jennethink

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?

MY MOTHER WILL CHEER WHEN SHE READS THE FOURTH PARAGRAPH

Sometimes I eat dessert first.  Actually, not so much as FIRST as ONLY, I skip a meal altogether and go right to dessert.  There is a life philosophy in there somewhere – something about not waiting, about not putting off what is best for later, about grabbing life by the horns … as they say. 

And they do say.

I’m all about that.  All about getting right to the good stuff.  All about digging in.  All about both feet first.  Jenne, meet the deep end.  Full steam ahead.  That’s me. 

However, in my maturity, I’ve learned sometimes it IS good to wait.  Sometimes putting off the best until last IS better.  Sometimes the IDEA OF warm chocolate cake is almost as good as the TASTE of it after you’ve gotten past your good-for-nothing salad.   Sometimes waiting is necessary, even helpful. Sometimes, (and I can’t believe I’m going to say this) you need a little BACKSTORY to fully appreciate the tale.

Therefore I just can’t jump right into telling you about the run with the bulls.  I can’t just spill all the details about how we scoped it out and walked the route and watched the run from the fences and planned the stretch I would whirl screaming down the next day.  I just can’t dive right in and tell you about the run itself and who I met and how long it takes to clear a ½ mile route of fantastically drunk people.  I can’t just launch into a description of the complete and utter lack of an awareness of personal space Spaniards have when a 6 ton bull is coming up fast behind them and the details of how I got this bruise.

No.  I just can’t.  I’m going to have to build up to it.

More to come.

SHE RETURNS

Holy Cannoli. That was an awesome trip. 

It would be impossible to write about it in one go.  Don’t think I can in even two or three gos … France, Italy and Spain will never be the same.

I’m sitting here early Sunday morning waiting for my photos to download off the camera.  I’ve been on and off trains, planes and bulls for the past 2 ½ weeks and can hardly wait to relive it all in pictures.  The dreaded jet lag has me in its grasp and I’m all messed up time-wise.  For example, although it is currently 7 AM America time, in Europe it is wine-drinking time.  Which, now that I think about it, is .... well, anytime.  Bad example.

For now I will forego the wine and instead head to church and then a delightful meal I like to call A REAL BREAKFAST. I’m most excited about breakfast this morning seeing as there is an embargo on scrambled eggs in Europe.  However, should your ideal breakfast be made of a nice slice of cheese and a hard roll, well, you will be very happy in any of the European countries.  Very happy indeed.

As for me (and at the risk of sounding like a big, uncultured American), it’s time to get my hash browns on.