun sh*t

I'm in the midst of refinancing my home for the third time and just writing those words and saying them out loud makes me feel like I'm masquerading as an adult.  Are you like me in that you catch yourself wondering when you grew up? Most of the time I feel like I did when I was in my twenties only with far greater self-confidence now than I ever possessed then.  

I first experienced that "Who AM I?" feeling when I was newly married and saying the words "my husband" felt alien. Then as a young mother having conversations with other young mothers at the park I would go home and lament discussing baby food brands and preschools because I felt like a suburban cliche. Was this all my life would ever be? For a long time I lived on auto-pilot, working and being a wife and mother and carving out time for myself meant squeezing in a trip to the gym or the nail salon.  It wasn't until after my cancer treatment that I actively pursued fun.

It started with a girl getaway weekend to Atlanta on my birthday two years after my treatment ended that immediately became annual and often semi-annual. The getaways without my husband increased and eventually led to the downfall of my marriage, which in my mind had ended years before.  Once I got my official green light from the judge and my divorce was final, life really began anew for me.  

I began traveling the world and writing for local magazines, dating and cultivating a regular social life with friends old and new, and continuing to pursue new interests.  I am a firm believer that we all reap what we sow, and living well and keeping life balanced makes me happy. 

Recently I won a 51" HDTV at my local bar during Monday Night Football.  As I never win anything in my life I was ridiculously excited at such a prize. I have my theories about luck. Another thing happening is this past year I have been struggling with a major home renovation that needs to be done.  Having lost my dad last year I felt really overwhelmed during the process of finding a contractor as he was always a huge source of comfort to me in helping with such big decisions.  After much searching I now have a contractor with a plan that suits my needs and budget and work begins next week. A prize TV, saving money with a refi and home renovation... I believe these things are falling into place because of the energy I send out.

This Thursday I am going to Derek Jeter's last game at Yankee Stadium and about that my friend said to me recently, "Wow, you just travel around the world doing fun shit!"  It may seem that way, and I certainly do squeeze a lot of fun into my life, but that's only because I make enjoying life a priority.  Come to my house any night of the week when I'm cooking dinner, making lunches, doing laundry and supervising homework.  You'll be stunned by the glamour of it all. Follow my car back and forth from school to playing fields to chauffering my girls to parties.  It's a thrill a minute.  But those routines are integral to raising well-adjusted kids and ensuring that they get to do their fun stuff, too.  When they're happy, I'm happy and we're all adding to the good energy vibe of the planet.

So take a lesson from me and make sure you're doing enough fun sh*t amid your grown-up stuff.  Thank me later.  😘


There I am enjoying champagne in Monte Carlo - life really is good...because I make it that way. 

Secret of inner peace revealed!

<insert teacher voice> So I hope you’ve all been paying attention these last two posts and realize that I’m still in the midst of my silent retreat.  We’ll wait while you get yourself up to speed...

Okay, you’re all good? Now read on…

Food
Saturday the bell wakes me at 6:00, not five as feared, and breakfast is 6:30.  Oatmeal, yogurt, homemade granola and fruit are served and it's delicious. After breakfast people with real jobs have to do them but I'm free to take a three mile walk-yay me! (oops that’s so un-Buddhist…) until the first sitting at 8:15.  Lunch, the main meal, is a savory vegan chili served with maple corn bread and a full salad bar.  Oh, I could get used to it here.  

I take most of my meals outside which is kind of wonderful.  Once meals are done, there's nothing to snack on except hard-boiled eggs unless you brought your own stash.  I did not but I'm fine on three meals. At least I think I’m fine.  My stomach in the sittings has got to be distracting the entire room. It’s not just growling. I seem to have swallowed a tiny wolf whose tiny profile I envision in my stomach, snout pointing skyward and sounding out long, low hungry howls while a tumbleweed blows past him.  My apologies, fellow yogis. I had days during my last trip that I only ate one meal if things got busy and yeah, I’d get hungry late night and go to bed starving. Then I’d remind myself that millions of children worldwide go to bed hungrier than I will ever be on my hungriest day and won’t awake to the breakfast feast I will inhale in mere hours.  But back to the retreat. Dinner is always soup (and of course it’s yummy) and homemade bread, proving yet again that if I allowed it I have the potential to gain weight on anything, even healthy vegetarian food. Dry rice cakes that taste like cardboard? Bring it!
My (so-called) practice
I'm not going to lie - I doze here and there during some of the sittings and my head jerking keeps me from falling over, but for the most part I really stuck with it. The day is broken up with sitting meditations and talks and walking meditations that are each about forty-five minutes long.  There are three of each in the morning with a short break, lunch and then four of each in the afternoon. About 4:15 people with jobs have to do them and I get to take another three mile walk.  

It’s the same walk I did in the morning but it’s working for me.  I’m passing farms with grazing cows and bleating goats, I see lots of little red salamanders and frogs.  It’s a nature wonderland and the mountains around me are magnificent. I’m digging my walks. When I get back I see someone has posted on the job board that the kitchen (!) needs someone to chop vegetables Sunday morning at 7:15.  That’s my walk time but if I can be guaranteed to chop next to Hot Kitchen Guy I will totally volunteer.  Alas, the lack of guarantee prevents me from skipping the nature walk I’ve already come to love. {Sidebar: No HKG sighting Sunday so I know I’ve made the Right Decision, albeit for the Wrong Reasons.} After dinner is my two mile hike with the spider web incident and needless to say I do not venture back on the trails. The schedule for Sunday does involve getting up at 5:15 but I opt to sleep in until six (hey, it’s my weekend after all) and go to breakfast at 6:30. That I even feel compelled to rationalize “sleeping in” until 6:00 shows you how far I’ve already come. Anyway, there's only so much meditating I can do and there are more sittings before it’s time to leave.
The secret of inner peace revealed
Some people will leave more frustrated than when they arrived because they think meditation is a magic bullet.  I learn during a Q&A on Saturday (noble silence momentarily broken) that people are super twisted about whether they’re “doing it right.” One guy asks, “When is something supposed to happen?” Some come to these retreats heavily emotionally burdened or burning with questions they want answered.  I just came for some formal training so I can more easily channel serenity when bombarded with everyday stimuli.  I’m not bothered that my mind wanders (and it does!), I just bring myself back and keep at it. This level of presence is enough to bring me more inner peace than I’ve ever had, and by nature I’m a pretty happy person. 

Be present in your everyday life, even, or perhaps, especially, during activities people consider mundane and merely a means to an end: walking to your car, loading the dishwasher, taking out the trash, etc. Those things are your life in those moments so acknowledge them instead of having mental conversations that haven't happened.  Complete acceptance of this moment, whatever is happening, is the closest thing we have to a magic bullet. And that, amigos, is the secret to inner peace. Cheers!

Photo courtesy of Oprah.com

The moment is now

Upon finishing nine months of chemotherapy, I ask my oncologist about my survival odds.  "It's not a horse race," he reminds me. "Even if I give you statistics that 90% of women with your same diagnosis, age, and family history survived X number of years, you still don't know if you're the 90 or the 10.  The longer you live, the better." "Well the same can be said for the whole world," I argue. He says, "Exactly!  None of us knows how long we have. All any of us has is this very moment." 

Despite that conversation it takes me another eleven years and my father's passing before I download some apps, read some books and find meditating, and learning to stay in the moment, actually works.  My life feels calmer and I'm a lot less bothered by things that used to bother me.  A guiding principle of my life is if some is good, more is better, so I enroll in a weekend-long silent retreat.  Please read the last post for more detail: http://bit.ly/1qaHamE

First impressions
Upon arrival Friday night the dining room is completely chatty and I am immediately disappointed, having braced myself for noble silence.  I don't want to hear everyone yapping about other retreats they've done or how they found this one. I sip my tea alone, trying to tune out conversations, ready to meditate away my annoyance, but at the first "sitting" in the meditation hall we are given our instructions and the noble silence begins - finally!

The place
I am expecting some austere, Dickens-esque orphanage but it's a sprawling brick mansion filled with light some rich guy built in the 1970’s.  It's had additions in the same style and the floors are all polished light wood throughout, including the dorm rooms.  Bright and sunny, light paint colors and plants everywhere - it's beautiful and immaculately cleaned by retreatants, but not me because the retreat job gods are smiling on me.  It would make a lovely place to recover from a breakdown. 

There are yoga rooms and even a bowling lane for bowling meditation - who knew? No arts and crafts but there are 240 acres in the beautiful Berkshire Mountains which makes for great hiking. The trails are well-marked but that doesn't stop me from walking face-first into a spider web and then smashing my hand against a tree frantically trying to get it off me – all while maintaining noble silence although muffled cries of horror can be heard. I mean, if I scream it will seriously alarm people.  Oh, and we all took a vow not to harm any being, including mosquitoes and flies, so the spider lives to tell his version of this. (“So all of a sudden this giant face…”).  But I do make it out of the woods safely albeit slightly traumatized.

Jobs and people
All retreatants are given jobs and I luck out with bell-ringer.  There’s only one clock in the main hall so different people are assigned times to walk the campus with a giant, brass, triangle-shaped thing that weighs around ten pounds and signal when it's time for a meal or meditation sitting.  At first it looks like the only time slot is the 6am wake-up bell and I’m reminded of a story I used to read my first-graders called Who Wakes Rooster?  But then I see there is an opening for the late lunch slot so I grab it.  

It takes about ten minutes to make all eleven stops and I only have to do it the one time. It’s way better than vacuuming, cleaning a bathroom or even working in the kitchen despite the hot guy working there. Other than he there are (thankfully) no really hot guys that would've become the focus of my meditation and kitchen guy is not part our retreat. My phone is locked away but the only way to deactivate my man-radar is to give myself a stern talking-to. Still, if you’re a seven (out of ten) or greater, you will set it off.  Kitchen guy is a strong nine.  As bell-ringer I have to await his signal when the meal bell is ready to ring and he’s playful even without speaking.  Playful and cute are a powerful combo.  Personality activates my radar so given the opportunity to get to know people, there are definitely others with potential, but I digress.  Where were we again?

Oh, right,  we're out of time! But stay tuned for part two where I will talk about the food, my so-called practice, and (spoiler alert!) reveal the secret of life…
Namaste, amigos!

Silent and unplugged: Could you do it?

Most people that know me tell me I'm loud. I'm often asked to stop shouting to which I say, "I'm not shouting- I'm from New York," even to New Yorkers. Well, I'm about to embark on a silent weekend. You may not know that I'm extremely well-rounded. While I love cavorting around overseas or locally, I also love some quiet.  When I'm not out partying all night somewhere fun I'm home alone sitting in silence reading for hours on end, occasionally all night. Other nights I'll start writing at midnight & suddenly it's 2am.  

Noble silence

This weekend I'm going on a meditation retreat in the Berkshire Mountains where I will be without any electronics and all who attend are asked to engage in "a noble silence." This also includes minimal eye contact. What is the purpose of all this? I will be practicing mindfulness and learning how to stay in the present moment without the usual distractions from everyday life - messages, conversation, email etc.  Okay, I thought, I'll relinquish all conversation and electronics.  Then I also learned that there shall be no books or other reading material, nor journals or writing, just complete focus on the now. 

Going without conversation is absolutely fine with me.  Although I can talk the paint off the walls with anyone and my friends and I usually do, I only like to talk when I want to talk.  When I'm on the plane, don't try and be air friends with me unless you're the hot Aussie guy who chatted me up from Malaga to Barcelona (I relaxed my air friend rule) and then offered to share a cab (an offer I still regret declining but stranger danger...).  At school I choose  to not eat lunch with my colleagues because in the midst of my incredibly busy day I relish an hour of quiet during which I can get work done or just breathe. Despite the fact that some of them took offense to my decision, it's not a reflection of how I feel about anyone but simply my need for downtime.  So I'm totally cool with not-talking.  But not reading or writing?  Oh, and did I mention no caffeine? Yeah. That's hitting me where it hurts but I'm up for the challenge. 

My weekend is going to involve getting up at 5am, breakfast, morning meditation, some speakers, walking meditation, lunch, more meditation, an hour of service to the community, more speakers, more meditating, dinner, more meditating. I have been meditating a couple of times a day since last November and it has changed my life, but this is another level. I can't promise to remain awake during all that meditating but if I fall asleep I'm not going to fight it, especially without caffeine, although I don't want to sleep through too much. I mean, it's not college after all- I'M paying for this.

How often are you present?
If you think remaining in the moment for that long will be easy, consider how little time most of us spend in the present. I used to take pride in multi-tasking. Folding laundry while prioritizing my to-do or flashing back to the past, replaying and rewriting scenes in my mind, both pleasurable and unpleasant, forgetting that whatever happened is done. I also anticipate events and conversations I know are coming.  Again, this imagined future could be pleasant anticipation or dread, but either way it's taking energy away from right now and it's never happened.  I've gotten much better being present since I started meditating, but my hope is that I truly train my mind to recognize when my thoughts are leading me away from the now and bring myself right back for longer periods of time until it is automatic. 

Ok, amigos, starting tonight I am officially unplugged so I'll report back. 

Photo courtesy of www.enthusiasticbuddhist.com

Peter Pan Syndrome

A few years ago I wrote an article on Peter Pan Syndrome among men for my New York Examiner column: http://www.examiner.com/article/peter-pan-syndrome-could-you-be-dating-an-eternal-man-child

Melissa Pearce, an Austrailian journalist, recently interviewed me for a piece she wrote on the same topic. Check it out: 

http://lifestyle.ninemsn.com.au/article.aspx?id=8873177

Apparently it's a worldwide issue!

Photo courtesy of Norwegianmorningwood.com

Cocktails, anyone?

Last week I went to Atlantic City for a few days with my girls and was reminded of a time when I was twenty-three and planning to moonlight as a casino cocktail waitress.  This plan developed when my friend Terry and I were there gambling one night and I watched a high roller toss a $500 chip as a tip to one of the waitresses.  Even knowing this was probably not typical (but who knew??), it seemed like the perfect income enhancement to my boring retail management job in a mall near Philadelphia.  

The following week I went back with Terry during my day off to apply for jobs. Terry was acting as my wingman and she reminded me how tired I would be during my day job after working all night and driving the forty-five minutes home. I reminded her that being tired is never a problem for me, especially compared to the hundreds of extra dollars I'd be bringing home if I even worked two nights a week.  My youthful optimism still makes me chuckle.

Before filling out any applications I had to visit as many casinos as possible and assess which outfits were the cutest and that I felt I could pull off wearing all night.  This was back in the day when cocktail waitresses were hot and wore skimpy little outfits versus the white blouse/black pant combo worn by haggard-looking staff I often see these days.  

Caesar's was out of the question as wearing a little toga all night presented a serious bra issue.  We spent a good deal of time searching for the Playboy club. I would have been willing to endure any costume discomfort to land that gig! It would be like tarting up for Halloween every night.  But then we discovered it had closed years earlier.  Huh. Who knew?  Remember this was pre-internet.

After a few hours of research we had decided that the what the Bally's girls wore looked both cute and comfortable.  At that time they wore a maroon tank-top style bodysuit with a little sheer skirt of the same color worn over it, and the overall effect was similar to a skating costume only with heels.  The heels part would take some practice as when I wear them I tend to look like a baby giraffe taking its first tentative steps, legs tangling around one another, let alone doing so balancing a tray of drinks.  But my mind kept going back to that $500 tip that girl had gotten so I vowed to keep my eyes on the prize.  

They also had to wear a little hat such as those worn by working monkeys, but all in all the look seemed like it would suit me.  After applying at Human Resources and a preliminary interview with a manager (as luck would have it they were short-staffed), I was given payroll forms to fill out and told to come in for a second interview the following Tuesday, which was merely a formality and training would begin that week assuming I'm available. 

I was fully prepared to call in sick at my store to complete my training. In fact, if the money was better maybe I'd just quit that crappy retail job and go full-time at the casino.  I said nothing about any of that and instead asked in a voice that I hoped was nonchalant, "When will I get my costume?"  I was dying to try it on.  I was informed that I would receive my uniform prior to training but that I'd have to purchase the requisite shoes myself ($58 - ouch!) before starting.   Well, it was a relatively small investment that would pay for itself the first night, I told myself.

When I wasn't working or walking clumsily around my apartment in heels carrying trays of glasses filled with varying amounts of water, I was busy fantasizing about all the extra money I'd have and all the hot men I would meet who would no doubt be asking me out. I mean, who doesn't want to date a cocktail waitress? Again, my youthful perceptions still make me laugh. 

My exciting new job was about to begin and I was ready.  In the midst of my preparation, however, my best friend from high school called to tell me that she was renting an apartment in Hoboken and would I consider quitting my job and moving up there. I could get a job in the city and I'd love it, she assured me. Conundrum.  Stay with my crappy retail job and moonlight as a glamorous cocktail waitress or move to Hoboken for possible real job in the city? 

The fact that my business degree from Boston University Questrom School of Business was languishing somewhere did not factor into any of my decisions. To my credit I had graduated college with a job and, after completing the three month Executive Training Program to become a buyer for a major department store I had deemed that career path "too corporate" and quit to go work in a mall.  

I'm certain I'm not the only college grad with screwed up priorities.  But back to the decision at hand. "You hate that job," she reminded me. "You say so all the time." It was true - I mocked mall shoppers incessantly and complained of the mindless tedium that is retail.  "But my new casino job," I lamented, although already the lure of New York via Hoboken was drawing me in. "And how would I pay my rent? I have no job there," I pointed out.  "Aren't you about to pay next month's rent?" she asked.  It was the end of the month.  Her idea was that I forfeit my security deposit and use the coming month's rent money  for the Hoboken apartment.  Thank goodness I hadn't yet spent the $58 on the Bally heels!

And just like that my budding career as a casino cocktail waitress ended before it began.  I quit my job without notice, packed up and did a Ninja-raid move that weekend to Hoboken.  When I pass Bally's I still imagine my twenty-three year old self, tottering about in heels serving drinks.  No regrets.

Spain vs South of France: Congeniality (aka the People)

France
"Oooh Americans! Let's be rude and super unhelpful."  This is what I imagine is going through the minds of many of the French people I encounter in Nice, which is worlds away from the friendly Parisians. It begins with our bus driver from the airport.  He speaks to nobody, announces no stops and skips several, including ours we later discover. A helpful French girl I am pumping for info about nightlife interrupts me to alert me to the fact that we've just missed our stop.  

Luckily my superior map-reading skills enable us to find our hotel as we are not too far off where we should have been let off.  Upon arriving at our hotel Jen and I are greeted effusively by two young women who we estimate to be early thirties.  They could not be more friendly and helpful, suggesting restaurants and places to hang out.  "Wow," I say on the elevator to our floor. "They are remarkably friendly for France."  We later discover they are both eastern European immigrants which explains their friendliness.  

Like most places, the men who own bars and restaurants (or work at one or the other) are extremely solicitous to the point of a relentless come-on.  One such proprietor of a really fun bar we like actually flat-out propositions Jen to go around the corner for a quickie.  She manages to shake him off as his apparent ADD toward women kicks in and has him barking up another girl's tree moments later. We do meet a couple of nice French guys that are neither relentlessly pursuing us nor rude.  

Our final rude French guy story is our front desk guy at our hotel, Bitter Dave. His disdain for us becomes more apparent each day as we hand in our key coming and going.  This is a must as there is a small brass brick attached to the key lest we are inclined to steal it.  One day we run out of shampoo and request more and he throws down his pencil and storms off, leaving one of the friendly girls to fetch some.  Jen asks him for change of 5€ and he goes off on a rant, explaining he does not change euros for American money.  Jen calmly explains she needs euro coins.  He says with annoyance that this is not part of his job but reluctantly opens a cash drawer, within which is every coin imaginable in abundance, and grudgingly hands over change.  

To his face I am relentlessly friendly, refusing to allow him to get to me, but I slammed him by name in my TripAdvisor review.  After also taking into account the random woman on the street who scolded my sarong-wearing self for not being more covered up off the beach, I find some French live up to their American-shunning reputation for coldness.

Spain
Everyone is Spain is friendly, lovely, helpful and totally rocks! I am seriously tempted to leave it at that but I'll elaborate. Immediately upon my arrival in Pamplona my cab driver, hotel desk guy, and every Spaniard I encounter cannot help me enough.  My front desk guy is immediately concerned that I'm a woman alone heading into a super-rowd crowd, but I assure him I'm totally fine and this is precisely why I'm there. (I think maybe he's offering to escort me.)  

As you know from my Pamplona post, I am not alone for long.  Next stop is Madrid and again, everyone I meet, from hotel workers, more friendly bartenders, museum docents, and random people I chat up along the way are all as friendly as can be.  I engage in a lively American football discussion with an Argentinian guy in what becomes my favorite Madrid bar and he's surprisingly informed given their obsession with soccer.  

My concierge helps me sort out my train ticket to Malaga and I discover I'm entitled to a free transfer to the train station. Everyone cannot be nicer! In Malaga there is more of the same.  My concierge there sends me to the most fun places and even offers to have an early breakfast prepared for my 5:30 am departure to Morocco, an offer I still regret declining.  Barcelona - well, it is my new favorite worldwide city and you've heard about some of our encounters there. From Nelson our waiter to Jan our bartender to Carlos/Daniel our (not actually) naked neighbor, all wonderful people.  

I would be remiss if I don't mention Moni who is responsible for pulling us into our favorite bar in the first place. Moni, if you're reading this, you are so fun and I regret not giving you more of my attention while I was there.  When I get back to Barcelona, and I will, you're at the top of my list of people I want to hang out with more.

We all know that wherever you are in the world, the people that surround you have some impact on your experience. We also know that it is not fair to generalize an entire country or group of people based upon limited experiences. That being said, the people of Spain are WAY more congenial than the French overall.  I'm also being specific to the South of France versus Paris since, as we New Yorkers can vouch, one cannot compare New York City to the rest of the state.  I definitely have more of a sampling of cities in Spain on which to base my final score which is:  Spain 1000,  France 2

Jan (center)- You rock!

Moni (center)- You're awesome!

Planes, trains and perverts

As I glance around at the youthful backpackers on a train that can only be described as a cattle car, I have no idea that I’m about to learn a hard lesson about the difference between Italia Rail and Rail Italia. I forget which is the one where I sat in first class with a roving drinks cart on my way to Venice and Florence, but this is the other one.  

I'm jammed on a little fold-down jumper seat w my luggage crammed around me, the only forty-something among impossibly cool hipsters from around the world.  I'm now sporting an extra red leather weekender bag bought in Florence (love it!) filled with gifts bought all along the way and I’m balancing it on my lap, clutching my purse with both hands like I’m eighty. I chuckle to myself imagining the people to whom I’d bragged, “Yeah, I book all my own travel in advance online.  It’s a cinch.” And until today it has been. 

I’ve been traveling solo around Italy by train for two weeks without a hitch and I’m all set to take a couple of different trains to the Rome airport to catch a 6pm flight to Croatia. Yes, life is good.  I caught the train out of Cinque Terre no problem and I’m on a 10:07 to Rome.  Not Termini, which is Rome’s Grand Central, but one even closer to the airport, or so I thought.  I am also pretty sure (yet not positive…) that to get to that particular station I have to change trains in Pisa.  I remember seeing that online when I booked, but it's not indicated anywhere on my ticket.  No worries - I'll just ask the conductor.  Now, as the train chugs in to the Pisa station, anxiety starts to spread.  Do I change trains here or not?  The train slowly comes to a stop and the doors slide open.

There is no conductor. And I can't even move to go find one. In fact, as I struggle to stand up I can’t even move my arm to peek at my ticket crammed near the bottom of my purse, but I had already read it thoroughly and know it holds no answers.  So here I am in Pisa at a crossroads, precious moments ticking away and I need to make a decision.  I'm pretty sure I need to get out.  But what if I'm wrong? This train is headed to Termini where trains to the airport run every half hour.  But what if the train from here is faster (and nicer!)? Decision time.  

The train is still paused, passengers are pushing their way on and I'm completely twisted about what to do when out the window I glimpse a sign with an arrow with the words "Train to Airport". Aha! Problem is I'm now jammed in further behind all the people that just got on and I'm frantically trying to maneuver my two heavy bags and giant suitcase to get off. I am like those crazy black Friday shoppers, aggressively elbowing through, stepping on feet, dragging my suitcase over toes, chin tucked, shouldering on.  As passengers hiss angrily at me in Italian, I’m fully aware that I am the ugly American but I have only one thought: Must. Get. Off. 

Somehow I land on the platform with all my bags, the entire train car no doubt still cursing me.  Adrenalin (and sweat) flowing, I bump my suitcase up two flights of stairs and across a walkway over the tracks to the platform where I discover the other train is to the...Pisa Airport.Shit. SHIT!! I look down as the train I just jumped off pulls away bound for Rome where I desperately need to be. 

Why oh why did I get off that train?? I'm cursing myself.  Then panic really sets in. I have to check in by 5 or I miss my flight! What if that was the last train to Rome? Unlikely, but my mind is racing. What if the next train isn’t for hours? The ride is a good three hours or more from here. I look at my watch- 11:30. OhmyGodohmyGod.  I can't breathe and now I'm in a cold sweat on this 100 degree platform. I force myself to stop and practice my breathing. After a few minutes my forehead starts to relax and my breathing slows.  Now a cooler head prevails and I calmly assess my situation:

·        * I'm most likely going to miss my flight

·        *There will be change fees involved but I have my credit card and I’ll get there tomorrow.

·         *I'll have to stay another night in Rome (credit card)

·         *I’ll lose a night in Croatia. Oh well, it is what it is.  I’m still on vacation.  Stuck in Rome – first world problems

·        * Maybe I should go see the leaning tower and just spend the night here.  Probably cheaper than Rome.

I st   I wheel my luggage purposefully down to the ticket office and discover that the next train to Rome is leaving in ten minutes! I want to drop all my bags and twirl around the little office.  I mentally run through my itinerary.  I’m cutting it close for a 5pm check in but I’m optimistic. This is totally do-able.  I'm overjoyed.  

        Graffiti in Italy proves I'm loved worldwide 

Th   The train is already waiting on the platform and it's normal.  Not first class with a roving drink cart but nowhere near the cattle car.  A typical commuter train. Yay! I collapse exhausted onto a seat near the window, take out my Kindle, put on my headphones and we pull away. I close my eyes and exhale, nearly giddy with relief.

          

Moments later the guy sitting directly across from me starts jiggling his right leg. The seats are close enough that as he does this our knee caps keep bumping together. Well that's annoying. I bet he was the kid who always tapped his pencil during tests.  I open my eyes and realize he's doing a whole lot more than jiggling his leg.  What next? He’s probably twenty-something, would benefit from body waxing and bears a striking resemblance to Mario of video game fame. I sneak a glance at the two guys across the aisle. Are they witnessing this? They're sound asleep, bodies sprawled, mouths agape. Do I confront this guy and tell him to move or quit it? What's the protocol here? I am NOT moving all my shit again either. I reread the same sentence in my book eighteen times without processing, prudishly pulling my kneecaps as far away from him as the seats allow and hoping he finishes soon. I finally lean my head against the window, close my eyes and fall asleep.  When I open them later the wanker is gone.

Now it’s 3:30 and we have still a few more stops to Termini.  I'm starting to worry that I'll miss the airport shuttle and the guide book says a taxi to the airport from Rome is forty-five minutes without traffic. I'm picturing getting out of Manhattan at 4:00 on a Friday (or any day!) and am starting to despair that after coming so close I may still miss my flight.  I remind myself of my earlier pep talk and if I stay another night in Rome I'll make it fun.  But I'm so close!

Train arrives at Termini a few minutes late - 3:50 - and I'm a few tracks from the airport shuttle. I have no ticket and only twenty euro cash (ticket is fourteen) and I'm prepared to beg them to take my cash and just let me on.  But this is not an issue because people shuffle off the train so slowly that by the time my feet hit the platform I hear the electronic announcement that the airport train just departed.  Keep moving, I tell myself firmly. 

I wheel my stuff down steps and outside where taxis are sitting and ask how fast to get to the airport. One guy says half an hour- he sees my panic. It's now 4:00.  I promise a nice tip if he can do that but first we have to stop at an ATM.  He says no problem, we'll stop on the way.  We do and I run in. Of course it’s some old-timey ATM, where the card slides in in slow motion, between every screen is please wait and a circle spins as the screen loads. You get the idea. I now have major upper lip sweat breaking out awaiting the cash. Equally slowly a fifty slides out, I grab the cash, my card and hop back in. My driver buckles his seat belt.  Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror and I buckle mine. Let’s do this, we’re both thinking. He steps on the accelerator; our heads are simultaneously pinned to our headrests, aaaand we're off!

This guy drives like it’s the final lap of the Daytona 500. He is weaving through Rome traffic, squeezing in here, getting around there and edging slower drivers out of our way. We whiz past the Colosseum, then I spy the dome of St. Peter's and I focus on sightseeing memories, trying not to look at my watch. When we hit the highway he floors it. I am LOVING his sense of urgency! He's tailgating, lane changing and high beaming other motorists into submission until they let us pass. When I'm in a rush I expect people to drive like that. It's like it's his flight. I see signs for the airport but we see signs for JFK way before we're even close so I'm wondering how far we actually are, but I'm certainly not going to ask as he's clearly breaking his ass to get me there. It's 4:25 now. Suddenly I see an airport welcome sign. Yay! I'm going to make it!

Then he asks me which terminal. Crap, I should know this. I honestly did try to look that up on the train using their free wifi and attempting online check-in, but it’s not available on Croatia Air so I do not have that information.  He asks where I'm going.  “Croatia,” I tell him. He shoots me a confused look in the rearview.  “Eh?”  “Cro..a..tia..,” I repeat, slowly and clearly as though he’s slow-witted.  His face lights up. “Cro-ah-tee-yah!” he pronounces it.  “Si!” I nod, smiling so hard it hurts my cheeks. Now he seems to know where we’re headed.  I'm hoping he's right.  He slides up to the curb, throws the car in Park and runs to the trunk, grabbing my bags and snapping up my suitcase handle, readying it for me.  The fare is sixty euro. I thank him profusely, give him seventy and tell him to keep it.  I'm already wheeling away and he's calling, "Grazie!" enthusiastically.  I blow him kisses and shout, "Grazie! You rock!!”

Spain vs. South of France: The swimsuit competition

I suspect many of you may know which way this contest is going, but in all fairness let's have a look at the few categories being compared.  This is the criteria by which I judge most vacation destinations anywhere in the world: Beaches (where applicable), People, Nightlife (including food).  Today let's compare beaches. 

Beaches
I expected quite a lot more from the French Riviera, it sounding so glam and languishing on my bucket list unexamined all these years. But it's giant bowl of rocks! Literally, all rocks. Spain at least has sand, though not the fine, white powdery kind we have on most of our eastern seaboard. In fact, the more I travel the more I realize how beautiful most North American beaches are by comparison. I hear the names of these far-off places and just assume they are going to be superior to what I've known but oftentimes this is not the case.   

Sunbeds are available to rent but in Spain you'll only pay 4€ for the day and in Nice 19€(!).  There are a few beach clubs in Nice that knock down the price to 14€ or 15€ past two but that's the best you're going to do unless you think outside the box. Jen and I, ever creative and thrifty, solved this problem in Nice by buying rafts at the beach shop for 5€ each, having the guy inflate them, and using them as cushions to protect ourselves from a bed of rocks.  I also used mine for its original purpose and floated around on it. This enabled us to go to the public beaches with freedom of space and movement, and to position ourselves facing the sun versus the beach clubs where the chairs are all stacked in tight rows with umbrellas. There, turning is impossible and if your neighbor's umbrella is up, you're in the shade whether you want to be or not. 

The beaches in Barcelona and Malaga also have fun little beach bars along them versus the fenced in beach clubs offered by Nice.  The beaches in Spain are much more social and fun.  They both have guys hawking their wares (beers, jewelry, etc), but in Barcelona there was actually a guy, not affiliated with any restaurant, which may alarm some of you, with a tray of homemade mojitos! Gotta love some Spain. 
 
Swimsuit competition
Clothing optional seems more prevalent in Barcelona than even Malaga, though obviously topless is the rule all over Europe, Spain and France being no exceptions. The nudity in Barcelona is more along the lines of Greece as it is not limited to sunbathing, but people romp around and even participate in water sports sans swimsuit.  Even if I had the body of the girl doing the stand-up paddle boarding naked I would still want to be wearing something. 

Remember the Seinfeld episode with the good naked and bad naked?  Most of the men that were nude are not people any of us really want to see in that state. Again, if you're trying to eliminate tan lines, is it also necessary to parade all around, clean out your cooler, shower off in the open boardwalk showers and dress right there, bending over to reach into your bag for your clothing?  I enjoy some good nudity as much as the next person, but most of what I was looking at I could've skipped. 

Of the two countries, France is definitely more conservative.  I was wearing a sarong over my bikini walking from the beach back to the hotel. It was tied around my chest  and hung down almost to my knees but flew open a little when the breeze blew.  A woman approached me and stopped, standing right in front of me blocking my way and spouting something in French that sounded a lot like I was getting a scolding. I said, "Excuse me? I don't speak French." She said, and insert a snooty French accent here, "Dees ees a ceety! You cannot wok around like dat! Close eet up!" I said, "I'm coming from the beach!" and walked away. Sheesh! Talk about uptight. 
 
Final score: Spain 2 (sand and chair rental), France 0

PS North America has both these countries way beaten, but let's keep us out of it for now.  I'm just sayin'. Don't fret that you've only been hanging around Jones Beach or that you may never get to the French Riviera.

Stay tuned tomorrow when I'll be comparing the people from both countries.  And no, not just the men.


Top: Barcelona 

Bottom: French Riviera and DIY sun beds 

The adventures of naked Carlos

Remember the show Friends and how the girls were constantly monitoring the comings and goings of Ugly Naked Guy? Well our hotel in Barcelona is directly across the street from the apartment of this pretty hot guy I named Carlos. Our first day Jen is innocently looking out our balcony window when she says, "Hey Mim- check out our neighbor folding his laundry in his underwear!" I come running and can't believe how close our two buildings are. Also, Carlos' back is to us and it's a great, um, view. This is a totally Instagramable moment. I whip out my phone, lining up the shot which I've already decided to caption Room with a View. It's a bit dark. I zoom, trying to adjust the lighting when suddenly Carlos spins around, smiling and kind of posing. I nearly throw my phone in the air, busted and completely embarrassed. I duck down and crawl away from the window. Jen and I collapse in hopeless giggles. 

Later that day while she is out in front out building having a smoke Carlos gives her a friendly wave, evidently no hard feelings. We soon discover a lot of things about Carlios (except his real name). Here are some coversation tidbits we have during the course of our week:

"Hey come look- Carlos just took a shower and he's walking around naked." At this point we busy ourselves near the window, ostensibly looking for something while surreptitiously getting an eyeful. 

Or- "Check it out- Carlos goes commando." 

"Carlos is cleaning in his underwear. Wow, he's really tidy and folds his laundry meticulously."

Along the way we develop a waving hello vibe and occasionally chatting across the balconies to one another. He witnessed with amusement my portrayal of Evita singing "Don't cry for me Argentina."

The last night however, he does lean out to shush us at 5am. Undeterred, I call up for him to come on down! He shuts the shutters and does not. The next day we discover why. 

"Carlos has a girlfriend," Jen reports. 

"OMG! You didn't see...they aren't..."

"No," she says. "She's dressed and in the living room and he just showered and is parading around naked as usual."

"I guess that explains yesterday's cleaning frenzy," I say. 

His living room is next to his bedroom and while GF sits in the living room unaware, he's next door in the bedroom now dressed and waving to Jen. She goes to open our window to call out at which point he frantically waves his arms indicating "No!" He then circles a finger around his ear, the universal symbol for crazy, and points to the next room. Jen nods knowingly. 

We are going back Tuesday for one more night before flying home Wednesday and we hope to be put in exact same room with its excellent vantage point. Also, we're determined to find out his real name and get a legit photo. Stay tuned. Amigos! Ciao for now- Mim 😉

Barcelona- nightlife edition

Hola amigos! Let's talk Barcelona!!

NIGHTLIFE- CLUB SCENE
Oh boy is this my kind of place! Well, add it to the list of my kind of places but it ranks highly. I'd put it in the Greece category. 

First of all I've been joined by my BFF Jen so right away we've got a new twist. This is her first overseas journey so I'm the tour guide. Our first night we just google Barcelona nightlife and a list of clubs pops up. We pick the first one, Razzmatazz, said to be totally hot, and head over. Here's a Mim travel tip: Amigos, please don't ever go there if you're in Barcelona! I don't know why I didn't just ask someone from our hotel which what I always do but I didn't. 

The cab lets us out and there's a long line. Good sign, right? Had we had just a moment more to actually look at the people on the line we'd have stayed in the cab but alas we did not. The line to get in looks like an open casting call for some grunge MTV reality show. It isn't just the odd piercings and tattoos. I'm pierced with a couple of tattoos, but the guy behind us has multiple piercings beneath his skin all over his face. Nobody is dressed for a club. Girls are in ratty dresses with Converse high-tops, etc. Guys look like they've rolled out of bed. Are you getting a visual? This is not what we're expecting. And here are Jen and I in little black mini-dresses and 5" heels.  

We immediately regret letting our cab go as we are quite far off the beaten path. Again, this is pre-Uber. We're fretting about our options as the line is moving us toward the door and we're surrounded by these people. We absolutely cannot stay but there's not a cab in sight. What to do?? When we finally reach the door we're met by two dwarves in tuxedos and a dominatrix-looking woman in a top hat holding a whip. WHAT goes on here?? We're ready ready to bolt so when she uses the whip to flip up the backs of our little  club dresses while the tuxedoed dwarves hoot and holler, we duck off the line not caring that we look like frightened school girls. 

Thankfully we find a cab immediately and I describe what we just witnessed and ask him to take us anywhere fun, which is another way I've started many an evening. He takes us to Opium, a Real Club, on the beach and flanked by a few other similar clubs. This has standard-size bouncers in Armani suits and now we're completely surrounded by Beautiful People. Now THIS is what we want! The club is rocking and, despite being stalked by a couple of local guys in whom we have no interest, we proceed to dance and party until 5am. Barcelona totally rocks!

The next night over a late dinner at the W Hotel our waiter Nelson tells us we should really check out the club Eclipse on top of the W. He also tells us of places near our hotel that aren't clubs as we really prefer a rowdy bar with great music that's not a Scene since we've already done that. So Nelson leads us up some back stairs and through the hotel to a lobby elevator where there is a velvet rope behind which is a tuxedoed bouncer and a beautiful girl with an iPad checking names on a guest list. 

Nelson has a few words with the bouncer who then opens the rope and puts us on the elevator, pushing an unidentified button above the numbers.  We're whisked to the club at the top which has a panoramic view of the beach and city and we're surrounded by more Beautiful People (young mostly) who absolutely adore us, the girls and the boys. We're inexplicably the most popular people there making all kinds of new friends. I'm even given a private lesson on how to twerk in the ladies' room by this one girl while Jen videos. Oh the hilarity!! When the club abruptly closes at 3 they insist we move on with them to the Opium area and party on with them. Having just done that the night before we say our good-byes while they're making us promise to go meet them. We lie and get in a cab home as we have tickets to the Sagrada Familia Basilica later this morning and don't want to be shattered. 

BAR FUN!
On Nelson's recommendation we go to Plaza Rial off La Rambla and a 5 minute walk from our hotel. There we discover a bar called El Rey de Copas which instantly becomes our new home base. Great music, lively crowd from all over and one of the hottest bartenders we've seen anywhere. His name is Jan (pronounced Yahn) and he looks like a Chippendale dancer. 

 Already crowded, at 2 or 3 an even larger crowd surges in and the music is pumping, people are dancing, drinking and the DJ rocks. Before you know it's 5am again. As we head home there are people waving tasty-smelling savory treats under my nose which I'm dying for  yet in a few short hours our awesome hotel breakfast will be served so I refrain. Our deal is we set the alarm, drag ourselves to breakfast, graze, then go back to sleep until 1. All in all, great night! We repeat this every night until we leave for France. Thank you, Nelson for that tip. 

Anyway, like I said, Barcelona is definitely my kind of place. I've loads more to report but for now, love and all that Razzmatazz- Mim 😊

A broad abroad in Morocco

 

Upon arrival in Tangier our tour guide Paco shepherds our group through customs and onto a bus after a 3 hour bus ride to the ferry & 40 min ferry ride over. I didn't even tell you about that part but it began at 6am and felt endless.  We're now led by a Moroccan man named Hassan and he explains the history of Morocco and Tangier which is quite interesting but I'll spare you details. Google it.

Peddlers

Our first stop is a tiny market and lookout point where we're immediately accosted by peddlers shoving trinkets, bracelets, wooden camels and long Islamic-looking tunics at us. The tunic peddlers are around every corner throughout the day. "Tunic for you?? Look at pretty colors! You like? You want? How much you pay??" After my endless "No gracias! No gracias!" which falls on deaf ears, I finally indulge one guy by holding it up to myself, saying, "Now where am I wearing this?" and he finally leaves me alone. Until the next one finds me. And the one after that...You get the idea. 

Camel ride

Next stop is to see the camels where I indeed take a ride which is hilarious. An older man from Atlanta who's on our bus says, "I'd like to see you manage a camel ride in that long dress."  He's joking but I assure him I've every intention of riding. I hike dress up to my knees, climb aboard the camel who has patient but long-suffering look in his eyes and his handler prods him to stand which nearly unseats me while the wind blows off the silly fez hat the man has stuck on my head. I go on mercifully short wobbly ride after which my fantasy of being SJP from SATC is shattered when I catch a glimpse of myself in mirror.  I'm way more HBC (Helena Bonham Carter) from any film she's made in past several years minus the blacked out teeth. My hair is wild and I feel a layer of sand over my entire body. Pretty. 

Lunch!

After more sight-seeing along the famed Kasbah (I did rock the Kasbah!) it was finally time for lunch. We weave our way through the narrow, winding streets followed by little beggar boys calling,"Por favor, señora! Por favor!" with outstretched hands which my new friends and I ignore. The restaurant has a lively band with that meandering sort of tambourine beat one can imagine. At this point, conceal your shock, I am absolutely famished having eaten nothing when I left my hotel at 5:30am. It's now 1:00 and the food is absolutely delicious! Starter is a soup which I finish with such gusto the waiter asks if I'd like some more, which I desperately want but politely decline. Don't want to be the ugly American! He takes our drinks order and this lively older British man orders two beers and then turns to his wife and asks, "And what would you like darling?" I like this group! I follow his lead and order 2 myself. Next we are served beef kabobs (love a kabob!) followed by main course which is this flavorful chicken and vegetables over a couscous the likes of which I doubt I'll ever taste again. Light, fluffy, delicious! It's making me hungry thinking of it. After dessert and surprisingly tasty mint tea, it's time for the real shopping. I can hardly wait!!

Shopping

I'd imagined that everything would be dirt cheap here and I'd walk away with armfuls of gifts. Not so amigos! Prices are outrageous & I manage to buy myself cool candle holders and a dish for which I'm embarrassed to share how much I overpaid. It being Ramadan AND Friday (their holy day) many merchants are off. The spice market rocks though!! A guy has us all seated around him while he explains what each spice is. My Pakistani neighbor in NY is often sending over delicious foods with a particular, very flavorful spice I can neither find nor identify. Friends, I now have two bags of it and can't wait to start cooking with it. I was super thrilled to discover the obvious- Moroccan oil!! It's about $40 for a 5 or 6 oz bottle at home and I was using it until my budget for such luxuries ran dry so I'm psyched to discover it's about €10 for an even bigger bottle.  It originated here yet I'd forgotten all about until I got here. As with all the spices & perfumes the man passes them around encouraging us to try. Well I need no encouragement and when the Moroccan oil comes my way I spray a couple of drops on my palm and run it through my messy hair. Before passing it on I decide to discreetly spritz some more right onto my hair but when I press the spray my new friend Trish who is next to me bursts out giggling as others behind me suppress laughter. Turns out I've inadvertently sprayed the oil right onto the face of a guy behind me who is thankfully a Very Good Sport as he wipes it off his cheek. Next the spice guy calls out asking if anyone knows what arnica is. I answer loudly, "Poison?" Heads turn and the spice guy shakes his head in confusion as I realize I'm mistakenly thinking of arsenic. Trish and I laugh HARD over this, especially after the oil incident. Ah the giggles of this day! Spices procured: 2 bags magical spice, 1 vial of pure saffron, 1 bottle Moroccan oil. 

Attack of the Peddlers 2:The Final Assault

Getting to the bus to return to the ferry means bracing ourselves against the peddlers who, knowing this is their last chance, are crawling all over us more aggressively than ever. More tunic guys, guys with cheap jewelry, the little beggars, guys with tee shirts & wooden camels- name it. I'm dangling my bags saying, "All done! No gracias!" to no avail. I make the rookie mistake of glancing ever so briefly at some leather sandals. And they were in a shop so I thought I was safe once I passed.  Next thing I know the guy has them all bundled in a blanket and he's trotting along beside me asking, "You like? Which ones you want?" He's displaying colors & calling out "15 euro? 12? I give for 12!" 

I'm refusing while on my other side trots along a guy selling mirrors which he's holding up to my face, some with doors that he's opening and closing in front of my eyes while the beggar boys are in front of me under my feet asking for "One euro señora, por favor!" I'm clutching my purse with an iron fist thinking this a classic diversion scam. Sandal guy gets on the bus with me (!) and he's down to five euro but I just want to scream, "Stop the madness!!!!" Finally, purse secured, bags in hand, I settle onto the ferry with my new fun girlfriends I've made and we watch Morocco disappear on the horizon. A very cool experience.

Breakfast in America

I embrace everything about traveling in other countries, especially the food, but as my breakfast In America consists solely of a good cup of coffee, my body struggles if denied this simple ritual. Today in Malaga my coffee is served to me in a tiny cup about half the size of an espresso cup. I feel like I should be lining up my dolls for a tea party. I can only add a few grains of one sugar packet or it'll turn into a paste. I down it in half of one sip. I debate ordering 5 more & pouring them into a larger cup but decide against it. 

As much as I find it disappointing that every American fast food establishment has set up shop around the world, I have long appreciated Starbucks being available even though I don't even drink it at home. I'm a Dunkin' Donuts girl through and through and have been baffled for years why they've not put down roots here in Europe.  Nonetheless I've made the adjustment and take comfort knowing I'll get my venti Americana in nearly any city. 

Imagine my delight when, upon arriving in Madrid, I spy the familiar orange logo of my beloved DD. I actually gasp aloud and my cab driver glances in alarm at me in the rear view mirror only to see me grinning like an idiot. And I soon discover during this brief cab ride that they are as numerous as Starbucks. Yes! DD!

The next morning I easily find one and order my extra large with cream and sugar and am presented with a tiny paper cup with one packet of sugar on the side. The milk (looking suspiciously skim...) has been added already. I ask if this is the largest size and the woman (I can't even call her a barista) is already completely annoyed by my question. She says, yes, this is the largest. 

I ask for more sugar and now she's openly hostile, eyes narrowed, as she hands me another single packet. Small coffee or not I need more than 2 sugars and,when she's not looking, I reach over and grab two more. It also did not taste like our DD. 

Overall I'm pretty horrified that the world  must believe we Americans eat nothing but crap fast food and that we're all fat and rude, but I confess to being grateful for Starbucks when available. My venti Americanos are comfortingly the same wherever they're served and I'm free to add my requisite 8 sugars. Don't judge- I'm American after all. 

A broad abroad in Pamplona

Toro! Toro!

So- Pamplona! What can I say except the bull running has been on my bucket list for years. I once had  aspirations of running but last month on a normal run through town I tripped seemingly on nothing (a speck of dust? Pebble? My own feet?) and was black and blue with knees and palms tore up & bloody as well as a swollen jaw (don't ask). I looked like a domestic abuse victim & received strange & sympathetic looks which made me wonder what may happen if chased by bulls. 

After 3 nights in London with only catnaps on plane and train I was remarkably ready to party upon arrival in Pamplona. Stepping off the train all I can see are people dressed all in white with red sashes around the waist and red bandana at the neck which is the typical costume of the Festival of San Fermin. But many of you may be wondering- 

What is the Festival of San Fermin? (No worries- I'll be brief!) San Fermin was a saint beheaded in Spain. The red neckerchief is symbolic of that. 

Who runs? Anyone can just jump in and run and climb back out over the barricade along the route.  Average time running? About 8 seconds if you're lucky. Although amateurs from around the world jump in, the professional runners are the mozos (pronounced mothos- with long O sound) and now mozas (women). These people train year-round and know how to run in front of the bull without getting gored. The police try as best they can to keep out those runners obviously drunk, although many are buzzed but still with their wits about them. 

So the entire town of a Pamplona is a sea of people dressed in white with the red sash and red bandana. I have all my whites ready and am planning to buy the bandana along the way when to my delight I discover my hotel (Hotel Yoldi which I highly recommend!) has left one on my pillow when I get upstairs. Yay me!

After a quick shower I don my white jeans and white tank (an outfit that is no woman's friend btw), tie on my bandana and hit the streets. Many connections to Pamplona and New Orleans at Mardi Gras which I've also done. A difference is there are like the equivalent of several Bourbon Streets surrounding a main plaza. With no time to orient myself to the town and no map (!) I take a pic of the map from the Rick Steve's guide book for handy reference and I used it A Lot! Like Mardi Gras, the streets and bars are full of revelers but, contrary to what one may expect, all friendly and respectful. People are of ALL ages so my fear of crashing a college party is quickly put to rest. Nothing to do but start exploring.

I'm in maybe my third bar when I'm befriended by a local guy and within seconds am being spun around the dance floor- or the area near the bar serving that purpose.  He gets me a beer and no, I am not getting rufied (no idea how to spell that and won't try) because I watch the beer being poured that the bartender gives me and it does not leave my sight. This guy is Jose and he's seemingly close to my age and understands my Spanish perfectly well. We chat, we dance, and before I know it it's 3:30am. I've heard it's necessary to line up quite early to get a decent vantage point along the route and after my travels and little sleep I'm concerned about whether I should try to rally on and stay up or nip back to the room for a brief rest. 

As Jose escorts me back to my hotel, police are already putting out the barricades and they're about as high as my chin and I'm 5'6". Jose has run years before but not in 17 years when he was in his twenties (an age clue- maybe early forties? I never asked- seldom do. He tells me I'll never get close enough to see, thousands of people blah blah. Now it's nearly 4 and I'm practically asleep on my feet and the idea of waiting up until 8am is beyond me. I say good night and thank you to Jose and go upstairs just to lay down and "rest my eyes" like we used to say at slumber parties when we were determined to stay awake. I mean, I'm planning to line up at (yawn) 5:30 or 6 (yawn) LATEST. It's why I'm (yawn) even in (yaaaawn) Pamp....zzzzzzzzzzz....

Despite having set 3 alarms, noise from the street wakes me and I bolt up, seeing the light sky and absolutely sick with dread that I've already missed it. I rub my eyes (contacts still in-ugh!!) and grab for my phone. 6:45! I'm Scrooge on Christmas morning. I haven't missed it!! I want to dance around but too tired and no time. I brush my teeth and hair. I'm still completely dressed and in last night's make up as was just "resting my eyes".  I throw on my sunglasses and run downstairs, following the crowd past the famed statue of the bull-running the few blocks toward the arena. I'm certain the crowd will be 20 deep but no! I find a spot by the barricade right up front! Yay me! It's just past 7 and the crowd is thickening behind me, and, despite the excitement around me, I'm yawning so much I practically dislocate my jaw. I'm psyched though. 

The crowd is rowdy- have I mentioned the singing?? Oh, the singing!! Last night also. I hear that only the Irish sing as much. It's as though  I'm suddenly cast in the chorus of a rowdy Spanish musical. I watch as several medics gather inside the barricade, at the ready with stretchers. Photographers climb into place perched atop the barricade. It's moments from 8am and we're all ready to watch.  The crowd energizes me and before I know it I hear the gunshot signaling the start. The entire run is barely 5 minutes and the part one actually sees, depending on vantage point, is about a minute. I'll attach the link to yesterday's actual whole run. 

I hear the shouting and pounding of hooves and there they are, running past me, the bulls (6) and the steers (8). It's absolutely amazing to be right there! The mozos and the rest of the runners all peering over their shoulders and leaping out of the way. I'm told if you run and fall to stay flat on the ground and count to be sure all beasts have passed before getting up. In the video below you'll see a couple of guys fall and lie flat. Because one poor bull got separated he was far behind all the others. Before I know it they've

all run past and into the arena. 

After the whole business ends moments later I'm grateful to return to my room for proper rest. I'm leaving later that evening for Madrid so just spending the rest of the day hanging around town after I wake back up. That night would be another night of frivolity but I'm ready to move on so will not be present at midnight for the "Pobre de mi" closing ceremony & song. Pobre de mi (poor me) that one must wait another year for Festival of San Fermin. But, hey, as I'm so fond of saying, it's annual!  Plan your trip, amigos- you won't be disappointed. 

Cheers! Mim 

Link to actual bull running from yesterday. I'm behind photographers near the arena at the end (not visible but I'm there!). One poor brown bull gets confused & needs a lot of help finding his way. The animal-lover in me finds this part very hard to watch as the poor thing looks confused & terrified by all the people. The bull-fighting itself I refuse to contemplate. But check out the link:

http://www.sanfermin.com/index.php/es/encierro/encierros_2014/14-julio