Part II: Think positive. At least now you have zero chance of dying!

Back in the friendly confines of the Polskaland and taking time to savor the little day-to-day intricacies that make working and living here a true pleasure. School has started, the kids have been rejuvenated by a full summer of doing nothing and the editor of the KC has been newly minted as a master of education, whatever that means. Take it with a grain of salt since this is only year 10 of what I feel might be a Ripkenesque career as an educator.

Or maybe I should use a Brett Favre analogy? Here's hoping I don't need a veritable cocktail of painkillers to make it through my day when I'm in my early 40's. By the way, I really have no feelings about the Vikings' signing of the scourge of Green Bay since the boys in purple have been dead to me since the ruinous end of the 1998 season, which you can relive in painful, raw detail here. It almost brought me to tears all over again, but some masochistic part of me watched it until the bitter end. Damn you Gary Anderson! Or maybe I should be thanking him since the last 11 years of Sundays have seen me anesthetized toward any feeling of living vicariously through grossly overpaid athletes that couldn't care less about the average fan. But I'm NOT bitter.

Anyway . . . I never did finish my story about Pamplona. I will let the rest of it pour forth in the hope that it will provide some catharsis and rationalization. Where was I?

The running takes place at 8:00 AM every day for the whole 8 day festival. The average time it takes for the bulls to get through the 850 meter course (about 1/2 mile) is around 3 1/2 minutes. At around 6:30, I was lined up at where I thought would be an ideal spot (see video), midway between point 5 and 6 on the map. My thinking was that I would only be faced with a short 200 meter pants-filled dash into the bullfighting arena where I would bask for a few seconds in the admiration of the cheering throngs while simultaneously getting the hell outta the way of 1,500 pounds of pissed off hamburger. The rest of my traveling party had retreated to a balcony overlooking the course, for which they each paid 40 Euros, including breakfast.

About 6:45, Juan Law (Spanish cousin of Johnny Law), started clearing the streets. They had an ingenious method of closing the gates on each cross street to divide the course into one block sections, separating the crowd that was trying to do the same thing I was doing. Us glory-hounds were quickly surrounded by cops in nasty-looking berets and forcibly removed from the course. Oops. Didn't read anything in my research about that. Back to the drawing board. So I had been pushed off the course around point #6. I then needed to hightail it all the way back to the start, fighting my way through drunken cowards the whole time. I made it all the way back to #3 in the main plaza about 200 meters from where they release the bulls. There was a huge crowd assembled and all of them had that "What the eff have I gotten myself into?" look of terror on their face. In fact, there was even a procession of people lined up behind the cops who marched them out of the plaza after they elected to "use better judgement" as my mom would say. Pansies.

So all runners are packed in between points 3 and 4, but around 7:30 they swing open the gate (#4) that confined us to that area. This gives us 30 minutes to spread out along the course and take our positions from which we will attempt to avoid getting trampled by not only bulls but each other. At this point, there is no turning back. Foremost on my mind was the fact that one of the bulls scored a kill the day before when it was turned around going the wrong way on the course. It proceeded to gore anything in his path including an unlucky Spaniard who took a horn in the lung and jugular. Medical personnel pulled him under a gate only a few seconds after he was hit but he bled out in an instant was declared dead soon after.

As luck would have it, I ended up camped in the same position I had been in one hour previously. The adrenaline was pumping and, as per my nature in situations such as these, I wanted to capture the scene, bringing some of the sights and sounds of Pamplona home with me on my camera. Where I went wrong at 7:52 on that fateful day is anybody's guess. But after making a short video of the minutes leading up to one of those "gotta do it before you die" moments, one of Pamplona's finest spotted me from his perch on one of the wooden gates that seals off the course from any overzealous spectators. He barked at me in Spanish, which I took to mean "Sir, could you kindly put your camera away since the bulls will be released in just a few short minutes. I know you wanna capture this momentous occasion but you should really pay attention while trying to tempt death."

Alright, it's been 17 years since my last Spanish class so forgive me if I got the translation wrong. Soon enough, I felt like John Hinkley at the Washington Hilton in 1981. Surrounded by four of Juan Law's cousins as my heart pounded with fear, there was no escape and all I could think about was how stupid I was for not running into the crowd as soon as he had singled me out. I showed them that I had put my camera away and was ready to dodge bulls. But instead of congratulating me on my courage and my desire to showcase their fine city, they shoved me to the ground and under the gate. Not only was my dream of running with the bulls crushed but my brand new white pants bought specifically for this occasion were stained with the dirt, grime, and fluids of an all-night Spanish bender. As I frantically scrambled to run back to the start of course and fight again, the fireworks signaling the start went off and I wasn't even in a position to watch others get gored. Was it the blonde hair and blue eyes that made me the victim of police brutality? Or maybe stupidity? I guess I'll never know, but at least it makes for a good story.

Last few hours in Madrid . . .

Sitting here in Plaza Santa Domingo, enjoying my last few hours in Madrid. It's really nice when a city has the foresight to provide free WiFi points for its citizens. Anyway, I should be sitting by a pool at the "fabulous" Hotel Wellington that was rated five stars. LJ and I booked this as a treat for our last night here before we got on separate flights back to WAW. Imagine our shock and utter disappointment when we stepped out into the courtyard under the blazing afternoon sun to discover that the whole pool area was shut down for remodeling. Dreams shattered. Depression ensues. After conferring with the hotel manager, we were informed that the hotel website states that the pool is shut down for the summer and it was our fault for not checking this out. Who the hell books directly with the hotel anymore? Are you kidding me? The site we went through, kayak.com which directed us to gtahotels.com, clearly stated that they had a pool and jacuzzi. So we dropped a bit more than we usually spend in hope of enjoying some super relaxation time the night before reality hit. I certainly expressed my outrage in no uncertain terms and was told that there was nothing they could do in the way of compensation. I did manage to put up a big enough stink to get us a room upgrade but you can't have a nice cool soak in a kingsized bed. Anyway, more writings about the last few weeks in Spain are to come when I get back home . . . until then, adios from Spain!

Part I: To run or not to run?

I'm normally not up for glorifying myself through grandiose displays of machismo (okay, back in my 20's I was), however, when opportunities like this present themselves in such a fortuitous and timely manner, I find them too good to pass up. It's kind of like if you told me you had a boat chartered off the coast of South Africa, with full scuba kit, buckets of chum, and Steve Irwin back from the dead ready to guide me on a cage-diving expedition for Great White sharks, I would not hesitate to say, "I am in! She's a beauty!"

I've been spending the whole month of July in Madrid, pursuing a gilded certificate that will guarantee my supreme effectiveness as an educator (sarcasm alert!). This requires me to spend 40 hours a week in a classroom, with evenings spent hammering out papers that will somehow provide me with some deep, meaningful insight into my role as a mentor to children who would much rather be taught about matter's phase changes by The Pussycat Dolls. All of this introspection means that when the weekend comes, it's time to let loose a little bit.

Last Thursday, my ears perked up when I overheard one of my classmates saying that she and some other students were taking the bus on Friday night to Pamplona for the Festival of San Fermin. They were going to get tickets for the 9:30 PM bus which meant that their arrival time would be around 2:00 AM. The plan was to enjoy the sights, atmosphere, and beverages, watch the main event at 8:00 AM, and hop the first bus back at 9:15 AM. They assured me that we would be back in Madrid no later than 2:00 PM, in time for a long afternoon siesta. She even said that she would personally go down to the bus station and buy my bus ticket. All I needed to do was show up for dinner after Friday's class, and then hop on the bus. Perfect, I thought.

The adventure began much earlier than it was supposed to when about an hour into the bus ride north of Madrid, we were jolted from our sleep by the unmistakable sound of "clump, clump, clump" coming from our flat tire. Instead of pulling to the side of the road and calling for assistance, the bus driver had to limp his steed another 20 minutes up the road to the first exit, since the shoulders on major highways here are much too narrow for a vehicle of that size. Everybody on the bus had to suspend the buzz of anticipation for a couple hours, but at least we had stopped at an exit with what seemed like a roadside, local watering hole.

A couple of fellow Americans and I decided that since we were going to be here awhile, we might want to wet our whistle inside the Bellavista Pub & Hostel which, from the outside, looked deserted and badly in need of our business. Well, little did we know how bad they wanted our business. Upon entering the darkened tavern, we were immediately sized up by at least twenty willing ladies vying for our affection. Upon learning that beers were priced at 14 Euros (almost $20), we decided that we just weren't that thirsty. In retrospect, the fact that they had underground parking, a heart around the word "pub" on their neon sign, and billed it as not only a pub but ALSO a hostel should have tipped us off immediately that it was a house of ill repute. Or maybe the girls just REALLY like Americans and it's REALLY expensive to ship beer out to the middle of nowhere.

After two hours of waiting around the parking lot, watching the bus driver and the service van crew wrestle with the oversize tire and jack, seeing many shady looking characters arrive for the customer service and then depart after a brief period of time, we reboarded the bus and continued on our journey. Two hours later, we arrived in Pamplona at 4:00 AM to the throngs of inebriated revelers wandering the streets in the traditional red and white festival attire.

The bus station looked like a M*A*S*H* (for my younger readers, this was a television show about a mobile army surgical unit during the Korean war) triage unit with bodies spread across the pavement in various stages of consciousness. It smelled like I would imagine the streets of Bombay would on a hot summer night, with lakes of urine dotting the streets. At least I wasn't wearing sandals, like some of my travel companions, causing them to convulse as the wetness leapt up to their toes.

After the two hour delay, we realized that our fiesta window was closing fast and daylight would soon be here, so we made our way to the city center plaza where all the action was happening. On our way, we hashed out a bargain for the obligatory red bandannas and sashes that would identify us as serious tourists ready to follow in the footsteps of Hemingway, who immortalized the city of San Fermin in his novel, The Sun Also Rises. The Spaniards have paid tribute to their "Ernesto" by erecting a monument to him in front of the bull fighting arena. There is also a life-sized sculpture in one of the ancient cafes. He wrote extensively about the traditions and pageantry associated with the festival, and apparently must have been the kinda guy who lives in the moment without a thought to what morning will bring:

"The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta. Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta."

I've never been to Mardis Gras in New Orleans, but I would imagine the clogged, narrow streets of this small Spanish city, a pick-pocketer's paradise filled with boozey victims of adult ADD, would be an apt comparison, minus the beads and frontal nudity on every balcony. Crisp white shirts soon became crimson with wayward swigs of sangria. Corner bocaterias were open all night long selling jumbo bottles of San Miguel and jugs of Don Simon. Everybody was infused with the spirit of San Fermin,

What came as a surprise was that despite all the besotted revelry, everybody was relatively well-behaved. There was a minor police presence but in Spain it's more the unseen threat of authority rather than a visual show of force. One poor fellow was tackled to the ground and hauled off by no fewer than ten officers as hundreds of foreigners uneasily observed the scene. Even the Englishmen minded their Ps and Qs which if you've ever encountered a gang of them on a "piss-up" is not an easy feat.

To be continued . . .

Happy 20th Poland . . .

As I sit here enjoying the end of my third year in Poland, and marveling at just how fast the time has gone, the country is celebrating the 20th anniversary of the first free elections in the former Communist Bloc. I never thought it possible to be working and living in Warsaw back when I was watching scenes like this on CNN during my freshman year in high school. It certainly is a stunning collection of footage from those days, set to "New Year's Day" by U2, a song inspired by the reform movement in Eastern Europe. It was produced by the European Union, who even have their own channel on Youtube, called EUtube. Clever.


Only three more day until I'm back in the U.S. for a couple weeks. Most of my time will be spent up on Da Range, so drop me a line if you want to get together. I'm looking forward to seeing the family, doing some fishing with my Dad, and eating some beer-battered walleye before going back to Madrid on July 3rd for the completion of my studies. Hope everybody is having a great summer so far with weather better than we have here in Warsaw. Na razie . . .

My turn to cry . . .

I have the best family in the world. They got me this time thanks to modern technology. Thanks to my cousin Michele for coming up with this fantastic birthday surprise. Once again, before you sit down and watch this, grab the box of tissues. I love all of you guys . . . see you in a few weeks!

Beauties and Beer Tents

The Warsaw Open, a stop on the ATP Tour for some of the world's great female tennis players, commenced this week. The tennis gods smiled down upon tour organizers and this reporter when former world #1 ranked player, and Russian uber-babe, Maria Sharapova decided to use the tournament to launch her comeback from a shoulder injury that has sidelined her for over 9 months.

A couple friends and I hustled out of work in order to catch the end of her match against an Italian, Tathiana Garbin, and were lucky enough to see Sharapova blow three match points in the second set. This allowed us to actually find our seats and enjoy the third set which she ended up winning 6-3. The reigning queen of grunts did not disappoint:

She has been measured at over 100 decibels on the grunt-o-meter, the equivalent of standing near a police car with its blaring siren. The evolution of grunting in tennis is chronicled in great detail here by the BBC. Sharapova owes a great deal to the pioneer of the grunt in women's tennis, Monica Seles.

Also, last week, on a sun-drenched Friday afternoon, the hard-working folks at AS-dub convened for a faculty social at the nearest oasis, just off the bike-trail leading to school. We at the Chronicle would never condone drinking and cycling, and Polish law is quite strict in this regard, but there's great comfort to be found in enjoying good beer, good food, and good company after only pedaling a couple short kilometers from school. Patio culture is certainly one area where this country is leaps and bounds ahead of my former homeland.

Happy Mother's Day!

The toughest part about working overseas is missing all of those special moments that happen in a family. It's a huge sacrifice and makes you appreciate the time you are able to spend with them even more. I've been living far away from the ones that I love for many years now and it never gets any easier hearing "You missed it!" after every birthday, graduation party, 4th of July, Thanksgiving, or wedding. Especially weddings.

You see my mom has four siblings, and as luck would have it, or what some might call a tragedy of epic proportion, the five of them gave their mother and father twelve beautiful grandchildren, eleven of them boys. As we all enter into our 30's, most of us, despite repeated warning, have sealed our fate by walking down the aisle. The byproduct of these ceremonies has been some legendary parties, which lead to some great family pictures, since these are the rare occasions when all of us are together.

Last weekend, my cousin Todd was the next in line to get hitched to his fiancee, Jill, and for months, much to my sorrow, I had been slated to miss this huge celebration because it just wasn't possible to get enough time off of work. I was resigned to the fact that AGAIN I would be hearing firsthand accounts of another reception that would go down in history. My brother Paul, however, had other ideas, and made a last minute plea for me to find some way to make the trip. After listening to his cajoling, guilt-inspiring phone call, I relented and made a quick search of the airfare sites. Well, somehow, the planets aligned and I was able to fly into Minneapolis on a Thursday evening, and hop the redeye back to Warsaw on Sunday night. For me, it was more like the "closed eye" since I spent the whole flight to Amsterdam (my first stop) in a deep slumber, reeling from jet lag, family fun time, and exhaustion.

The best part was keeping this a covert operation. My brother and his wife Jennifer were the only ones who knew about this last minute change of plans. Everybody, including my parents, who I had just spent Spring Break with in New York a couple weeks earlier, were sure I was destined to miss yet another special occasion. Needless to say, it was something I will never forget, and one of the best decisions I ever made. I'm so glad that we were able to capture the look of both my grandma's and mom's faces when they realized I had made it home. Just make sure you have your box of tissues handy when you watch this video . . . and make sure you take your mom out for brunch today. Of course, don't forget about Grandma!