Finding a New Home in Spain

When I found my way to St. Stephen’s Green while on a morning walk in Dublin, my trip was in as much of its infancy as the newborn family of cygents I found in that park.

I have traveled for nearly two months, and as my trip draws to a close, I am back in England with one week until I fly home. I again caught a brief glimpse of a family of swans while on a train skirting the English coastline, but I was shocked at how much this year’s newborn swans have changed in that time.

Change is a constant, and for my part, I find myself now claiming two homes.

One, my traditional home, is where I am headed next week, and I am beyond thrilled to see what two months of change have borne to my friends and family, who I miss very much.

The other is Spain, where I changed in ways I hadn’t thought possible.

Whether alone or with a travel companion, when you are backpacking and without the busying routine of a job, apartment maintanence, the occasional happy hour and other responsibilities, you have a lot of time to think and reflect. However, up until I landed in Madrid, I had adhered to a regimented schedule during this trip and rarely stayed in one place longer than three days. Wander the city on foot. Museum/Cathedral/Castle/Insert other touristy locale here. Attempt to “get out of the city” and do something less touristy. That slavery to the superficiality of experience was my life three days at a time.

In Spain, I took a step back from the schedule and a step toward simply living. And what I found after the pettiness of day-to-day annoyances and irritations melted away, and I was left with nothing but the thoughts that really mattered, was how much I enjoyed the company of the person I shared those thoughts with.

I’m not sure if it can be qualified as spirituality or maturity or even if it should be labeled at all, but I found something I wasn’t expecting in Spain, and even though I’m not physically in country anymore, my discovery is still with me.

I can take this feeling with me into what is assured to be a hectic period when I get home as I move across the country to start law school, and let it be a sanctuary for my thoughts. I have already decided that I will return to Spain one day, and I hope to once again be shown the breath of change between the woman I am at this moment and the woman I will be on that day.

When Adversity Becomes Opportunity in the Spanish Mountains

If you are going to leave someone at the altar, preferrably that altar isn't a remote town in the Spanish mountains where no one speaks English.

For some deserved context, I met up with a very good friend of mine, Laura, at the beginning of the month in Madrid. The two of us intended to travel across Spain before retiring to a prearranged retreat in the mountains where we would exchange our labor for room and board. However, when we arrived in town, Graus as it's called, which is about four hours into the mountains from Barcelona, we were without communication from our host as to where to continue, and our attempts to make contact went unanswered.

To our credit, we did not panic. We calmly retired to one of the two locations with wifi access with some tapas and weighed our options. I'm actually quite proud of our ability to find a logical conclusion is such a foreign place, and we walked out of that bar feeling slightly more adult in our lives. So, the decision is thus: go to Granada, which wasn't on the agenda at first, and then Laura would head back to the states early, and I would head back to England to stay with another friend until my own flight back home.

It is sad that our volunteer arrangement did pan out, however, I choose to look at our current situation as a blessing in disguise.

For one, we were able to return to Barcelona for more time in the city. This may not sound as exciting as I took the opportunity to be, but before having a second opportunity to experience the city, I hadn't quite figured Barcelona out yet.

Barcelona is a city of dizzying highs and dark lows. In one day I felt quite literally on top of the world when I stood at the apex of Gaudi's playland, aka Park Guell, and yet when finding my way down back into the city, I came face to face with child prostitutes who were no more than 14 years old. Such a contrast had put me off-balance and unable to decide if Barcelona was a city I could support.

However, being in a country when it wins its first ever World Cup and catching a sunset on a Barcelona beach makes it hard to not like the city. I won't pretend to know how a World Cup win could unite the regionally divided Spain or even just help its citizens forget its economic disaster and 20 percent unemployment. For that, I would recommend this fantastic CNN article: http://edition.cnn.com/2010/SPORT/football/07/12/spain.world.cup.unity/index.html?hpt=C2&fbid=es_EGrttm2L

All I can comment on is what I saw, and what I saw was a bar full of red and yellow clad Spain supporters erupt when Andres Iniesta scored in overtime, and a horizon of fireworks and shed tears when Spain's victory was official.

A second blessing of our predicament-turned-opportunity is the chance to visit Granada. I write this post having only spent about eight hours in this small city at the base of the Alpujarra, but the scent of teas and spices and the sound of flamenco guitar wafting into my room is intoxicating.

One Bull Fight is Enough for Me

Watching the death rattle of a slain bull to the delight of a stadium full of sweaty patrons is something you can't really unsee.

I'm not quite sure why, as somewhat of an animal lover, I went to a bull fight during San Fermin.

I knew beforehand each bull that enters the ring is killed, but I did not really understand the extent of the sport's brutality, and I have always had a philosophy that if you are going to disagree with something, and I do disagree with bull fighting, you should expose yourself to it at least once so that you know exactly what you are disagreeing with.

And now I know without a shadow of a doubt that bull fighting is not for me. I understand this sport is as much a part of Spanish tradition as baseball is in the United States, and I do have a greater understanding for the subtleties of bull fighting. For example, if the crowd does not approve of the matador's handling of the bull, the spectators will turn their backs on the ring. Displaying a bravado bordering on disdain for the bull, typified with throwing out a carefree hip or even turning his back on the bull completely, is important for the matador to execute well to win over the crowd, and when a bull is stabbed repeatedly, both by the horsemen and the junior matadors sticking colorful pins into the animal's back, it is not the weaken the bull for the matador, but to correct any leaning the animal may have when charging. Bull fighting is also as much as a social event as a sport with spectators bringing champagne and homemade dishes to share potluck style among each other in the stands.

However, when a matador decides to end the fight with his bull, the already blood-covered, panting animal's death is brutal and unforgiving with what is hopefully a single sword thrust into the bull's back and spine. If the matador misses, he must try again, and if he fails to cleave the animal's spinal cord, a junior matador finishes the job with a hand knife, and the bull is hauled around and out of the ring by a team of horses.

It is not my place to judge another country's traditions as wrong nor right, however, bull fighting is not something I'd not care to see again. Just as foreigners are free to think baseball is boring, I think bull fighting is a bit too brutal.

I've included a video if you would like to see what bull fighting looks like. The video does not include any violence.

San Fermin isn’t Just About the Bulls

If the running of the bulls is the only event you associate with San Fermin, then you are probably not alone.

However, if you visit Pamplona during this annual festival and the bull run is the only event you watch and/or participate in, then you are doing yourself the ultimate disservice. After all, unless a wayward bull refuses to be corralled in a timely manner during the run, it only lasts at most three minutes each morning during the week-long festival. That’s a lot of downtime to kill.

San Fermin is, first and foremost, a religious observance in honor of the patron saint of the region in which Pamplona sits, Navarra, and from whom the festival gets its name.

Apparently this saint, a Roman who converted to Christianity, met his untimely end as a result of his conversion by being drug through the streets of Pamplona by a herd of bulls.

So the bull run is significant in terms of its religious parallels, but the people of Pamplona also honor their patron saint in other ways.

One of the most entertaining aspects of San Fermin you may be less familiar with is The Procession. This event is held on July 7 every year, and as the name would indicate, a large procession of kings, queens, bands and what can only be described as large-heads make its way through the city to Pamplona’s cathedral, which is the home to a large statue of San Fermin. The statue then joins the procession, which once again treks the streets of Pamplona in his honor.

Sitting on the Sidelines for San Fermin’s Most Well-Known Tradition

I’m not sure if the people or the bulls are the more dangerous threat at the San Fermin festival in Pamplona.

The numbers definitely favor the people in terms of danger. On average, 2,000 daredevil runners share the streets with the eight to 10 bulls that are released each morning of the festival. So the likelihood of even coming in contact with one of beasts is not very high. However, getting jostled, tossed and thrown to the ground by your fellow runners during the half-mile course is. As a matter of fact, the last person to meet his end by the horn of a bull was nearly 15 years ago, but I watched one poor girl with a very large, muddy footprint in the middle of her back get carted away in an ambulance and treated for a spine injury.

So let’s end the suspense. I did not run with the bulls. I prefer to watch stupid acts by stupid people rather than participate in stupid acts as a stupid person. Forgive the pun, but I’ve never been one to join the herd.

With that being said, watching the running of the bulls is quite a thrilling sight. Most of the runners packing the streets were finishing off beers from the previous night’s parties just minutes before the 8 a.m. run. However, when the warning rockets goes off and the San Fermin blessing is recited to bring protection to the runners, everyone, runner or observer, falls quite and a spring-loaded concentration fills the silence.

It’s quick, as in, if you close your eyes for very long at the wrong moment, you may miss it, but when the bulls part the Red Sea that is the runners attempting to stay ahead of them, the excitement is nothing short of an adrenaline shot. Some may scratch their heads, mentally recalling the romantic notions they had of San Fermin fueled by its popularization in Ernest Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises,” and say to themselves, “That’s it?”

To that I would say, a lightning strike is instantaneous in duration, but it nonetheless lights the sky in brilliance in that instant.

The runners of San Fermin recite the blessing three times for protection during the run using rolled up newspapers to emphasize the point.

The police presence is understandably strong during each run. However, they are more in place to corral the runners than the bulls. The police take the run very seriously and though I didn't personally witness this, I was told they have have been known to throw runners who attempt to leave the route by climbing on the protective walls back into the street. If you decide to run, just know that you are expected to be in it until the end.