jennethink

OPEN LETTER TO THE FOUR CANADIAN 20-SOMETHING YEAR OLD BOYS WHO LET ME RUN WITH THEM IN PAMPLONA LAST YEAR (WELL, NOT REALLY *WITH* THEM - THOSE 20-SOMETHINGS ARE AWFULLY FAST)

Dear Ben, Jared, Pat and Jordan,

HAPPY ONE YEAR!

It’s been a year.   Can you believe it?  One year since we made those toros our bitches in Pamplona.  One year since we all ran like idiots down those cobblestoned streets.  One year since Jared … I think it was Jared or was it Pat … broke his promise to his mom – or was it his girlfriend (same?) and did the unthinkable.  One year since I found the four of you standing in the street looking all uncomfortable and walked up and said “Hey, guys, are you running?” and then weaseled my way into walking through the gates with you.

One year.  I know all too well how much can change in a year.  July 10, 2006 I was sitting in a chemo chair feeling poison being pumped into my body.  One year later I was in Pamplona feeling my legs pump as fast as they could go – but not fast enough according to the ass behind me that shoved me down.  In 2006 I didn’t know if I would live.  In 2007 I felt invincible. 

For weeks before the run, as my sister and I were planning our trip, we would talk about me running.  We talked about the fact that they frown on women running.  We figured the hard part wouldn’t be running, but walking in alone.  We talked about how difficult it would be for me to just stand there – alone – waiting for the rockets to go off.  I said over and over again that I didn’t care.  I’d walk in there alone if I had to.  I said over and over again I would crawl under a fence if I needed to.  I said over and over nothing would keep me from running that day. 

I knew all along that I’d be running alone.  I needed to.  I wanted to.  Fighting cancer isn’t a team sport.  You do it alone.  You take the chemo.  You feel the effects.  You force yourself to get out of bed.  You fight when you want to give in.  You eat when you want to puke.  You smile when you want to cry.  You do all of that by yourself.  Alone.  All the support in the world doesn’t change the fact that the cancer is in YOUR body and YOU have to fight it.  It may not be a death sentence.  But it is solitary confinement. 

So running alone felt right to me.  It was my way of putting an exclamation point on the end of that sentence.

But deep down I was nervous …not of the run, but of walking through the gates by myself.  Of standing there, with a bunch of dudes speaking Spanish and getting pumped up and not being a part of it.  I was worried I’d do something wrong and get tossed out.  I was concerned I’d just stand there, like the girl who is last picked in gym class, alone, embarrassed and awkward. 

So I had a plan.  I thought if I could just find one person to walk in with.  If I could just target some guy who looked confident and spoke English, I could ask him if I could walk through the gates with him and then I’d be okay.  I was sure I could find someone … and for 2 days before I ran, I kept looking.  My sister and I, we kept trying to find someone.  We’d overhear people talking about the run.  We’d ask them if they were running and they’d say no.  We’d start conversations with people hoping they’d mention running.  We’d eavesdrop on every English conversation we heard hoping to hear, “yes, I’m going to be running and I sure wouldn’t mind someone walking in with me!”  But we never found anyone.  We came close a couple of times but no one ever bit. 

The night before the run I went to sleep knowing I didn’t have anyone to walk in the gate with me but praying I’d find someone somehow anyway. 

At 6:55 the next morning I kissed my sister on the cheek, climbed down from our spot on the fence and walked away from her.  I came up the side street by myself.  I waded past so, so many drunks.  I weaved in and out… heading toward the dreaded gate.  I walked alone.   I was going to run alone.  It was okay.   But I felt awkward.   My heart was thumping.  I was a little sick to my tummy.  I wished it was different but shit fire and save the matches, alone or not, I was going to walk through that gate.

And that’s when I saw the four of you.

You will never know.  You will never fully understand what the four of you mean to me.  You let me walk in with you.  And for that, you would have been my heroes for life.  But you did so much more.  You talked to me.  You told me of your trip across Europe.  You shared your stories with me.  And you listened when I shared my story with you.  You stayed with me when they let us go just three minutes before the rocket went off.  You even jogged a little with me after that first blast. 

And then I lost you …  the four of you ran ahead… fast little buggers that you are.  I lingered.  I so wanted to get near those bulls.  I wanted to cheat death … one more time … feel danger brush by me again … so close … but miss me.  Again. 

I got knocked down right before the arena.  And I did the unthinkable … I got back up!  The bulls had rushed by and I was determined to run into that ring … if not ahead of those horn then I would be behind them.  And so I chased those tons of beef and burst into that ring with my arms up and yelling as if that whole place was waiting for me … only for me … just for me.  And I swear I thought nothing could feel better than that.

I ran around and around the ring.  I was laughing so hard.  I was crying.  I was disoriented.  I was waving.  I was yelling “OLE! OLE!” for no reason at all, just because it felt like the right thing to say.   And that’s when you found me again.  One of you picked me up and spun me around and around.  And the 4 of you were screaming “You did it!!! YOU DID IT!!”  and while you were yelling I was trying to figure out a way I could smuggle you into my luggage and take you home with me because in the space of 1 hour of waiting and a 3 ½ minute run you had worked your way into my heart.  My big, mushy, chemo-damaged heart.

And I will never, ever forget you.

Happy Day,dear wonderful friends ... wherever you are

SOME PEOPLE NEVER LEARN

One of my favorite places to go in the whole ding dang state of Florida is the Sugar Mill pancake house in DeLand.  First, any pancake house would be a good place to go as far as I’m concerned but this one … this one takes the griddle cake.  There is just too much good about it.  For one, it is inside a state park.  Actually I’m not sure why that makes it good except that there just aren’t ANY other restaurants around … in fact the only other thing around is well, water.  And trees. Spanish moss.  You know, that type of thing.  Oh oh, and the water that is around is a hot springs so sometimes, in the winter when it is very, very cold in Florida (read: 70 degrees), some manatees will come up to the dock because the water is so warm. And frankly if I could figure out someway to make a deal with the manatees to keep them warm if only they would come see me at every chance, I would spend nearly all my off hours knitting giant manatee scarves.

Okay so that’s two good things – the park and the manatees.  Another is that it is all atmospherey and what not.  The restaurant looks like an old sugar mill and is made like a log cabin and has a big fireplace in one room. And they cram you into this place.  Often you are sitting at a table with another group of people so it feels very homey.

And it has the craziest gift shop you’ve ever seen shoved into one teeny tiny corner of the restaurant.  Crazy because it is the most hodgepodge grouping of items I’ve ever encountered.  Where else can you buy a clay pitcher made by disabled adults AND a stuffed possum – that unzips to become a purse?  And clogs.  See what I’m saying?   

But the best reason to love this place is … YOU MAKE YOUR OWN PANCAKES!

WHAT???!

I KNOW!!!

Once you get there and are seated (and believe me, this is a chore.  Sometimes the wait is THREE HOURS!) the waitress comes and hands you authentic tin plates and turns on your table.  Meaning she flips a switch ... not that she does a naughty dance or something.  Once she does, the middle of your table … WHICH IS A GIANT GRIDDLE … becomes hot hot hot.  Then she brings you a couple of pitchers filled with pancake batter and then, well, you can probably figure out the rest.

I’m not sure exactly, now that I’ve typed it out, why this is so delightful.  Clearly this whole “make your own pancakes” is something that can be done at home but somehow … maybe it’s the size of the griddle, maybe it’s all the delightful “add-ins” you can put in your pancakes, or maybe it’s just that you can flip a flapjack while sitting down… it’s just magical.

And I love it.

Last weekend HOLLIE and I were in Florida for our annual “It’s a technology convention at Jelly Rolls thing, you wouldn’t understand” trip.  We, of course, visited the pancake place and were in the middle of what turned out to be nothing short of a gluttonous breakfast when a man came in with his two boys.

I tend to always notice men with children.  Maybe it’s because The Hub did the father thing by himself for a few years I don’t know but I’m keenly aware of men in public with kids.  I don’t give the same attention to women with children because it seems to be more common but men … well you just don’t see guys out alone with their kids as much.  So I noticed this guy.  I noticed his long mulletous hair.  I noticed his bushy mustache,  I noticed his faded jeans and chain on his wallet and oversized Coors Light t-shirt.  He sat down. The boys – probably 5 and 9 – sat down.  Their breakfast started.  They poured out 3 large pancakes onto the hot plate to cook and about 2 minutes later, I wasn’t the only one noticing them.

The younger of the two boys spilled his water right onto the griddle.  And in an instant, the whole room filled with steam.  The usual hub-bub ensued … the waiter brought some napkins, the cup was turned upright, the steam dissipated, and I waited for what was next.

I’ve known people who have stepped in when a child was getting overly disciplined.  I watched my father take issue with a man one time.  I’ve seen people in malls and at football games get out of hand.  When that water spilled, I immediately began prepping myself for what I was sure this redneck was going to do to his son.  I didn’t know exactly what I would do but I knew I would somehow make that man feel ashamed.  Just as ashamed as I was sure he was getting ready to make his little one feel.

I used to spend the summers with my grandmother in West Virginia.  Often we would walk from her house to the little downtown to window shop.  Occasionally we would go into the small grocery and pick up a few things.  Any trip was fun because Grammy would make it fun.  We’d talk along the way.  We’d run into people.  She’d always introduce me.  I loved the way she introduced me, like I was more than her granddaughter … like I was someone.  It was neat.  Every so often she’d get caught up in a conversation and I’d wander off.  It was a small mountain town, no worries, when I got bored, I’d come back.  One time as she was chatting with some old lady inside the Five and Dime, I wandered off to see what was going on outside.  I didn’t stay gone long. There was a crazy man outside.  He was dressed in all kinds of clothes in the middle of summer.  Most of them were dirty.  He had long hair and a ratty beard.  And he was singing.  Loudly.  And sort of dancing … I guess.  Every so often he would fall completely silent and still and then in a couple of seconds, he’d be at it again.  I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew this guy was weird.  And that’s what I said when I ran back in the store and found Grammy. “There’s a really weird guy outside!” I said gleefully, “You should SEE him! He’s SO WEIRD!!!”  and nearly dragged her out onto the sidewalk.

The instant we were out and she saw him her whole demeanor changed.  She stiffened.  She grabbed my hand and we turned for home.  I wasn’t sure what happened.  Maybe she was scared of the man.  Maybe the man was dangerous.  Maybe she was trying to protect me from the dangerous weird man.  We walked home silently.  When we got to the house, Grammy started dinner and I was told to set the table.  Which is Grammy for “get lost”.  Later that night as we were washing and drying the plates my grandmother changed me with a few simple words.

“That man you saw,” I knew instantly what she was talking about, “he was in the war, child.  That man has a family.”

It wasn’t much.  It didn’t need to be.  I learned my lesson – don’t judge a book by its cover.

At least I thought I learned it.

The moment the steam dissipated in the pancake house that long-haired, boot-wearing, chain-on-his-wallet dad took over mopping up the spilled water and as he blotted the griddle in short quick pats he looked down, smiled at his little boy and said brightly, “Well, at least we know the pancakes won’t be dry!” Then he leaned over and kissed his son on top of the head.

I’m amazed at how far I have to go
to be right back where I started.

WE HAVE NOT WINGS WE CANNOT SOAR; BUT, WE HAVE FEET TO SCALE AND CLIMB, BY SLOW DEGREES, BY MORE AND MORE, THE CLOUDY SUMMITS OF OUR TIME - LONGFELLOW

There are 463 steps to the top of the Duomo in Florence.  These steps are made of stone.  They go round and round – you know, spiral steps.  The big rock walls are dark and dirty from years of people climbing and holding on.  And also from probably throwing up along the way. When you first start up the steps you think it won’t be that far.  Just a short 400 or so steps.  Then along about step 20 when the burning in your thighs sets your pants on fire you rethink the whole situation. 

And then you keep climbing.

Mostly because there is a line of about a gazillion people behind you and if you stop and try to go down .. well, let’s just say you can learn a lot of Italian in a short amount of time.  And not the kind they teach in school.  At least not any school I went to.

I studied the Duomo in college art appreciation class.  Back then the thought of actually going to Florence and climbing those steps to the top was as unformed and foggy in my head as the thought of actually reading ahead in my text books prior to the lectures.  I knew it was possible – knew that people did it – thought that one day, I might do it to but then again wasn’t I just in the middle of something else more important right now?  Like ordering a pizza?

But when we got to Florence and I laid eyes on the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore it was a done deal.  I was climbing to the top.

There’s not much room on those 468 steps but at one point I was moving fast enough to pass an 80-something year old man.  I worried a bit about him.  I sure hoped he’d make it to the top.  I paused briefly, smiled and said, Everything okay? as I went by.  He said it was and I continued up and up, feeling quite good about myself for passing someone, even if he was an octogenarian.

Not too long after that, I felt a presence behind me.  The octogenarian passed me.  Turns out he was just tying his shoe.

About halfway up – about the 200 and some-th step you are treated to a spectacular view of the inside of the dome.  A small balcony circles the inside of the cupola and from here you get a up close view of interior paintings.  I once knew so much about this.  Knew the painter(s) and the subject.  Knew when and how long.  I knew themes and backstory and such. 

Unfortunately all that left my head – probably and 10 minutes after I was tested on it so I was left with just tiny bits of knowledge.  A swiss cheese of information.  It didn’t matter though as the art is breathtaking. Well, it would have been breathtaking if I’d actually had any breath left.  When you walk from the stairs out onto the balcony there is a cruel sign that reads “SILENCE PLEASE”.  Seriously?  Silence?  I am nearly having a coronary.  I may be able to keep my wheezing to a low groan but silence just isn’t going to happen.

After my heartbeat returned to the triple digits, we continued up. And up.  And then up some more.  The stairs got narrower and steeper and truly I only kept climbing because I had no other option.  It was dark and dank and tight and as I’m getting squeezed tighter and tighter I’m just hoping at some point I’ll shoot out the top and feel a sense of release.  Sort of the way a pimple feels I guess.

Every now and then I would gather enough breath to ask Carrie behind me if she thought the view was going to be worth it.  She never answered me.  This could be because I wasn’t actually speaking out loud or it could be because she’d passed out somewhere along the way.  Regardless, I didn’t stop to find out.  If I was hallucinating and not actually speaking out loud I wanted to at least get to a point where I could be airlifted off the top to the nearest infirmary and if she was passed out well, there wasn’t a lot I could do for her anyway.  Let the passed out care for the passed out … I’m on a mission.

When we reached the top it took a moment for it all to sink in.  I stood for a while with my back against the dome and just relaxed, let my legs stop shaking and tried to regulate my breathing.  I took my moment.  I took it all in. It was somewhat crowded up there – believe it or not – and I overheard many many people say in many many languages “ooooh” and “aaaaahhh”.   And I saw them snap picture after picture.   And I heard over and over again “worth it!  it was so worth it!”  and “this view!” and “I’m so glad we did this!” and such.  And I guess I agree, the view was amazing.  Yes.  It was.  It was amazing. 

But …

it wasn’t THAT amazing.  I mean, it was nice.  But it wasn’t like the most amazing view ever.  And in saying that, I sort of feel like the one mom who says having a kid isn’t worth the pain of childbirth.  In that moment I kind of felt like everyone was just saying it was worth it because otherwise they felt pretty D-U-M-Bizzle for building up a suitcase full of lactic acid in their legs.  And I wasn’t going to argue with them but in my book, the view wasn’t really worth the climb. 

I’ve always found it intriguing that when asked, George Mallory commented that he climbed Mount Everest because it was there.  He didn’t say, I climbed it for the view.  I personally have never been to the top of Mount Everest, maybe the view isn’t all that spectacular.  But I’d think it probably is.  Regardless, that’s not why he climbed it.  Mallory aside, it does seem like most of us do things … achieve things … set out to accomplish for the reward, for the “thing at the end”  for the view.  I even worked for a company once that had a motto:  The view is worth the climb.  And that’s not a bad motto, not a bad philosophy.  I just don’t agree.  I don’t think that’s the reason to climb.

It’s not the view that keeps me climbing.  It’s just the climb itself.

Maybe this is just an “it’s the journey, not the destination” post.  Maybe I’m dangerously close to “stop and smell the roses”, I don’t know.  I just know that in my life, I’m not really climbing for the view.  The view is incidental.

I guess what I’m saying is, The climb was worth the climb.

And I’d do it again.

I MAY NOT HAVE MY LUGGAGE BUT I DO HAVE SOME BAGGAGE

August 6, 2007

3:15 a.m.  – wake up call in Boston
3:20  – alarm goes off in Boston
3:25 – Jenné finally gets up and ready
4:00 – leave hotel
4:27 - hit construction in Boston
4:32 – follow detours and fear for life
4:37 – get back on correct road
4:43 – arrive at car rental return
4:47 – I don’t want to talk about it
5:00 – check in and check bag to Kansas City
5:45 – leave Boston
7:10 – arrive in Washington, change planes
8:45 – flight delayed from Washington – no flight attendant
10:45 – arrive in KC
11:35 – file missing luggage report with US Airways office – told it would be on the next flight at 1:30
2:00 p.m. – call missing baggage number I was given to check on my bag and reached the platte county sherrif’s department
2:02 – get US Airways central office on the phone
2:23 – 10 deep cleansing breaths
3:30 – leave a message with baggage claim.  Remind them I am flying out on Tuesday and will come get the bag if I need to
4:00 – call again am told bag is “lost”
4:07 – talk to central office again since my last call was cut off during holding.  Am told there is nothing that can be done.
6:30 -- meet friend for dinner.  Drink 2 martinis
9:00 – call baggage claim office – mailbox is full and not taking any more messages
9:03 – call central.  Am told bag is lost.  Begin to lose my shizzle.  Explain clearly to “Dan” that although not upset with him, telling me that my bag is lost and that you have no other information is not accepatable.  Demand that he connect me with someone who knows something about my bag. Clarify for “Dan” that I have been extremely patient but now must have an answer.
9:04 --“Dan” puts me on hold.
9:16 – “Dan” comes back and tells me I’ll be called in an hour and if not, to call back.
10:45 – I call back.  Eugene tells me my bag cannot be found (read: is lost) and there is nothing he can do.  I begin my Dan speech explaining that I understand Eugene is ill-equipped by his company and that it is beyond his control however he must figure something out because I am leaving again in less than 24 hours and I must have that bag.  Eugene pees himself.  I ask Eugene what he would do if he were in my place.  Eugene states “I would get very upset.  And then file a complaint.”  Eugene is very honest – you gotta give him that. 
11:20 – after trying the baggage office two more times, I give up and go to bed.  Finally – having been awake for 20 hours.
12:53 a.m. – phone rings – I come out of my coma and try to answer it and drop it on the dog
12:55 – I call back.   It is baggage service.  “I’m calling because there is a note here that you want to come pick up your bag.”  Me: “Yes, do you actually HAVE my bag?”  Them:  “um, well, actually I don’t know, let me look for it……………………………………………………………………………………..Yes! Ms. Fromm we have your bag here.”  Me: “You actually have it?  You have my bag right there???”  Them: “Uh yes. Do you want to come get it? or give it to my delivery guy here”  Me: “What time will the delivery come?”  Them: (discuss discuss discuss) “He says you’ll have it no later than 5 a.m.”  Me (nearly in tears): “Perfect.  That’s perfect.  Thank you so much.”
1:07 a.m. – drift off into a pleasant sleep
5:15 a.m.  – wake up and think about checking for bag.  Decide to stay in bed.
7:35 – get up and check porch.  No bag.
7:36  – search for Ativan
7:37 – call baggage claim office – no answer leave message.
8:33 – call again.  Get someone.  Explain.  He looks and says:  Well, I’m confused because my baggage delivery guy says he never got the bag.  Me:  Are you telling me you don’t have my bag and you don’t know where it is?  Him:  yes ma’am.  That’s what I’m saying.

8:35 – Leave house to buy new cosmetics.  I give.

MOOOOOOO-VE!

I knew about the rockets – four of them in all – that would be going off at the start and at the end of the run.  They shoot off to signal significant moments in the run with the bulls.  The first one streaks through the sky the moment the bulls are released.  The second goes off when all the bulls and steers clear the holding area.  A third rocket is launched when all the bulls have entered the arena.  And finally the fourth, the rocket everyone waits to hear, screams out when the bulls have been contained safely and the run is complete.

There is significance in each thundering BOOM.  Obviously if you are running you want to hear that fourth rocket, the one that lets you know you are safe and you will go home with only the holes you came with.  The third is pretty important too– especially if you are still on the streets and not in the arena – because you know all bulls have entered the bullring and there will be no more horns coming up fast behind you.  The second – in my opinion – is sort of a throw away rocket … all the bulls have left the pen!  Okay.  Whatever.  Not sure why this matters.  It isn’t like you’re going to wait to start running until you know they are ALL out there on the cobblestones after you.  Personally, I think we could do without the second rocket but what do I know?  A gazillion Spaniards can’t be wrong.  And then, then there’s the first rocket.  And that’s the one – the rocket that blew my heart right open.

I didn’t decide to run after I beat cancer.  I didn’t decide when I got cancer.  I decided years before.  And maybe that’s why I was taken aback by the overwhelming emotion that hit me and pyrotechniqued through my chest when I heard that KA-BOOM of the first rocket.  Or maybe it is something every runner feels and I would have felt it regardless but it didn’t feel like I thought it would.  It wasn’t nervousness.  It wasn’t fear.  It wasn’t even excitement.  When that rocket when off – when I heard that sound I felt …

free.

Yes, of course … of course I know it was the bulls that were released.  Obviously.  But in that moment – in that wild, white and red, heart pounding moment – I would swear I’d been turned loose.  Finally.  Finally.  Finally – I was free.

I ran with the bulls July 10, 2007.  12 months prior I was sitting in a chair taking poison into my body and feeling it drop me through my skin and leech out every good thing about me.  8 months prior I was walking around with the assistance of my husband and with only a scanty few hairs on my head.  Just 6 months before that day I was in a hospital bed unable to walk the length of a bull or breathe without oxygen.  And then, here I was … running.  I was running – full out, arms flying, legs pumping, heart beating – just as it should, lungs working – beautifully and perfectly, and laughing.  Laughing with Every. Single. Ounce. of me.

Carrie and I had been on the route that morning before the fence went up.  We were standing waiting while it was still dark so she could climb up and sit.  Sit and watch and wait for the moment I would run by.  At 6:00 she claimed her spot.  I stood next to her on that fence until it was time for me to go enter the gate and wait for that rocket and the run.  We snapped a couple of pictures.  We made a few plans.  And when it was time I kissed her and climbed down.  I took off my sweatshirt and handed it to her.  I said, I love you, Beek.  She said, I love YOU, Beek.  And I walked away. 

Later she told me the people around her asked her in broken English and with astonished voices … IS SHE GOING TO RUN???  And she proudly said, Yes.  Yes.  She is my sister.  And she is going to run.

I didn’t see my sis again until I went parading by her at 3 till 8:00.  She was still on that fence.  When I left her, she knew no one around her.  When I went by – waving with both hands and smiling – she has somehow recruited the whole section to scream “GO BEEK!!!!”  Because that’s the kind of sister she is.  She shouted again and again.  And I looked over my shoulder over and over waving and waving.  And then I turned the corner onto the Estafeta. I couldn’t see her.  I couldn’t hear her.  I walked a little faster.  I saw no other women.  I was surrounded by men.  Men who began jogging, Men who started jumping up and down, slapping each other.  Someone asked me if I was scared.  And I smiled.  Because if I had to list the emotions I was feeling in order from one to one thousand, scared wouldn’t even make the list.

And that’s what I was thinking when The Rocket launched.

I didn’t decide to run after I beat cancer.  I didn’t decide to run when I was diagnosed with cancer.  I had decided years before.  I had decided, but I didn’t have a reason.  Would I have still run had I not had cancer?  Would I have pushed myself to walk alone to that gate?  Would I have found – whatever it is you find at those moments – when the time came to decide between sitting on the fence or risk never sitting again?  I don’t know.  Probably.  Even that morning, there was some doubt I’d be able to run.  Even though we’d scoped it out, we weren’t sure exactly HOW it happens.  There’s no flyer, no handbook.  Some people told me I’d be stopped because I was a woman. Some people said they limit the numbers.  I knew when I walked away from Carrie there would be a chance I’d get tossed out or never allowed in in the first place.  I left Carrie at 10 till 7.  I didn’t walk by her until 3 till 8.  We had no contact during that hour.  Until I paraded by her and her new friends screaming my name, she had no clue if I’d gotten in or not.  Did you know I would be in there?  I asked her later. Yes.  She said without hesitation.  I laughed and asked why and she said simply,  Because you said you would be.

So maybe I would have run anyway – even without the cancer.  Maybe that’s just the kind of person I am.  A woman who does what she sets out to do.  A person who walks the edge every now and then.  A person unafraid of a little bloodshed, a little stampede, a little hoof to the head.  Maybe I didn’t need the cancer to run.  Lots of people run who never had cancer.  Lots of people face the bulls.  And I guess we all have our own reasons.  All valid.  All good.  We all ran together that day.  In many ways we were alike – the same.  All there.  All with our reasons.  All running.  But secretly I like to think I was the only one there not running from something…

but running to.

On July 10, 2007, I ran with the bulls.

BULLY FOR ME!

And then we went to Venice and then Florence and then Nice and then Barcelona AND THEN …. I ran with the bulls!

Yes, I know I said I’d work up to it but I can’t stand it anymore … I’ll get back to the rest of that stuff later.  For now, let’s talk turkey …er, steak.

On July 10, I ran with the bulls. (I just love saying it!) My sister cheered loudly and proudly from the sideline – screaming, GO BEEEEEEEK!!! when I went by and a short time later, RUN JENNE RUN!!!!! when six giant cattle went whizzing by her as she hung on the fence. I wasn’t by myself when I ran – of course – I’m not sure just how many people ran that day.  100?  500?  I don’t know – there were a lot of us.  But even though I had all those people pressed up against me (and later, trampling me into the cobblestones), I still ran alone. 

The fencing begins going up at the crack of the crack of dawn – around 5:45 or 6- and I’m talking AM here.  This double fencing is used to line the stretches of the route that are without buildings on either side.  It is also used to keep an area clear of spectators so idiots like me can get out of the way when 24 hooves are getting a little too close for comfort.

Once the fencing is up, the slow and painful process of clearing the streets of people who have been drinking all night begins.  And by drinking all night I don’t mean that poetically – I mean it literally.   This, even more than the running of the bulls, is the distinguishing factor of the Festival of San Fermin.  Bars stay open all night.  Shops that aren’t normally bars stock up on beer and kalimotxo (which is a mixture of red wine and coca-cola.  No, I’m not making that up) and turn into bars for 7 nights. The party starts on July 6 and doesn’t end until the festival does – July 14.  Now, you may think you’ve been to a party before.  You may recall frat parties or tailgates or late night binges.  Let me tell you something, you don’t know party until you’ve walked the streets of Pamplona around 5 in the morning. Every night it was like someone said to the town and the people, Hey tomorrow the world’s going to end UNLESS YOU CAN CONSUME EVERY LAST DROP OF ALCOHOL WITHIN A 50 MILE RADIUS BY DAWN.  And then someone else said, FIFTY?  WE DID THAT LAST NIGHT JUST FOR WARM-UPS!

It’s nuts.

But the thing is, as much as it is crazy and what-not, it is still very – I don’t know – charming somehow.  Sure people were drunk out of their minds but they were also very sweet about it.  For example, while making my way up some side street stone cold sober at 5:45 on the morning I was running I was … oh what’s the word?  molested I guess you would say, by a young drunk fellow who apparently thought I was his girlfriend … or a loaf of bread desperate for kneading.  When I spun around to confront him and he realized I was neither his gal or dough, he smiled broadly and said, Oh! Hi! then giggled and patted me perfunctory twice on the bottom as if to say, no hard feelings.

So the fencing goes up … it has to, otherwise a good 200 people would drift into the streets slurring, BULLS??? I HAD 6 RED BULLS ALREADY THIS MORNING! OLE! And the clearing of the route begins.  After the drunks are cleared, the bars and stores begin closing up.  And by closing I mean the steel doors come down.  And I guess that’s important otherwise you could have a thousand pounds of beef in your barra.  Once the shops are all closed the street sweepers come by and then, slowly, the street begins to fill up with those people hell bent on running with the bulls.

I’ve had a dozen or so people ask me, Did you have to sign up somewhere to run?  Or, Was there a waiver you had to sign?  And every time I laugh.  Not because they are dumb questions but because, well, they just don’t do things there like we do things here.  I’m sure if we had some such event here, in the states, there WOULD be an official sign-up.  I’m sure you’d have to compile a packet of information including a doctor’s note, proof-of-insurance, a waiver and (if my mom was involved at all) a note from your parents saying it was okay for you to participate.  But in Spain, where they’ve been doing this for about 700 years, you just decide you are going to run and you run.

That’s not to say there aren’t some rules.  You can’t, for example, just enter any ol where on the route.  You have to go in at one of the two official gates.  And you have to be IN the gates by about 7:15 or so.  And there are other rules as well.  You have to wear proper footwear.  And you can’t carry anything with you – like a camera or a bag.  And you can’t be drunk – although I saw many MANY people try to get past this rule.  However, even though there are rules, it’s not like you are inspected on your way in to the route.  Instead, the Policía make their way through the crowd of runners and yank you out if they think you aren’t properly fit, shoed, dressed or sober.  And by yank you out I mean they grab you by the belt and the neck and toss you under the fence.  There is no discussion.  You’re out.

While you are waiting, a pre-recorded message plays over and over.  It plays in 4 languages – English is one of them – not that that helped me understand what the nice man on the recording with the thick Spanish accent was saying.  Thankfully it played about 100 times and finally I was able to make out that “it is impossible to run the entire route, chooooose a place you would like to run.”  The Accent also tells you with trilling R’s, “Remember to stay down if you fall down and cover your head.”  And my personal favorite, “Do not punch or hit the other runners.”  Which made me laugh every time because what other event could you possibly participate in where that had to be clarified? 

From about 7 to 7:55 the crowd at the town plaza (the official entry point) gets denser and denser.  And I mean that in both senses of the word.  The runners are all kept together in this area.  At some point, the medics come out and fill in the empty space between the fencing.  Also the police line up about 8 abreast near the front of the square.  They create a line and then clear everyone out in the route in front of that spot.  This keeps people from just jumping in at the end of the route.  I’m not sure how the position of this line gets chosen and I saw many people get dumped from the route.  Basically if you are behind the line you run.  If you are in front of the line, tu no carrera. 

 

The announcements continue.
The police continue walking the crowd and pulling out those who shouldn’t be there.
The watchers cheer and clap and use bullhorns - and I just realized how ironic that is.
Inside the route it gets tighter and tighter.

Then, about 3 minutes to 8 the Policía let you go find wherever it is you’ve chosen to run.  Some runners like to run the same spot each year.  Dead Man’s Turn is always popular as is a stretch along the Estafeta.  The Estafeta is a street about as wide as my hips with shops on both sides.  No sidewalks, no fencing.  Basically it is a stretch of route that leaves you with few options should you be unable to run at the speed of light like some bovines I know.  Some people like to run this stretch because it is dangerous.  Also, it is the last stretch before the turn that takes you into tunnel and into the ring.  This is the stretch I most wanted to run.  Yes, because it’s dangerous and also because there is a chance if you run this stretch, you may just get to enter the bullring one step ahead of the horns and what’s the point anyway if it’s not a little scary?

When the Police let the runners go find their spots, you don’t take off running - not yet - you just meander.  It’s a parade of sorts.  Throngs of runners mostly dressed in the traditional garb – white pants and tops with red scarves -  file down the tight streets past spectators hanging on fencing and off of balconies.  Spectators cheer!  Runners cheer back!  For awhile the runners act like this is no big whoop. Like when you were a kid and you ate something really gross on a dare and you pretended for the first 5 chews that hey, it's no big deal.  And then you puke.  At some point, runners begin jumping up and down.  The whoops continue.  Runners hit each other on the arm, rattle off things in Spanish that are impossible to understand and slap each others’ backs.  Then people break out in song.  It gets louder and louder and then at exactly 8:00, a rocket goes off.

And that’s when the real madness starts.

WHAT I LOVE MOST ABOUT ITALY

Everything.

BOOBIE TRAP

This post is about knockers. Not the kind on the front of your house, the kind on the front of your chest. I’m talking about Boobs. Ba-zoongas. Melons. Sweater puppies. Headlights. Jugs.

I’m not even halfway through my list …

Anyway, this post is about breasts.  That’s what my mom has tried to get me to call them since I was about 3.  She, in fact, always tried to get me to use the proper names for all my body parts.  You can see how well that worked.  I wouldn’t normally write a whole post about hooters but they’ve been on my mind lately.  I’ve been thinking a lot about them.  Pondering.  Ever since I went to Paris.

Paris was the first stop on my 2 1/2 week trip that culminated with the Running of the Bulls.  When I arrived in Paris, my sister and her husband, Bobby, were already there.  Originally this trip was exclusively for my sister and me.  However, a couple of months before we left, Bobby decided he wanted to go on the Paris portion of the trip.  It was important to him to see Paris for the first time together with Carrie.  And since I was using his frequent flyer miles to get my international ticket, well, it was important to me too. I’m not stupid.

So the plan was Bobby and Carrie would fly in early in the week and spend a few days enjoying the city.  I would then come in later in the week and we’d all be in Paris for one night then Bobby would fly back to the states and Beek and I would continue on our trip.  Good plan.

The night Carrie and Bobby left for Paris, I got a frantic phone call – apparently while sitting in the airport in Detroit waiting for their flight Carrie began going over our itinerary in detail.  Upon this deep investigation, she found I was not booked at the same hotel as the two of them for that one shared night in Paris.  This was not the plan.  It was not expected.  I’ve explained my sister in a previous post.  And needless to say, she went into red-alert near freak-out mode and began calling every travel agent on the east coast to figure out a way to fix it before her plane left the states. One of the calls she made was to me.  I got the message that we were booked in separate hotels while I was eating dinner. When I did, I shrugged, hung up and continued eating my guacamole.

Like I said, we’re different.

She did what she could to fix the situation before their plane left.  And, by the time they arrived in Paris, the problem had been solved.

Sort of. 

The travel agent couldn’t get a hold of Carrie and so he made an executive decision.  Upon hearing how upset Carrie was that we were in different hotels he did everything he could to get us in the same hotel for that one night.  Everything.  His solution? He put the three of us in a single room. 

By the time I found out about this so called solution, it was too late to change it.  The other reservation had been canceled.  There were no other rooms available.  This was how it was going to be. 

Maybe you all are in a suite!  My mother said when I told her the news.  She tries.  She really does.  But I knew what it would be like.  I just knew.  He didn’t say “suite” mom, he said we were in a “three-person room”.  I could imagine what this room would be like.  Those freakin’ Frenchies.  They are the inventors of various phrases that involved three people after all.   

The plane ride to Paris was uneventful but I was incredibly tired when I arrived.  I drug myself and my backpack through the Paris airport and customs and meandered to the bus line and got myself onto a bus that went to the Arc de Triomphe – where I would be meeting Carrie.  I tried to keep my eyes open on the bus ride but was soon lulled to sleep by the overwhelming smell of 7 day old body odor – more about this later.  When I awoke (came to) we were at the Arc. 

How. Very. Cool.

I propped my eyes open with my fingers so I could see the arc.  It was spectacular.  I was trying to take in the whole thing and comment on how neat-o mosquito it all was but I kept falling asleep mid-sentence.  I think it’s best if you go take a nap, Carrie suggested.  Good thinking.  Yes.  A nap sounds ver…….<honk shew>  ….er, what were you saying?

So we set off to the hotel so I could try to catch up on some shut-eye.

On the walk to the hotel room I asked Carrie how big our room was.  She answered something like, I don’t know how big yours is but ours is pretty small.  And that’s when I threw up in my mouth.  I think I said something like, Yours IS ours.  And she said something like, Whachoo talkin’ bout Willis? And that’s when I let it spill,

We’re all in the same room.

I think she said something like,

Oh god.

There was a lot good about the hotel. The location, for example, could NOT have been better.  The hotel itself was quaint and charming and the people were quite helpful.  Not helpful enough to carry me up the 1700 steps to the room but helpful nonetheless.  By the time we got to the room I was in that strange half-awake state where you are functioning but snoring at the same time.  Carrie opened the door for me.  I drug myself and my backpack through the door into a small hallway.  Later I found out this was the living room.  In the middle of the hallway was a circular staircase going up to a small storage space – that was the bedroom.  At the end of the hallway was a couch the size of a large potato – that was the “suite” part and the third bed. 

Delightful.

I truly think this room would have been completely charming and comfortable for two moderately sized midgets.  We, however, are not midgets and not moderately-sized. 

It was a bit like putting three watermelons into a tic-tac box.

But we survived.  Once, 100 years ago, the three of us lived together in an apartment the sized of a small kitchen cupboard so we know how to stay out of each others’ way.

I’ve said nothing so far about boobs.  I’m getting to that.

As a treat, and as a way to get us out of the tic-tac box,  Bobby took us both to the Moulin Rouge that night.  It’s touristy – but just something you have to do when you are in Paris.  It’s everything you’d expect – gaudy, tacky, overpriced – and worth every euro.  None of us knew any French and I hadn’t yet learned the words for pork, chicken and beef so in order to place my meal order I was reduced to barnyard noises, Excuse me sir, is this <cluck cluck cluck>? or <oooiiink ooooiink>?  Of course, this was done with the motions too – both hands tucked in the armpits with “wings” flapping for the cluck cluck cluck and a shoved-up nose for the oooooinnnking. 

I ended up with beef.

Regardless, it was delicious – minus the salmon jello that was served for an appetizer – and soon after eating, the show began.

And oh what a show.  There was dancing and singing and a cancan line and women with enormous headdresses and fabulous glittery costumes that covered some of their bodies and none of their tits.  And we’ve finally come to the point of my story.  As each gorgeous gal flitted and spun on stage I sat open-mouthed.  One by one they came out.  One by one they danced to the front of the stage.  One by one they revealed smooth perfect skin and flawlessly shaped legs and the most perfect, most beautiful TOTALLY TEENY BOOBS I’ve ever seen.  Small.  Every one of them.  I looked and looked.  I closed my eyes and pictured these women with clothes on and realized by most standards they would be considered small-chested.  In America, they would be considered downright flat-chested.  In Vegas, they would have to drive cabs to make a living. 

After the 3rd or 4th group of these ladies came on stage I turned to my sister who sat behind me.  Before I could even open my mouth she shook her head and said, Not a C-cup among them!

She was right.  And Bs would be hard to find too.

It took me years to learn to like my boobs.  Years and years.  It’s not easy growing up without them.  I heard them all, all the teases, all the jokes, Hey Jenne, you’re a trucker’s dream girl … no bumps and no curves!  Hey Jenne, you should marry a carpenter … because you’re flat as a board!  Hey Jenne, are those boobs or spider bites?

And that was just from my own family.

Eventually, however, I learned to like my chest – love it actually.  I’m ga-ga about my ta-tas.  They are small, sure, but they are really nice.  And they don’t get in my way – no, not at all.  I can sleep on my tummy if I want, I can wear tops without bras, I can jump on a trampoline without worry.  And my boobs will never… can’t EVER sag.  And I think that’s like a triple D worth of cool.  And in all these years I never once thought that seeing all the big-tittied women out there on tv and in magazines had an effect on me …

Until I saw the small-breasted ladies at the Moulin Rouge and thought, They are just beautiful!  And I began to feel so good about myself.  I began to sit up straighter and do what I could to stick MY chest out.  I’m built like that! I thought to myself and I got all starry-eyed and confident.  I was so proud of them … so proud of me … so proud of all of us – GO TINY TITTY TEAM!!!  And that’s when it hit me … if seeing small breasted women makes me feel GOOD about myself, then all those years seeing BIG boobied women must have had an effect too.

I have a daughter.  I so want her to grow up proud of herself and her accomplishments. I want her to know that what matters most is what she has on the inside.  I want her to know – at a core level – that the way she thinks and the way she treats herself and others and the way she relates and gives back the world around her is some of the most significant stuff about her.  I want her to grasp the deep and simple concept of Beauty is only skin deep.  If you ask my mother about beauty she will tell you a story of an ugly man and potato chips.  It’s a good story and has a core message that is Forrest Gump in it’s simplicity – Beauty is as beauty does.  I want The Kid to get this.  To understand it.  To know it.

However.  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want her to also be proud of the outside.  I not only want her to feel good about her person, I also want her to feel good about her body.  I want her to be confident when she looks in the mirror and like what she sees – regardless of what it is.  Big boobs, small boobs, no boobs.  Wide hips, snake hips, curvy hips.  Knobby or fat knees, bulky or skinny calves, high arches or flat-feet.  I want her to appreciate all of it.  And for the first time I realized just how difficult that is going to be.

The images we see, every day of what is considered beautiful, or even normal is so skewed.  It’s bad enough normal women don’t grace the covers of any magazines or stare back at us from the glossy pages inside.  What’s worse?  Even the beautiful women aren’t good enough anymore.  Jezebel.com recently ran a contest to find the worst airbrushing violations out there and guess who won?  Redbook – for airbrushing the be-jeezus out of Faith Hill on their July cover. FAITH HILL for goodness sake.  The took away her crow-lines, removed the single ounce of back fat she had, turned her arms into twigs and gave her more hair … for starters.  Because the other Faith Hill – the normal one – wasn’t good enough.

I try to tell The Kid everyday that she is amazing in some way.  I tell her I like the way she spoke to the waitress or I enjoyed her company and her opinion about something or I tell her she’s the smartest kid in the world.  Up until recently, I’ve avoided telling her how pretty she was or how cute her freckles are or how much I love the softness of her hair and the lankiness of her legs.  I resisted because I didn’t want her to focus on those things.  I didn’t want her to think that those things mattered all that much.  But now I can see I need to be even more vocal than ever.  I need to include the outside right along with the inside.  I need to somehow try to counteract the thousand of other voices she’s going hear about her body.  I need to tell her about the ugly man and the potato chips – yes but I also need to stand her in front of the mirror and point out how perfect her nose is and how cute her ears are and how pretty she is.

And then I need to book airfare to Paris and tickets to the Moulin Rouge for immediately after puberty.

STRANGER WITHIN OUR GATES

I’m traveling today.  I like traveling, always have, but climbing into a strange bed is never something I’ve gotten used to- even though I’ve done a lot of it.  I mean because I’ve TRAVELED a lot, Mom, not because I’ve done a lot of bed hopping. 

But last night, as I pulled back the covers at the Courtyard in Oklahoma City I took note of a laminated card on my pillow

It said,

In ancient times there was a prayer for “The Stranger within our gates”

Because this hotel is a human institution to serve people, and not solely a for profit organization. We strive to ensure you will experience peace and rest while you are here.

May this room and this hotel be your “second” home. May those you love be near you in thoughts and dreams. Even though we may not get to know you, we hope that you will be conformable and happy as if you were in your own house.

May the business that brought you our way prosper. May every call you make and every message you receive add to your joy. When you leave, may your journey be safe.

We are all travelers. From “birth till death” we travel between the eternities. May these days be pleasant for you, profitable for society, helpful for those you meet, and a joy to those who know and love you best.

I don’t know if this is a new thing Marriott is doing or if it is Oklahoma City specific.  It seems to be very midwest, very “down home” in its feel – sort of like at the Kansas City airport where if you park for less than an hour, they don’t charge you anything.  Which always makes me laugh – it’s like your sweet elderly neighbor is working the gate, “oh go on … you were hardly here!  Put your wallet away.  Your money is no good at this airport, little miss!” 

Regardless, I liked it.  Even if it is just a marketing thing or a copy-cat sentiment, it was a nice thought and I climbed into bed with a smile on my face.  Of course, that could be because I knew they had a hot buffet breakfast waiting for me in the morning.

"MI HERMANA ES MUY LOCO" - CARRIE CASTINO

This trip came about because my sister and I like to travel together.  We’ve gone on many trips and at the end of each we talk about the next.  Somewhere along the way we began talking about Pamplona and the run.  This was years ago – before cancer, before marriage, before The Kid – and maybe it would have been easy to ignore this trip now and never take it.  Maybe it would have been the right thing, the safe thing to do to NOT go traipsing off to France, Italy and Spain for more than 2 weeks.  Maybe when you are pushing 40 you shouldn’t gallivant down a cobblestone street in Spain with six bulls up your arse before you can say “THERE’S A BULL UP MY ARSE!”

Maybe. 

Then again … why not?

This morning over breakfast The Hub told me how people reacted when he would tell them what I was doing, that I was in Europe and would be Running with the Bulls in Pamplona.  You’re going to let her do that?  They would say.  I was making oatmeal when he said this.  Upon hearing other people asked him if he was going to LET me do something I stopped stirring.  I looked at him.  And he said,

Oh, I know!

He knows.

Those of you who know me well or even know me vaguely were probably not surprised to hear I wanted to run with the bulls in Pamplona.  It sort of fits my personality.  I’m a bit of a risk taker, a bit of a thrill seeker.  I value experiences.  I’m aggressive about building memories.  I call the shots.

It’s not surprising I would want to run.  It’s not surprising I DID run.  It’s not surprising The Hub was incredibly supportive from day one even though he wasn’t going on the trip and knew there was the potential for me to not come back.  It’s not even surprising there were absolutely NO gorings on the day I ran – that would be because my mother was home in the states praying for “a safe run for everyone”.  What IS surprising is that from the moment I mentioned it my sister was all in.

My sister and I are different.  Which is a little like saying apples and bras are different. 

My mother first had an inkling of this difference when I was about 3 seconds old.  Already ready to voice my opinion, grab attention and have my say, I came out crying.  No smack on the bottom needed.  I entered the world mouth open, face red and skewed, letting everyone know what I thought of the whole ordeal.  2 1/2 years prior to this, Carrie, my sister, was born into the world organizing the birthing tools and calmly agreeing with every single word, thought and idea my mother had. 

When my sister was old enough to eat solids, my mother began feeding her from a divided dish.  This pleased my sister greatly.  Since the touching of different food begins a nuclear holocaust.  When I was old enough to eat solids I stuck potatoes in my ears and meat up my nose.  As often as I could.

When cleaning up after play time my sister and my mother danced happily around the room putting each item in its designated space.  This goes here.  That goes there.  Every prodigal toy returned.  Every lost plaything found, baptized and reintroduced to the congregation. Then and only then was every thing right in the world, every thing is how it should be.  Saved.  When it came time for me to clean up after playtime my mother would take me out back and wash me off with the garden hose.

When Halloween rolled around each year, my sister would go trick or treating and then run home as fast as she could … not to eat the candy, but to sort it.  First in large categories – chocolate, sweets, fruits and other.  Then in subcategory – chocolate plain, chocolate with filling, chocolate covered in something else.  And then into sub-sub-category – chocolate plain bite sized, chocolate plain regular sized.  The m&m’s kept the poor child busy for hours.

I would come home with only a bag of apples and the few pieces of candy I couldn’t shove in my mouth between houses.

Throughout childhood, the differences continued to surface.  In fact, they only grew as we did.  There wasn’t a single shared teacher from our small high-school that didn’t say to one or both of us, Boy, you sure aren’t like your sister!  Neither of us took it as an insult. 

In college my sister went on a trip to Israel.  She was going to be gone 4 weeks.  She bought travel containers for her shampoo and conditioner.  She measured how much shampoo and conditioner she would use in a 4 week period, added 20% - in case of unexpected humidity or foreign water composition - and then handed the bottles to me with clear instructions on how I was to fill the containers.  These two can be conditioner and these two can be shampoo.  Or this set can be shampoo and conditioner and this set can be another set of shampoo and conditioner.  This, however, can never be shampoo and this can never be conditioner. Got it?  I said yes and then proceeded to completely F it up.   Not on purpose, but truthfully I didn’t understand … what was the big deal?  If you knew which was which what difference could it possibly make what container it was in?  So I put shampoo in some and conditioner in some and presented the completed project to my sister.  Disaster.  I thought you understood! She cried.  Oh no! I said, I thought I did too!  But I lied.  I didn’t really understand from the beginning.  When she got about 3 words into the “this goes into this” discussion I stopped listening.  Eventually, even though I didn’t understand, I said I did.  I did this so she would quit explaining it.  I knew there would be consequences, but at the time it seemed like the better of two evils.  And that was the moment I finally understood why perfectly innocent men confess to murder after interrogation because okay already I’ll agree to anything if you’ll please just STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.

My sister packs days prior to a trip.
My sister has her jewelry in an actual jewelry box.
My sister rotates her eye makeup every few months – just like you’re supposed to. 

So you can understand why when I first mentioned running with the bulls I was a bit surprised when she went GaGa about it.  I was so surprised, in fact, that I didn’t notice at first that she had agreed.  I already had begun selling the idea.  I began talking about how cool it was and how amazing it would be and how unique we would be for even GOING, let alone RUNNING!  I do remember her asking,

Do I have to run?

And I said, NO! Of course not!  And then she was back to being all in.  But not once.  NOT EVER ONCE did she say, Why do YOU have to run?  That’s because for as much of a mystery my sister is to me, I am completely and utterly known by her.  She gets it.  And I love her for that.  I adore her for never once questioning.  For never even suggesting maybe I should sit this one out.  For never saying ONE NEGATIVE THING about this whole idea.  In fact, in all the time leading up to the trip, in all the discussions about where we would stay, in all the email exchanges and the links to articles about the event, in all the planning I only ever heard her say one slightly hesitant comment. Two years ago while looking at pictures of the festival and the throngs of people dressed in the traditional garb of white tops and white pants I heard her mutter under her breath,

great, I’ll probably be on my period.

And really, who could blame her for that?