The Matt Faus Blog

Wit a growing sense of familiarity, I boarded the train to Barcelona on Friday morning. Three hours later Ashley and I met to board yet another train headed to Pamplona, Spain. Nine hours and 100 Euros later we arrive in Pamplona.

It was awesome because the thousands of people there were all dressed in the traditional garb of the festival – all white clothes with a red scarf and sash. For the first of many tight situations, we boarded a bus with more people than I thought possible to make our way downtown. There we made the smart decision of stocking up on liquids at the local grocery store and the Stupid American Tourist decision of buying dinner from the street vendors. Suffice it to say that we could have fed a King’s court with the same amount of money at any other restaurant or sandwich shop.

After dinner, the sun went down and the party geared up. Walking around town there were thousands upon thousands of people singing, dancing, drinking, yelling, and just plain being crazy. One motive to wearing white for the weekend is so that the wine that everyone throws on each other looks like blood from an impaled bull – the theme, of course, of bullfights and therefore the entire festival.

We didn’t get much into the wine fighting, but reveling in the madness was very interesting. At one point there was a great fireworks display and watching the bursting colors from the lawn of downtown Pamplona was the absolute highlight of the trip.

Rambling forward, we found the bullring (Plaza de Toros) and the path that the bulls would be running in the morning. Picking and shoving through the streets, we found the length that I had planned to run. Not being able to sleep the night before due to excitement and travelling for 9 hours that day had made us very tired by this point. We didn’t want to wander too far away from the path that I was going to run, so we decided to find a patch of grass to lay our heads on.

Spreading my beach towel and lying down was great, but the drunken revelers surrounding us did not approve. That immediately began a barrage of stumbling over to chat every few minutes. A few even offered various drugs to help us stay awake. We didn’t really appreciate it, but I would have done the same thing in their situation – no one likes a party pooper. We wound up taking turns distracting the falleros enough for the other to get some shut-eye, but after a few hours we headed back to the alley we had previously chosen to run with the bulls.

In harmony with the rising of the sun, so also did the bull fences come to pass. We arrived at 6am and picked our spot as the crowd began to assemble around us. I planned to stay with Ashley until an hour before the run, and then meet up with her afterwards. However, the realization that no amount of super natural intervention could have allowed us to find each other after the running came quickly so I decided to stand with her and watch. We were also a little worried about each other’s safety, but I’m not sure who had a better reason. There was a risk of being impaled or trampled during the run, but after leaving the spectator’s crowd we were complaining of twisted bones and bruises for several hours later. After standing for three hours in a crowd the likes of a wine press, there was a flurry of activity, a pulse in the yelling of the crowd, and streaking red scarves as the runners ran by. I am able to relate this to you simply because I have a camera that I can lift far above my head and tilt the LCD screen down. We were on the second row and I could pinpoint zero bulls. Ashley saw a hoof.

Afterwards, the wine-press was released and we climbed over the fence in extreme disappointment. The first of many for that weekend, we learned. In an exhausted, frustrated, and slightly beaten state we sludged our way through the muck of the city left by the party last night back to the train station. It was pretty cool to see how advanced Pamplonian sanitation engineering is. They had tractors and brooms and leaf-blowers to pick up all the glass, plastic, and aluminum from the night before. Outside the train station we made camp on a nice grassy knoll among hundreds of other partiers and passed out for a few hours until it was time to get on the train.

Back in Barcelona, frustration after European frustration pounded our drained minds and bodies. My hostel was expenseive, scary, dirty, cramped, and disappointing. The bathrooms didn’t have toilet paper, the Chinese restaurant we had planned on eating at was closed, the coffee shop were Ashley always gets frappacinos didn’t have them, we got turned around, the Metro pass didn’t work. *Sigh* Whateryagonnado?

We gave up on our attempts to find decent food at a reasonable price and went back to Rosa Negra. The food there is awesome, and the pricing is, too. We spent the same amount of money we that we had spent in Pamplona, but ate a 3 course meal with no expense spared.

The next day we went to the beach and did absolutely nothing for the entire day – it was bliss.

Overall, the trip to Pamplona was just not worth it. We each spent 12 hours and 100 Euros on a train, 60 Euros in food and drink, 20 Euroes on souvenirs, and the experience with the running of the bulls was just not worth it. If you plan to go to Fiesta de San Fermín, you should only go if you plan to 1) Actually run with the bulls and have a sufficient group to do so, or 2) rent out one of the balconies that people own overlooking the street on the bull run.

After having Ashley in Valencia for a weekend it was my turn to visit her in the city of Barcelona. Well, we had originally planned for me to visit her during her last weekend in Europe, July 12-15, but instead we decided to squeeze in a trip to Rome on that weekend, so I moved my travel arrangements forward a couple weeks.

Anyway, I arrived in Barcelona Friday afternoon. The hostel’s website said that the walk from the train station to their location was a short trip, but it turned out being a little longer than we anticipated. However, I was able to pick up a cheap European rolling suitcase for 20E on the way there. About eight minutes down the road I realized that I was missing my camera bag, which had about $700 worth of electronics in it! Leaving my big bag with Ashley, I sprinted back to the store and, luckily, was able to retrieve my camera. Nothing like misplacing the most valuable thing on you to start the weekend!

Checking into the hostel was relatively easy. I got my key and meal ticket and headed up to my 6-man room while Ashley waited in the lobby. It wasn’t luxurious, but the bed was comfortable and the place was very clean and safe. My roomates’ seemed to be German, but we didn’t really interact much besides hand waving me to where my bed and locker where.

After picking up a 10-trip metro ticket, we headed to Ciutdella Park to bask in the beauty and chat the evening away before heading to Rosa Negra for dinner, which Ashley had fallen in love with during her stay in Barcelona. Upon arriving it was quite apparent that several other Barcelonians had also falling in love with it, indicated by the 40 minute wait time. We were able to get our table and enjoy a wonderful meal of nachos, quesadillas, and a burrito. I even added some sliced jalepenos to get some enjoy some much-longed-for heat.

In the morning we made our way to a little town outside of Barcelona called Figueres, home of the Salvador Dali art museum. The life, art, and museum by this man were incredible. He designed and filled the entire museum from the ground up. His art is very surreal and evokes thoughts of the fluidity and chaotic nature of time and space. His art ranges from drawings and paintings to sculpture installations and jewelry. Most of his works change shape and form from different perspectives. One drawings was of small puppet-like figures playing around a city street scene, but when you looked closer the outline of a man could be seen through the whole painting. There was even a room that when walking through it seemed like an odd room, but nothing too crazy. After climbing some steps and looking through a drastically concave lens the room clearly shows the image of a woman’s face. It’s a little hard to describe, but hopefully you get the picture. After seeing the museum I could safely say that Dali is one of my favorite artists.

One interesting sight we saw before boarding the train to get back to Barcelona was the guard for the local prison in Figueres. He was standing there looking quite menacing with a flak jacket and fully automatic submachine gun. I remembered seeing a similar enforcement officer at Fiesta de San Fermín and how these figures really gave Spain an edge in law enforcement. Crazy.

After arriving back in Barcelona, we met some of Ashley’s friends at the Fountains of Mont Juic to watch the spectacular light show that is put on there every night. The fountain itself is huge and then when all the lights and music combine with the 50 foot jets of water it creates an unmatched mingling of the senses. Beyond the big fountain there are cascading fountains that come all the way from the top of the hill from the National Art Museum to the bottom. The fountain show was probably the coolest thing I saw in Barcelona.

The next morning a mishap involving my cell phone and the prearranged meeting location set us back an hour or so, but luckily Ashley’s outstanding intuition was able to rescue me from the sprawling city. After apologies and regrouping we made our way the Picasso Museum, but since it was Free Saturday the line was incredibly long. Taking into account the unbearable heat, and the previous day of art, we didn’t feel too guilty walking away towards La Rambla. I know I’m from Texas and have been around heat plenty, but Barcelona has no breeze to offer any kind of relief – it’s like being in an oven.

A lot of Spanish cities have a street called La Rambla where merchants restaurants and tourists abound. It could be roughly equivolated with Main street in cities throughout America. That evening we made our way to the Barcelona Rambla and picked our way through the crowds, stopping to enjoy a street entertainer or have a look in one of the shops setup. There was also a gay parade going on and with the flamboyant flag waving and screaming topless women added to the spectacle of the time.

Overall, Barcelona was a lot of fun, but not somewhere I would go to too much effort to visit again. It was crowded like New York, but Spainards don’t know how to handle that. Walking through the street one must continually dodge old women with their puppies and other people who just don’t know how to get out of the way. The best part about Barcelona is the Metro. There are literally stops every few blocks all throughout the city. The trains run every 3-6 minutes, and it’s just really easy to get anywhere.

After the bullfight we went down to the beach, with the rest of Valencia, to celebrate the Fiesta de San Juan. I have never seen so many people on a beach before in my life. There were literally thousands of people packed everywhere. Party of the festival is to write your sins on a piece of paper and then to throw them into a fire as a symbol of purifying your soul, so on this night everywhere is allowed to build a fire on the beach. On top of the hundreds of fires, thousands of people, all kinds of food and drink vendors, there was a huge stage setup near the southern end of the beach that was pumping out dance music that could be heard across Mediterranean until the wee hours in the morning. Looking down the northern shore you could see fireworks and festivities going on along the entire length of the beach. It truly felt like we were celebrating with the entire nation of Spain.

On Saturday, I had tickets to the bullfight at Plaza de Toros in downtown Valencia. I had never seen an authentic bullfight before, and it was an intense and eye-opening experience! The seats we got were pretty cheap, but it really didn’t matter since the seating arrangement was so well suited for everyone to see. Even so, there were not very many people there at all. I would say the stadium was at about 40-45% capacity.

As the first bull charged into the ring, it was incredible how powerful and strong it was. At nearly 1300 pounds, it was apparent that this beast could plow through pretty much anything. The first matador was on horseback, and it was an amazing display of partnership between the man and the horse as the matador graciously led the horse just a few steps in front of the bull’s sharp and charging horns. With each barb that pierced the bull’s back he began to slow his hooves and quicken his breathing. Once the matador was ready for the kill he retrieved his sword from a peer outside the ring and quickly slid it between the giant heaving shoulders of the beast, straight into his heart. Dismounting the horse, the matador looked the bull in the eye until it bowed its battered knee in defeat. The crowd rose in cheer as one final blow severed the spinal nerve of the bull, sending it to the great beyond.

The second fight was the first of this matador’s bad day. The barbsmen ran towards the bull with their spikes and drove them in deep, all the while taunting him with their ever-elusive capes. The blood began dripping and the bull charged even more fiercely than before, a blood-rage overcoming him. The matador entered the ring and wore him down even more with his skillful hand and graceful movements. When the time came he raised his sword to strike, but when he did so, the bull moved and dodged his strike! With the help of the barbsmen, the bull was goaded away from the blade, which the matador then recovered. Again and a third time he tried, but only one third of the way in would the blade go! The next attempt was with a long spear-like device with a short blade at the end. The matador wore the bull down and taunted his head down to the dirt to expose the spinal cord that connected the brain to the rest of the body and with a lunge he stabbed, but still nothing! The bull raged in fury and the matador tried with all of his might to dodge him. Beaten and bloodied, the bull began to simply limp around the ring, but the matador would not give up. Again and again he lunged at the most sensitive location at the bull, but after 20 tries he could not sever the nerve! The matador left the ring in a fury knowing that he would be ridiculed for the day he let the bull leave the ring alive.

The next bull charged into the ring, the energy and fury of health contrasting the slaughter that had ended so brutally. After the barbs were placed and blood was dripping down the bull’s back the next matador stepped into the ring with his red cape and piercing sword. With swirling movements of grace he wore the bull down twisting and turning him about. And then the moment of truth came. The bull stood there face-to-face with the matador that had ripped at his flesh and humiliated him in front of the crowd. The matador dangled his cape by his knees, attracting the bull’s attention with slight ripples of movement while he raised his rapier high above his head, ready to sink the final blow. With a roar of intensity, he lunged with the sword thrusting its sharp blade through the ribs and into the chest of the bull. The thrust was stopped only by the hilt of the sword contacting the bull’s back and then the matador spun with lightening speed, to just barely miss being impaled by the bull’s blood-dripped and furious horns. With only a few minutes of life left, the bull limped around the outside of the ring before collapsing in death. The horses came to carry him away, but before he was gone the ear was severed and given to the matador for achieve a perfect kill.

As the horsemen with their Kevlar-armored and blindfolded steeds trotted into ring, the next bull charged in and heaved with all its might into the side of the horse. With horns lifting the horse off the ground the horseman buried his spear into the back of the bull and heaved back in an incredible display of brute force. While the horseman continued the shred the tendons in the bulls back the horse was almost toppled by the power, but the bull broke away just in time. The matador came and the deed was done, but the horse left the ring badly bruised from the impact it had survived.

Finally, the seventh bull came into the ring. The matador’s lunge was almost to the hilt, but a little short. It was however, true enough of to pierce the lung of the bull. As the blood rushed into the bull’s lung to attain the life-giving oxygen that it needed so badly, it unexpectedly took a wrong turn and gushed out of the bull’s mouth and nose. For several minutes the bull spewed massive amounts of dark blood from all three respiratory openings until finally laying down for the final peace allowed to all creatures.

I worked most of the day on Friday, but Ashley spent her time at the beach. I finally made it down there around 4:45pm, and man was it enjoyable. I had not spent a whole lot of time at the beach because I guess I just don’t have much time during the day, but it was just incredible. The waves and breeze felt so relaxing and soothing. It was hot, but not unbearably hot. Also, the water was really rather clean and not nearly as salty as the Gulf of Mexico – the only other saltwater beach I have been to. (Seattle doesn’t really have beaches, only rocks). Needless to say, I enjoyed simply laying in the sun and relaxing tremendously.

Afterwards, we met some friends downtown, again, and stayed out dancing until 5am. Gotta love that Spanish spirit!

Ashley came to Valencia this weekend, and we had a great time. When she arrived Thursday evening we dropped her stuff off and went downtown to have a nice dinner. The meal was good and hanging out amongst all of the beautiful architecture of downtown was very enjoyable. After the meal we met some of my friends from Don Quijote a few blocks over and jumped around to a couple of different pubs there for a while, but decided to make it a relatively early night since I wanted to work the next morning. There are really quite a few street vendors downtown, with things ranging from imitation Rolexes, to flowers, to these crazy dancing dolls. Much like the Santa Claus dolls you see at Christmas that sing and dance, these dolls do the same thing. The funny thing was that in the last place we were in, we got the vendor to put 3 of them on our table and had them all dancing at once. All the while, the girl trying to buy one was trying to bargain him down on the price. It was really quite comical to see a donkey and two Dalmatian dolls singing and dancing in synchronization.

The cleaning lady, whom I am ever grateful for, just kicked me out of my room so she could clean it. This annoys me to no end as I have to get a lot of work done today and I can’t freaking be in my room. At least it gives me time to catch up on writing blog posts, now I just wish I could get my stupid Gallery application to work on my website.

I went with some friends from the school I’m studying at to a Flamenco show last night, and it was pretty cool. We got there about 30 minutes before the show began so we were all kind of standing around. They didn’t play any background music, so it was a little awkward at that time, but when the show started it was better.

From what I heard, I think Flamenco is the Spanish version of “flowin’”. There were two guys sitting on stage, one with a guitar, and one with a microphone. The guy with the guitar was playing some rhythms and the guy with the mic was laying down the vocals. The singing was really pretty cool – you could tell by the guy’s face that he was really getting into it. It really reminded me of going to parties where two people would pick up guitars and just start jamming with each other. Improvised music, I think, is some of the most interesting stuff to watch live. It’s like the people playing are just using the instruments as an extension of themselves and talking back and forth with them. It’s also awesome to see how two people can remain so harmonious by only making a plan moment by moment.

Anyway, the Flamenco Dancer came out after a while and that was the icing on the cake. The rhythm was a big part in the music as the dance consists of a lot stomping and twirling. She used her hands as a flourish, twirling them around, and then stomping with her feet to the music. I guess I’m not very good at describing people dancing, but rest assured that it was a lot of fun to watch and listen to.

The next morning we made an early start so that we could trek to our flight with RyanAir. For those of you who haven’t heard of this airline, it’s supposedly this awesome deal where you can get flights for 20E around Europe. However, that’s only the price they advertise and then when you’re checking out there are all kinds of hidden fees. It’s good for some locations (probably within the same country), but you’ve really got to do your research if you want to find the deals. We probably saved about 20E each on the flight from Paris to Barcelona, but it was quite a bit of a hassle and it took much longer than a more traditional flight would have taken.

The reason RyanAir can offer low prices on their flights is because they basically build their own airports in little towns outside of the bigger cities that everyone wants to go to. So to get from Paris to Barcelona, you actually have to go from Paris to Beauvais (an hour away), by bus, and then you fly from there to Girona, and then finally take another 70 minute bus ride into Barcelona proper. You can definitely save some money with RyanAir, as long as you don’t check any luggage, but just realize that, like so many other things in life, it sounds a little too good to be true.

As mentioned in my previous post, we saw a lot of beggars in Paris that all had the same ploy: poor Bosnian women that had lost their passport. Now, there are poor and homeless people that have legitimately fallen on bad times out of their control and we should help these people. However, these beggars were little more than con artists leveraging the power of deep-seeded human desires to win a few coins, not terribly different than prostitutes. So, in my desire to get a refund for being so uncomfortably assaulted at the Arc du Triomf, I decided that the next Bosnian woman to ask for money from me would see the tables turned. At the Notre Dame Cathedral, such a woman came up to me and before she could say more than a few words I explained to her how I had lost my passport and my wallet and that I needed money to get back to the United States. As she realized that her plan had backfired she reached into her purse and gave me a 10 cent coin, from Australia. That’s right, I got money from a beggar. Boo-ya-kasha!