Toro Enmaromado

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Talk to me for an hour and you’ll probably catch on. I’m in love with love. Sometimes I yearn so strongly for that epic love story and my happily ever after. I feel as if I am bombarded with these tales of love and happily ever afters daily from movies, books, tv and the smiles on couples faces as they walk down the street hand in hand. Though I am no expert on the subject, I find it hard to believe that it could be that easy. That a knight-in-shining armor will come sweep me off my feet and everything will be complete. I meet lots of boys around the world, and every once in a while I cast them into the role of my prince charming but my life is never more complete for the encounter. Maybe I am looking in the wrong places for my happily ever after. I think instead that whether you choose to spend your life with a special someone or just alone you ultimately make your own happy ending. No other person can do it for you.

As friends settle down and take the next step I can’t help but wonder what I am missing out on. Some days I get lost in my yearning for a companion and focus so intently on finding this one specific love so much so that I become blinded to the love that surrounds me. As I walked the streets of Benavente this past week my heart was lightened as I soaked in the love of friendships that have formed over this year. The unconditional love that can survive long distance, survive long term or just provide the fleeting comfort in a moment of need. I realized as well how dearly I have come to love Benavente. The best part about falling for a place is that you’re never the one who gets left behind, you always leave on your own terms.

I have lived in Benavente for almost nine months now. I have come to love this calm, tranquil village-city dearly. Thus I was shocked when, for one week, Benavente transformed into an entirely new place. The streets filled with people and stayed full all night. The people no longer slept and life was put aside. It all began back in April. The people of Benavente congregated in the town center, flinging wine around like sprinklers. The mayor came out and they asked for a bull, chanting “toro, toro, toro!” “Yes!” He responds every year, and so it begins. Soon groups called “Peñas” began to form. These groups range in size, some having over 200 people. They are situated in warehouses transformed into party rooms. They make matching t-shirts, have dinners and serve drinks. During the week of the Toro these groups provide drinks, food and music to the lucky members, as well as passersby.

A Peña sign

Then June begins along with the fiesta. “I have never seen anything like this.” A fellow teacher responded as we walked into a 25-person class to find 3 seats full. Though it is not a holiday it seems universally accepted that students will not be attending classes. The young people often stay out for days, eating at the Peña, returning home only to shower.

The festival could not have taken place at a better time. A mere two weeks from saying farewell to Benavente this festival has been a culmination of my time here. I felt for once just how integrated I had become. I felt like the city had truly adopted me. Roaming the streets I couldn’t go far before running into a familiar face, be it student, friend or colleague. Although I was experiencing the “Toro” for the first time I didn’t feel like a tourist seeing “their” fiesta, I felt like this fiesta l was ours.

One of our favorite bar, El Ruedo

One afternoon, as I laid napping in my living room I was rudely awoken by the unofficial beginning of the fiesta. A loud BOOM sounded from the Plaza de Toros (bull ring), followed by several more announcing start of the bull fight. In Spain, as in any foreign culture, there are some traditions of which I’m not too fond. Bull fighting is one, thus I decided to pass up this experience.

The following day however was the bull competition. We arrived at the bull ring which was quickly filling with people. It felt oddly like a community baseball game. Families made their way down the bleaches with coolers of beer and umbrellas to block the sun. We all sat and stared at dirt for a while, waiting for the festivities to begin. Before too long the metal door was swung open and out charged a big brown bull. Men pole-vaulted and jumped over the bulls, dodged the bulls’ charges, cutting it as close as possible, and tried to touch the forehead. Though the bulls were not full grown they stood at about should height; enough to make me pee my pants if I had been inside the ring. I squealed when the bull charged, though the men made it out safe every time, jumping acrobatically over the walls of the bull ring. It was fascinating to watch and hard to judge. I mean I piss of cats and dogs all the time when we’re playing. This just seems far more balanced in the bull’s favor.

Bull Jumping

Monday was the official commencement; everyone gathered at the Plaza Mayor, the Peñas each in matching colors created a quilt-like pattern over the Plaza. Each Peña brought their band with them, each band lost in the cacophony. We stood at the outskirts to avoid the wine sprinklers. Friends walked past offering wine mixed with just about anything. Once the Mayor had announced the beginning of the 2010 Toro Enmaromado the Peñas filed out of the Plaza diffusing the party throughout the city.

Peñas at 3 am

Intoxicated by the energy of the people who filled the streets I managed to pull the typical Spanish all-nighter. Each Peña, armed with their personal band, paraded none stop throughout the city center all night, every night for the entire week. Though I was not a member of a Peña I was adopted by many, taking part in parades, learning the typical “toro songs” and dances. I felt in every way a part of Benavente.

Tuesday was the first bull run of many. Shaking in anticipation we made our way through the growing crowds. Courage was judged by your proximity to the gates; the farther the better. Crowds gathered in the middle of the street. Others packed tight in the corners, next to the gates but in the street, set up for a quick getaway. We sat this one out; trying in vain to see the bull through the rush of people that overtook the street as they ran from the bull. He was a big guy, weighing 480 k, but not very feisty. He was left free to run the track set up through the streets. A man was tossed down the street from us and people raced into the street to attract the bull. Whenever someone fell the people of Benavente made an amazing team. They began grabbing the tail, poking the bull, anything to distract it from the helpless man on the ground. After the one toss the bull moseyed more than ran. We studied the movements of the crowd. With every move the crowd surged forward and the streets were overcome with chaos until the runners realized that the bull has once again stopped. He stood on the corner for a while just sticking his tongue out at the people around him. Plan B for a slow bull is to send a heard of steers down the street for the bull to follow. And down they came.

After the bull passed the crowd filed into the streets to await the next round of bulls, though smaller there were multiple. Encouraged by the slow pace of the first bull my friend and I decide to stand in the street for these guys. He went down the street so that he could run. I joined the crowd in the corner and set myself just right for a quick getaway. Looking around me there were women nicely dressed, others in sandals. Yeah, I could do this. Suddenly the street broke into chaos once more. The atmosphere became immediately charged as a wave of people ran toward me. In the chaos I turned for the gate, now packed with the others standing around me, but I had only one thought, get through that gate. Panicked I pushed and shoved my way through, stuck my camera high in the air and start clicking hoping to catch my friend. These bulls were much faster than the first, they didn’t stop. Runs like this continued all week. Every bull with a mind of its own, some fast some slow.

The next round of bulls was the “tied-up” bulls. They come in two sizes, the big bull for adults and the small yet equally terrifying bulls for children. They have a long rope tied around their horns so that they can be led through the streets since the gates are not put up for this run. To be touching the rope is a great test of courage. In the morning we braved the small bull; joining families, and children to run through town with a small and somewhat harmless bull. As harmless as a bull can be. We even ventured forward to touch the rope. Filled with courage I began to inch closer for a better photo, closer and closer, feeling safe as long as there were people between me and the bull. Suddenly he made a quick movement and the crowd backed up. I found myself front and center, not where I wanted to be. I lost all thought of photos and I shimmied back into the crowd. Little bull or not he was still a bull. After this fright you’d think that I had learned my lesson.

Touching the rope

For the next “children’s” bull I went along with a local friend. He has this down to an art. Having lived here his whole life he knows where to stand and how to read which direction the bull will head. “I don’t run” he stated matter of factly. This I would soon discover was a lie. It turns out he does run when the bull is charging at him. Smart guy. As the bombs began to sound warning the release of the bull my heart raced. We were standing right outside the door. “Don’t worry” he said, “it usually doesn’t come this way.” “But it could” his friend chimed in. I felt no better. As the bull exploded into the street I let the crowd pull me back with it, but my friend called to me to come closer. I inched warily towards him and sure enough the bull passed right in front of us, and not an inch closer.

The Bull

I followed him to the next spot, standing back towards the wall. This time I felt out in the open. We were on a street void of doorways to run into or fences to climb. My heart raced at the thought, if the bull comes down our side of the street there was nowhere to go. I stood with the other Americans. We were curious. I was feigning bravery. The rope appeared, on our side of the streets, normally a good indication of where the bull will head. The crowd surged towards us, my heart was racing, the bull turned and sure enough, as Victor had guessed, he passed close but far enough away.

We all felt brave after this last encounter. My friend sure knew what he was doing. We headed to our last spot. Emboldened by our last safe encounters we headed up the narrow street. By this point the bull was tired and the movement was more stop and go. As the crowd surged forward I no longer felt the intense panic I had felt before. We watched as the runners approached, trying the catch it on video. Suddenly mere feet from where we stood the bull bowed his head and took someone out, while he ran straight for us. I turned to Victor and he was motioning us to run, and run we did. Our videos of the moment shake in chaos, forgotten as we ran for safety. Once safely tucked away the cameras turn back to the street as the bull walks in front of us. As the adrenaline raced through our veins we headed for the next round of bulls, the small loose bulls. I decided to stay behind the large metal bars this time.

The big event of the week is the big bull, THE toro Enamaromado, the bull for adults. His name was Madriledo, he weighed 580 k. Madriledo was escorted into town like a king, followed by a long line of honking cars. Wednesday night was his big night. It was his chance to cause a ruckus in the streets of Benavente.

Madriledo

Not being crazy this time, I stood safely on a balcony, far away from the massive creature. I was lucky to have access to a balcony in the center of the city where he is tied to a metal ring so that he can relax. The most damage he did in my sight was to ram the metal gates, making the people standing behind them scatter. The next day the paper would report two serious injuries and several minor injuries. This does not deter the festivities. It is an accepted part of the experience for the people here.

The Sparkler Gun

Having seen how crazy the people of Benavente could be, we thought we had seen it all. Little did we know that we were in for a big surprise. At midnight I headed into town center with my fellow Americans. We dressed, as we had been told, in thick clothing for the fire show. Though we were unable to fathom what that meant. We filled with anticipation as we saw smoke and lights in the distance. The music approached us slowly and the plaza we were standing in light up with embers from what can best be described as a giant sparkler guns. Men ran through the packed crowds shooting sparks at people. The crowd danced around under the falling embers, holding umbrellas and cardboard for protection. We stood awestruck trying to fathom how playing under a rain of hot embers could be so amusing. The plaza surrounds a centuries-old church which was strategically rigged with fireworks. The night was alight as adults and children danced around.

My students

Though the party picks up around 3 am, this is a party for all ages. As I walked home at 4 am, which is quite early for Spaniards, I saw 5-year olds dancing in the street and hung my head in shame. Aside from the children’s bulls in the mornings the children also had the toros de fuego or “fire bulls”. Intrigued by the name I went to see for myself just what a fire bull could be. It’s a man with a fake bull on his head made from a barrel and rigged with fireworks. Parents encouraged their children to go play in the embers as he ran around the plaza. I stood far back from the flames, once again awestruck.

As the fiesta winds down the circles under the eyes of Benavente grow dark. The end of the week was marked by a giant picnic. The city served us a typical Spanish rice dish called paella. This was special however, since it had to feed hundreds of people it was a GIANT paella.

Giant Paella

Benavente slowly returned to its normal state. The people who had come out for the party trickled out of town. The streets have become tranquil once again and I no longer have to worry about coming across a bull as I walk through the town center. The end of the party is bitter sweet as it marks the beginning of the end for my time here is Benavente. I can only hope that Benavente will miss me as much as I will miss it. My love for Benavente may not be the epic tale I yearn for, but it is certainly a lead character in my series of short stories on love. And for now that is perfect.

Free My Soul

I find myself suddenly surrounded by music. I can’t complain, it’s a great place to be. Here are two recent tales of travels and tunes.
(more photos here)

Caceres, WOMAD Music Festival

I find that it’s in those moments when you begin to doubt yourself, to wonder if you’ve really chosen the right path, when you finally stop and take it all in. After almost 8 months here in Spain I find myself filled with competing emotions. Itchy feet draw my mind to faraway places waiting to be explored, but comfort draws me home. My problem with the latter is that I’m not sure where home is at the moment. Yes, home is where your heart is, but I’ve taken my heart on the road and learned a valuable lesson; I can be happy anywhere (an after Malanville I mean it) because I bring my happiness with me. My heart is light, making it quite easy to pack.

Eight months into Spain and I find myself sitting at a café in Caceres, where I came for the WOMAD (World Of Music And Dance) festival with a group of friends. Though quite a bit older than me, they may be younger at heart. MJ is quick to laugh, happy to gossip and stays out until the sun comes up. Though she stands a good foot shorter than me, it’s easy to forget when you’re near her and feel the energy that seems to radiate from her.

The festival is held in an old Spanish city that dates back to the Romans and today it maintains much of its roman and medieval charms. Once a year musicians from around the world congregate in Caceres and bring this old town alive. Concerts are held in historic plazas, century-old cathedrals provide the backdrops. Wandering through the narrow stone-paved alleys takes you from one band to another, like traveling from England to Africa.

Click here to listen

The first group we saw reminded me of the power of music to transcend language barriers. They were a mix of nationalities and sang beautifully in several languages. Next we situated ourselves on the railing of old medieval steps to see a group that seemed to blend flamenco and Middle Eastern sounds. It was the kind of intoxicating beat that makes your body sway unconsciously. The singer had the voice of a flamenco singer, so full of emotion that understanding the words become obsolete. The kind of voice that hits you straight in the heart, fills your heart with such intense emotion that it chases the others away. Whether you came to the show happy, sad, angry, stressed, those emotions are swept away; there is suddenly only room in your heart for the emotion of that voice. After a stressful week, I let this music settle over me, free me, let me drift away. (Speed Caravan)

I awoke early the next morning to partake in my favorite activity, walking the tranquil streets partially lost but finding myself. The city is so well preserved it takes you back in time. You can picture men in togas or tights walking down the streets with their swords, ready to court women and start duels. Though these cities can be found all over Europe they never lose their charm.

I must stick out as an American. I suddenly found myself with a microphone before my lips and a camera in my face. The local news team was delighted to have encountered an American at the festival that spoke Spanish; so delighted in fact that they tipped off the radio show that I was there as well. I was suddenly very popular with my tales of Colorado and love of African music. I’m not saying it’ll go to my head, but the Spaniards are really starting to appreciate me.

Nostalgia

Lately I have felt like music flows around me. Luckily it fills my friend Michelle as well. We recently went to Frankfurt together on a mission to reminisce. We were like a moving jukebox roaming the streets. The simplest quote was enough to start us singing. Songs ranged from classic rock to Disney, intermixing French, Spanish, English, and even German. I like to think that this music filled our hearts, made light but the nostalgia that Frankfurt brought to us both.
Four years ago when I was still a traveling neophyte I came to visit a friend who had moved to Frankfurt for a year. I found it astounding that she could move somewhere so foreign and then adapt.
Now I walk down the same streets, seeing the same sights but with an entirely new perspective. My first time here I was disappointed by the modernity. Having just left the beautiful old cobble-stoned streets of Paris where the Eiffel Tower stands tall above the old ornate buildings, the jagged glass skyline of Frankfurt was unimpressive. To make matters worse, having little German and even less confidence the people of Frankfurt had seemed unfriendly and cold. But this time I was drawn by the smaller more subtle beauty.

This year I was excited to try out my German. The people of Frankfurt were immensely patient and willing to play along in our simple German conversations, but the truth was that they all spoke perfect English. I have found that the people of Frankfurt find my attempts as amusing as I do, or I just find them amusing enough for all of us. The challenge of getting a thought across or making sense of the world going on around me in a language I have far from mastered is invigorating. Even the smallest act becomes a challenge to overcome.

Most conversations revolved around food. We criss-crossed Frankfurt intent on trying all the best Germany has to offer. The wurst (bratwurst, currywurst, rindwurst), resembling hot dogs served on hamburger buns were delicious. By sitting in random restaurants and ordering the most difficult thing to pronounce on the menu we stumbled upon amazing food, people and music.

To add to the nostalgia, I went to Frankfurt to visit old friends from Malanville. They are two of those rare people that really get it; who understand without explanation all those little inside jokes and comprehend my Franglais (a French and English creole). Spending time with them sent me back to the hot, malaria and mosquito-infested nights of Malanville; when life was good if the fan worked and ice was better than gold.

We spent the nights reminiscing on the bad beer and worse customer service in Benin. Our English conversation invaded by French and Zarma. Marveling at how clean we are without the layers of African dust, but deep down we felt the pull of the roots that we had planted during our 2 years in the sub-Sahara.

Next it was Michelle’s turn to walk the misty roads of memory lane. Having lived in Frankfurt when she was 10 she was eager to roam once again the paths of Kronberg. This would turn out to be quite the adventure; diving into small town Germany.

Kronberg was magical. We visited Michelle’s former landlords who welcomed us both like cherished friends. They invited us to lunch and entertained us with life stories. My favorite was when Tilo, the husband, told the tale of how they met. “I lived in France for 2 years,” he said, his eyes glowing, “then one day I met her and I married her.” The glow of his eyes spread across his face and you could see that he still considers this the best decision of his life.
Next we explored Alt Kronberg which maintains a rustic German charm that has been lost in the blinding dazzle of Frankfurt. The houses, some dating back as far as 1573, lean a little after having watched centuries pass by. But it was the park that stole my heart. It was nothing more than simple paths through rolling meadows. The hills rose up in the background and the old tower (800 years old) looked over Kronberg.

The time soon came to say goodbye to Frankfurt and friends both old and new. We spent our last night calmly in our hostel. Enjoying the last moments with friends met on the road. Our last night, I found myself surrounded once again by soothing music. Michelle and one of our roommates, wearing matching Converse sneakers, passed a guitar back and forth, singing tales of homesickness and wanderlust that touched my heart. I let myself get lost in their songs as their Conversed feet kept the beat. I found myself once again befriending one of those fascinating strangers that sees the world through different eyes. But soon our time had run out. The time spent in the past as well as lost in music was soothing and yet revitalizing, charging me up for the adventures ahead.

Madrid Reawakening

Life doesn’t always go as planned. This seems to be a recurring theme. I don’t help really. My mind is constantly churning out fantasies of how things should be. So much so that some days I risk ruining by sticking so adamantly to my vision. The truth is that travel is anything but perfect. Unforeseen and unavoidable events have a way of reshaping and often superseding travel plans that were so diligently arranged. I’ve fallen into a slump recently; feeling as if traveling has become more of a hassle and far less of the adventure that it had seemed before. Yet sometimes all it takes is reexamining the situation and rediscovering the magic of the innate adventure in everything. The magic of life.

Adventures rarely originate from days that turn out exactly as planned. Adventures are most often found in the missteps, in the places where you’ve wandered to yet where you never intended to be. Unintentionally taking the proverbial road less traveled by. These adventures force you to open your mind and they enhance the sense of accomplishment you feel when things finally fall into place.

Where did this life lesson come from? It dawned on me during my most recent and impromptu trip to Madrid. From the offset things were not going right. As I mentioned above, my sense of adventure seemed to be fading. Bus schedules were all wrong, forcing me to head down to Madrid a day early; thus providing me with a superfluous day in a city who I thought had already shared all the charms it had. I followed the same old routine: find hostel, check in, go for a long walk around the ever more familiar streets, and call it an early night. Then something happened. I made friends. The kind of friendships that last for a night forming bonds across nationalities and bridging language barriers, if only for one night.

I was in heaven. We were quite an eclectic group, French, Australian, American, Colombian, Argentinean and even Swedish. The conversations were living entities, seamlessness shifting from French to Spanish, Spanish to English as needed to facilitate the comprehension of those involved at the given moment. Sharing multiple languages made any grammatical errors obsolete. I was spellbound by the way French and Spanish words, usually at odds in my mind, suddenly worked side by side. We learned so much about one another, opening up the way you only can with total strangers, sharing tales of adventures, mishaps and lives back home. As I finally laid my head onto my pillow I felt at peace, even in a room with five strangers, because for the night we were the best friend each other had. Thus, in one night my uncertainties about traveling alone began to crumble.

The next morning I was faced with my least favorite hassle of traveling with others, meeting up. The truth is that no matter how detailed the directions, there is always so much out of one’s control. This is made all the more difficult when one party is phoneless and thus uncontactable; an odd sensation in a time when everyone is constantly connected. There is no greater test of patience.

I had made plans to meet with a new friend; a kindred spirit I’d met on a recent outing. Having only met once, I was filled with slight trepidation about how the day would progress, having forgotten he innate trust I used to have in my gut about people. I was nervous that the conversation would not flow as smoothly as it had the time we met. As time passed I realized this was the least of my worries. After an hour had gone by I began to worry. As the second hour approached I had befriended the friendly gypsy woman selling jewelry and I was desperately trying to put myself in the head of someone I had met only once before. The doubt melted away when he turned the corner, as relieved to see me standing there as I was to see him no longer lost.

I dragged him to my favorite sites of Madrid. Every time I come I fall more in love with the city. So many friends have experienced it with me and each time I discover something new, and this time was no exception. We bypassed many of the monuments, opting instead for the parks that dot Madrid. It was magical, I can think of no better place to experience my first spring in three years.

We headed to my favorite park. A place I had found charming even when the trees were bare and the ground nothing by dirt. This time it was alive. The trees have exploded with color, flower petals rained gently from the treetops. The scent of fresh beginnings overwhelmed the air. Each part of the park has its own personality. One moment you are walking through arches covered in roses, the next you are surrounded by street performers. In one corner nature has been left to grow freely, and across the street there sits a well tended garden lined with statues. We spent hours wandering the paths. I became lost in the sounds of happily chirping birds and the scents of flowers that wafted by in the wind. We paused for a rest in the grass. I took my shoes off and felt the blades of grass slip between my toes as the sun beat gently on my back. I appreciated the spring like I was seeing it for the first time. Every sense enhanced by the lack of this season in Benin.

In the end, the conversation flowed more seamlessly that I could have ever imagined, even with my overactive imagination. His passion for what he does was addicting. As a musician, his descriptions of music were fascinating. By the end of the day I felt like I had learned so much and had gained a stronger appreciation of music. It was a pleasant reminder of how nice it is to make new friends on the road, especially the kind of friends that open your eyes just a little more to the wonders of the world around you.

As I awoke early the next morning I felt ecstatic, nothing could make this weekend better. I was so adamant in this belief that I decided to take the first bus back to Benavente before Madrid could ruin the enchantment which had been cast upon me. So, heart set on home, I packed up and headed to the bus stop only to discover that there was no bus until 5:30pm. I stood shocked and dejected trying to figure out how I could waste nine hours without spending a dime. My mind suddenly filled with roses, the park was calling to me, so I rolled my bag back to the metro.

In order to make the most of this unexpected day in Madrid I took a quick detour to Starbucks, figuring I’d sip one last American coffee. I heard a strong American accent behind me in line, asking if today was a holiday or something. (Aha! That explains the little bus dilemma.) I went to their table to ask where they were from and they immediately invited me to join them. In return I shared my expert advice on how to see Madrid without entering anything, since their plans of museums and palaces had been thwarted by the holiday. Through conversation we discovered that their son had been one of my patrons at Sweet Sinsations. It was one of those moments when the magic of events unplanned lights your heart and heals the wounds of things gone wrong. The American woman’s eyes light up as she recounted her year in France, one of the best of her life. Her eyes light up as she said, “I remember the feeling, I’m sure you know it, when after feeling so isolated by the foreign language that surrounds you, one day you just begin to understand.” Yes, it is a feeling I know all too well. I was comforted knowing that the hour alone I spent sharing tales and amazement at the diminutive size of the world was worth having to wait on that bus.

Soon the park began to call again. I rolled my suitcase down dirt paths until I found a sunny patch of grass on a hillside that called to me. I laid out my pagna (for one should never travel without one!) and gazed at the treetops, enraptured by the variety of colors and shapes.

Not long after sitting down an Asian woman approached me with her camera out. I prepared to agree to take a picture of her and her friends, only to be astounded by the question that left her mouth in broken English. “Picture can my friend with you?” Sure why not. Life can be so amusing when you let it. He sat beside me, posed, and suddenly I knew what it felt like to be a tourist attraction. Three others from the group approached with cameras and began clicking. The novelty of it was amusing so I handed over my camera; this was a memory worth recording.

In the end what threatened to bring this perfect weekend crashing down just enhanced it so much more. I’m not thinking of what should have been but rather what is. Although nothing about this weekend went quite as planned, once I accepted that, I opened myself to something so much better, I’ve rediscovered that magic that had originally drawn me too far away places. I woke up this morning just wanting to go home, but as I sit in the park and feel the breeze on my face, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.