Running with the Bulls

DISCLAIMER: This is a story about my youth and exploring my edge. My desire to participate in the Running of the Bulls at that age does not reflect my current views of the run today.

“To be old and wise, you must first be young and stupid.”

This sums up my entire 20’s.

When I was 20 years young, I went to Barcelona to “study abroad.” What I really did was drink herculean amounts of booze, embark upon 24hr romances, sleep with different cute boys daily, and privately go through my own existential crisis, wondering if my actions constituted me as a “slut”.  I know. Real big thoughts.  Little did I know I was being a typical 20 year old. If only books like “The Ethical Slut” had been published by then, I could have saved myself months of self induced, mental assault and done something else with that time, like start a mankini line out of alpaca wool or something.

Well, after my rapey run in, in Granada (read “Napping Kittens”) I had decided I wanted to get as far away from that town as possible. So I headed up north to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls.

When I stepped off the train, I was immediately met with a sea of people on the streets. With no plans, no hotel reservation, no friends and just a backpack, I pushed my way through the streets looking for lodging.

On every door that I knocked upon, the hotel manager would look at me incredulously as though I was just another one of these moron fish, eating poop stew. I can't fault them. I was. Everything had been booked for months and it would be impossible to find lodging until the week's festivities were over. I would have had an easier time trying to roller blade up Mt Kilimanjaro than to find a room that day. So I continued to trudge through the streets aimlessly until I saw a line of backpackers standing outside one man’s home. As I approached to see what was happening, I discovered he was charging people 20euros a night, for travelers to leave their backpacks in his basement. Opportunistic for him, better than nothing for me. So I decided to go for it.

In line I met a couple of guys from the states who were also traveling on their own, Bennet and Jim.  As a young, solo female, I learned to make friends where I could and the three of us had made a pact to stick together for the week. I was grateful to have the company and posse to glob onto, instead of needing to creep into a group conversation everywhere I went with a not so casual ice breaker.  So we gave the man our bags, took nothing but my purse, and hit the streets.

Being in Pamplona during the Running of the Bulls was exciting and wild. There are thousands of people singing and chanting through the streets at all hours of the day, outdoor concerts on every corner, and people packed on every single balcony, peering down unto the streets below. People were bubbling up and frothing out of every corner high and low, making you feel like you were in a human spin cycle.  

We ran around the cobble stone streets, sneaking looks at the bulls and getting swept into the currents of parading people. We dodged bottles of wine that got launched high into the air, only to come crashing down and project shards of glass whizzing by at eye level. And of course we got dementedly drunk like the rest of ‘em on copious amount of wine.  One day in particular, I recall us finding bags of stale bread behind a baker’s store, and when we discovered it was inedible, we took to starting a giant bread fight in the plaza. Battling in the streets with baguettes as our swords, we took no mercy on passersby. We smashed loaf logs across people’s chests and over their heads. We laughed so hard I thought I might rupture a spleen.

Everyday we wore the same outfit of a white shirt and red sash, which accumulated wine and blood stains daily.  And when we’d had enough of the day and were too drunk to stand, we’d hit a park, argue with the homeless about who was going to sleep where and snag the 1^st park bench we could see. We were obnoxious. I know. Then we’d throw our tinsel emergency blanket over ourselves and slept with one eye open, until the sunlight brought forth another day.

As the week carried on, the dehydration and sleep deprivation started to take its toll, but we fought hard to carry on our party torch. One night in particular, I lost Bennet and Jim and got swept up in a mass of Australians. On an informal scale of drunken obliteration, I’d have to say that in 3^rd place you have the Americans but 1^st and 2^nd place is a hard draw between the Australians and the Irish. And when they gather en mass, the rate of reaching peak drunken stupor seems to compound.  This one night, I happened to get swept to sea in this sloshed organism of inebriation, then stumbled off with one of them for some shameless action.  I eventually lost the cute boy and teeter tottered around the streets hoping that if I squinted really hard with only one eye open, the double vision would turn back to one, but it didn't. Eventually I found myself alone in a park, looking for a place to sleep.  Tragic does not even begin to describe it.

Had I been in a less deplorable state, I don’t think I would have stopped where I did. It was dark, slightly removed from the crowd and seemed to only have a few sketched out males roaming around.  At that point however, I was the embodiment of that cartoon drunken mouse stuck in a wine bottle. Normally that mouse is redeemed by the Acme rings closing scene and the public never needing to witness it in its abominable state, but I didn’t have that grace. My eyelids were heavy and I needed to go down. Eventually I laid down on a patch of grass by a tree, put my purse between my body and the ground, and drifted off to the cacophony of drunk men pissing on the trees around me.  

When I woke up, I celebrated the fact that my purse was still with me and I hadn’t been raped in the night. Did I mention I had been doing all this in a knee length skirt? Yeah, ever slightly more vulnerable to the elements, but I came out the other side whole-ish. After several days and nights of drinking cheap wine, and sleeping on filthy streets however, I was a crumbling version of my former self. I needed a shower. I needed clean underwear. I needed to leave. 

But I couldn’t. Not without doing the run first.

In order to do the run however, I would need to find my bag and change out of my ridiculous wedge flip flops. My bag…hmmm….where on earth….?

With my head pounding, I gathered myself as best I could and tried to retrace my steps back to where I left my bag.  I hadn’t seen that thing in days and there was a thick brain fog to navigate through. It felt like an ex-lover that you hadn’t seen in years, wondering if you could still remember the details of their face and if they’d grown up and had a full life. So much had happened since I saw it last and I hadn’t the faintest clue as to where it could be. There were vague memories of what the house looked like, but when I tried to recall which street it was on, and where it was in relation to the rest of the city, I was only met with dark oblivion. Without my friends Bennet and Jim around to inquire with, I was up a creek without a paddle.

The sun was blazing hot that day. As though the earth had drifted closer to that gaseous star. I wandered through the streets, with the sun in my eyes, and sweating booze out of my pores.  Every cell in my body throbbed with contempt from the abuse I had put it through, but I didn’t care. I was determined to do the run before I left town. With the run starting in a half hour, my feet in high heeled sandals and not having the faintest idea where my bag was, I would need a miracle.  What if I never found my bag? Then what? How many more days would I wander around these streets banging on every door like some fairy tale vagabond? I didn’t have the stamina for that. I simply couldn’t go on as I had been. I felt as though I might deteriorate into a pile of dust.

And just as these thoughts started racing through my mind, I noticed that the sea of people walking toward me were parting way for an obstruction in the road.  I couldn’t quite see what it was. Maybe it was someone who had fallen ill, or a dog looking for its way home, maybe it was Moses parting the Red Wine Sea. Who knew?

But as I got closer to the obstruction and the bodies started to part, there it was sitting in the middle of the street.

My backpack.

I couldn’t believe it! What an absurd stroke of luck and also wtf man? I paid you to leave it in your basement.  It was both ruthless and righteous that my bag was discarded there on the road. In that moment however, I couldn’t see the ruthlessness. My overwhelming excitement was too blinding. To have magically stumbled upon my backpack, that had all the possessions I owned and would own, for an entire 3 months, must have been a sign of true pity from the Gods.  When I checked the contents, everything was still there, including my camera and my tennis shoes tied to the outside. Hallelujah!

With 10 minutes left until the race started, I picked up my bag, quickly threw on my tennis shoes, and then dumped my bag back into a bush so I could make the run.

The crowds had already been there en mass about 30 people deep the entire route down to the coliseum.  The announcements started to echo throughout the loud speakers, informing people that if you were ill, injured or pregnant you should not participate in the run.  I ran as fast as I could toward the end of the route so I could pop in under the barricade, and place myself as far away from the bull’s starting point. I wanted the excitement of the race, but I didn’t want to be skewered in the first minute. I also wanted to make it into the coliseum which was at the end of the race. As I bolted past the crowd, I suddenly heard my name being called. When I turned my head, it was Bennet and Jim! I was so excited to see them, but I couldn’t stop.  In my committed dash, I waved and kept going. Finally as the second announcement came blaring through the speakers, I found a clearing and ducked under the barricade.

I had made it.

I stood there, chanting and cheering with the rest of them, excited that it was actually going to happen. Any moment now, I would hear the alarm ring and we would be off.

The third announcement came echoing through and I thought to myself,  “This is it. I’m actually going to do this stupid thing. Here we gooooo.”

No.

We did not go.

In fact a group of cops came and swept out the last ¼ mile of runners, claiming that  the race was too full and they had to clear space.

Just when I thought I made it, I got cut. Well who brought a whiffle bat to the knife party? There’s no way I’m getting cut. This bitch cray.

So I defiantly dodged the cops and ran as far up the route as I could, before sliding under the barricades once again. This time I was not where I wanted to be. I was at the gates where the bulls were to be released. It was the most dangerous place to start, and hence the stupidest. And by the looks on everyone’s faces, you could tell that they all agreed.

I was packed shoulder to shoulder in a sea of testosterone pumped men as far as the eye could see. With every inch I tried to squeeze by, the men would reel their heads back in irritation and then double take with their mouths agape when they realized it was a young woman standing there.  But I was just as fearless as they were and I was ready. 

Finally the last warning came up on the loud speakers and the countdown began. This was it. I was really about to do this. I started to become very aware of the ground beneath my feet as I braced myself.

“Cinco! Quatro! Tres!...”

And before I knew it, I was being kicked. I couldn’t quite tell what was going on at first. Was it so packed that people were accidentally kicking me as they stretched their legs out to get into their running stance? No it felt more violent and intentional than that. Additionally I was magically floating off to the sideline. I felt a series of arms grabbing me and feet kicking me as I fell to the ground to protect myself. Before I knew it, I was being shoved under the barricade just as the alarms rang and the bulls were being released.

When I looked up to see what was happening, I was safely on the other side of the barricade with a cop ass on either side of my head. Unhappy with my choice to disobey their demands, they had chased me back into the race, picked me up, beaten me and dragged me out. Crouched on the ground and my body crammed between the legs of bystanders, I watched my dream slip away as a flurry of feet and hoofs trampled by. That was it.

I missed it.

It was all but a few minutes before I could no longer see any feet running by. With my ribs and ego bruised, I decided I had enough. It was time to leave. Defeated, I dragged my broken ass back to the bush I haphazardly threw my backpack into, and took the first train out to San Sebastian, for some surf and recoup.

In the train I happened to meet two other young guys. They were enthusiastic and bright, as though they had actually slept in Pamplona. As the bull run is the main event for discussion, they asked if I had done the race. “No I did not.” I replied and began to tell them my story, while trying to hide the tones of severe disappointment in my voice. That was my one chance I thought. I don’t know if I’d ever be that young and dumb again. 

Exhausted, we sat in the train in silence as I tried to shut my eyes and forget the day’s events.  Suddenly I felt a hard tap on my shoulder and I jolted awake. The boys were grinning with a newspaper in hand. It was “El Correo,” one of the major newspapers in Spain. They opened it up to the center page, and my eyes drifted to images of boneless men being tossed into the air in inhuman positions, a horn piercing through a man’s arm and another coming out a man’s thigh. In fact, one tourist had a fatal injury that day. It looked like I had missed one of the most violent races of the week. Perhaps they were trying to make me feel better. 

But then one of them asked, “Is that you?” and pointed to an image in the middle of the center page spread. And sure enough, there I was with two cops on my arms dragging me out. Of all the sensational images, why this one made it dead center of the spread completely baffled me. In a way it was also severely disappointing. In that split second capture, it looked as though I had a calm escort out when in reality, I was beaten down to the ground. Additionally, it was mislabeled that I was being kicked out because I had a camera on hand.

On the other side of that coin however, a part of me celebrated. In my youth, I often times did outrageous things with this secret motivation that I would one day tell my kids how crazy their mom was.  I don’t exactly understand what that badge is about, but there it was. This paper was the proof I needed that I gave it my all, got a taste of police brutality, likely got my ass saved, and that maybe dumb luck could be hereditary.

Don’t try this at home kids.

Napping Kittens

When I was 20, I spent a semester in Barcelona.  It was an incredible time of discovery, making friends, and sponging up as much culture as I could.  The city was filled with the melting architecture of Gaudi, the smell of chocolate croissants wafting through the air, and the rumble of La Ramblas street, filled with people dancing to their own beat. I was enchanted with how much living happened outside. There were young hippies playing music and sharing beers in the squares, and flocks of elders playing chess and meeting friends. The moment my feet hit those cobble stone streets, I knew I was in love. Barcelona, the land of surrealist art, Gothic architecture, cured ham, and wine.

For all there was to love however, there was one thing that would eat at me daily. It was the incessant hissing, cat calling, tongue clicking, staring, whistling, and nimble groping that would occur nearly every moment you were out. You couldn’t walk down the street without feeling like you were in the crossfire of a thousand bows aimed right at you. You'd dodge and weave, do everything that you could to avoid the man walking right at you. He’d come hissing at you with his face a few inches from yours, a mist of spit spraying onto your lips. Or maybe he’d play defense and stand directly in front of you not allowing you to walk past, without him taking a few sporty jabs at you first. “Hola Chinita” “Tss Tss Tss”  and grab your ass as he walked past you and then disappeared into the crowd. The catcalling was so thick it was suffocating. I was mentally tormented by it all. I didn’t know what to do, how to defend myself or how to take the higher road and stop to have a come to Jesus conversation with the perpetrators. I wanted to be good, to know that I could have a positive impact. I went so far as to try and rehearse a script (as my Spanish wasn’t so good then) to try and talk to these men and redirect their behaviors.  I wanted them to see me as a person and not some piece of ass or some carnival game that you could pelt with bean bags and win a prize.

Eventually I grew weary. They were too fast. I couldn’t stop them for a conversation. They wanted the cheap thrill of a reaction, or to get a longer look and once they got it, they’d give a self satisfied snicker, beat feet and be gone. I became tired of dodging and weaving; walking in a zig zag like I was escaping a gator in Florida. It was exhausting. I wanted the audacious luxury of walking in a straight line, directly to my destination without needing to get out of some gawking heyena’s way.  So I started punching them. That’s right. I’d punch them. Right in the gut. If they inched my way, didn’t let me pass, pressed their face into mine, hissed at me or spoke vulgarities under their breath, I undercut them in their stomach and kept walking. If they tried to touch my ass as they walked by, I turned around, threw the first guy I saw to the ground, and kept walking.  I didn’t feel good about it really.  I went from wishful goals of emulating Mother Theresa to being Mr. T on a cock crushing crusade. A far cry from my original sentiments of shepherding some wayward souls to a Shangri-La of equality and respect. But violence was just easier. They were my small victories amongst a lifetime of harassment. 

These were the simpler days. The every day. Unfortunately there were worse days.

As a young, independent female, I prided myself on being strong. And I was. I had a gymnast body, an appetite for adventure and a fearless disposition. I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, and I made a point to prove it. If I wanted to go to a club alone, I would. If I wanted to walk down a dark alley alone, I would. If I wanted to ride a motorcycle up a muddy hill in the rain alone, I would. If you hadn’t guessed it, I did a lot of shit alone! It was part of my creed as the independent, lone wolf. Unfortunately this also made me more of a target.

On certain dark nights, I remember being hunted and chased by men, feeling their eyes locked onto me like cold blooded vampires going in for the kill. Their gaze sent freon shivers down my spine. There was something vacant and animal in their eyes; an evil thirst.  I had to run through crowded bars, out back doors, into other crowded bars and beg strangers to hide me. I took every note from my times of watching Animal Planet and looked for safety in large herds (usually at the watering holes) until I finally lost them.

Another particular late night when I was walking home, a man seemed to casually walk behind me like a shadow. I started to pick up my pace and so did he. I crossed the street, and so did he. I crossed the street again, and there he was, both of us now running until he finally grabbed me. All of my knowledge of how to get out of a wrist grip suddenly vanished. I struggled to use leverage, but I couldn’t break free. Then I tried screaming. You know those blood curdling screams that you hear in horror movies? Those high pitched shrieks of utter terror? Well, that wasn’t me. Oh how I wish it was. No no. Mine came out more like a verklempt Mr. Belvedere. You see, I have this super low, weak and raspy voice. I am physically incapable of screaming at that pitch. I earnestly wish I could. Strangely it would make me feel more feminine. Like some priss yelling at a sporting event. But I’m more like the beer guzzling Dad that can barely get worked up enough to say a single “atta boy.” So tried as I might, I was left to very loudly saying “Ayudame! Ayudame!” “Help me! Help me!” on a street filled with apartment complexes, but no one turned on a light.  I fought to shout again “Ayudame! Ayudame!” over and over again, struggling to find that shrill pitch while battling to break free. And still, the street did not wake from its slumber.  Detached from the herd and with no defense mechanisms, by evolution’s standard I should have been dinner that night. But out of some sheer miracle, he finally ran off on his own.  Perhaps he was looking for fast food, and I was proving to be more farm to table. He wanted quick and easy and I was throw yer back out, hard labor. I’m not sure. And though he was gone, he had still left his mark; two perfectly bruised hand prints on both my wrists. Evidence that I could later weave into a story that I wasn’t strong. I was weak. And perhaps I have always, only been a naïve little girl. In that moment, I had never felt so abandoned and helpless. I walked home in the dark silence, looking up at the houses and all I could ask myself was “Where were you?”

But I was determined. I was determined to not be a victim. To not let fear rule me. To continue living my life with sheer wonder. To live as fully as I could imagine it to be. And some may call that brave and others would call it stubborn, stupid and arrogant. But I carried on, unwilling to be damaged fruit, and bought a ticket to Granada.

Traveling on a student’s budget means a few things.

1.     Eating hole in the wall gyro’s for every meal

2.     Getting loaded on piss beer and bladder wine

3.     Staying in the world’s sketchiest hostels

The sketchy hostel that I holed up in that night, was a big sterile room with 15 cots and a bathroom down the hall. It looked more like a refugee camp in an abandoned hospital than a hostel. But I didn’t care really. I threw my bag down, said hi to the 4 other Swedes in the room, and immediately took off to see the city.

I took the day to check some Moorish Castles and then headed up this hill, to find the deeply hidden flamenco bars, privy to locals only. You’d walk up a dark and steep street, see a small light, walk to some indiscernible door, descend a stair case, and there would be this incredible woman dancing flamenco in a tiny basement. There were families of people crowded around her clapping and cheering her on. I walked in alone, but instantly made friends. It wasn’t hard. Families practically fought over who could show the foreign, Asian girl a good time. I drank and drank and drank as families poured me glass over glass of velvet red wine. We would dance and toast to this wild and succulent life. The night became a blissful blur of  broken Spanish, and tearful laugher. When I finally left, I managed to stumble back down the dark hill, into my room and under the sheets.

 The next morning, I was slowly waking up to my hangover headache, when I started to notice the strangest feeling down south. Something warm and mushy on my privates. Deep in a hangover slumber, my mind was awake, but my body was made of lead. I felt like I was laying on the bottom of the ocean floor, unsure if I was still in a dream. But there it was, this warmth that seemed to engulf me. As I struggled to discern if this was real life or a dream, I started to become more and more aware that I wasn’t imaging it. It was really happening.  I forced my heavy lids to peel open and I looked down to see the top of some mans head. He had short, brown, curly hair and was indeed, eating me out. I was in a thick haze and was utterly confused. Who was this? Did I bring someone home last night? Did we hit it off at the bar and I forgot that he brought me back? My mind was racing trying to recall if I should know this man or not. As I quickly tried to rehash the events of last night, I could not scrape together a single memory of bringing someone back. Perhaps it was one of the Swedes? And I turned my head to the side but noticed the entire room was empty. It was just me and this man. But who was he? So I turned, tapped his shoulder and said, “Excuse me, Can I help you?”

Can I help you? Are you kidding me? I didn’t know what else to say. I was wildly confused. I wasn’t sure if we had met and I should be polite, or…or what? I didn’t know what else to think.

The man paused, looked up and said “Hi" in what sounded like a Hungarian accent.

ME: Hi, can I help you?

MAN: I saw you sleeping and you looked like a kitten

ME: What? A kitten? Ok. Did we meet last night?

MAN: No

ME: Excuse me? Wait, I’m sorry. Who are you?

MAN: I’m staying in this hostel today. I came in and saw you sleeping like a kitty.

ME: Wait, so we haven’t met?

MAN: No

ME: Ok. Well I... I... I need you to leave me alone. 

MAN: Ok. Well can I finish?

ME: Um, not here please. Go to your own bed.

And that was that. It was oddly calm.

He then finished on his side of the room. The acrid stench of wet pennies filled the air, and I ran off to shower, packed and left. 

I know it doesn’t look kindly on me to have not raised a fuss. To not run to some authorities, or kick him in the nuts, or dole some type of retribution for his invasive actions. I'm not proud of it to be honest. I will say though, that there were a lot of factors that contributed to that.  For starters, I was incredibly hung over with hardly enough energy to not hurl in bed. Second, I am strangely calm in crisis situations. I can easily get worked up about the small things, but can’t get worked up to save my life, for the bigger things. It just seemed easier to let it go at the time and not create it to be a bigger thing. But looking back now, I see the biggest culprit to my inaction. My female conditioning to deal and accept it.

All my life I was taught that females were to be subordinate to males. I blame that mostly on my Korean heritage. I was taught that everyone had a social rank, and that we always had to obey those above us. Even if they had refried beans for brains, and spit bologna as word, we had to shut up, and pay our respect. I was taught to squash my thoughts and opinions because it really didn’t matter what I thought. If I wanted to speak up, I was immediately cut down, because I was always the child, or I was female. So by nature, a rock that was older than me and identified as a male, deserved more respect.  I quickly learned to never speak up or contribute in any way. It was my job to shut up and know my place and I needed to accept that if I was to survive. After enough years of quieting your own voice, you forget that you have one. You forget what your real opinions are. You forget that you matter. 

My American conditioning prepped me for situations of sexual abuse. I watched cartoons like “Popeye” where Brutus was throwing Olive Oil over his shoulder and taking her to his cabin in the mountains. And without explicitly saying it, we all knew he was going to rape her in that cabin. And he threatened to do so in every episode, until Popeye came and saved the day. And Olive Oil was completely helpless. She had to sit and wring her fingers until some man saved her. I watched this theme over and over again with Betty Boop being kidnapped for her sexuality. It was both her power and her curse. Betty was going to be molested and most likely raped, until someone saved her. There were damsels being tied up on train tracks and cave women being beaten on the head and dragged into caves. I had become conditioned to believing this was just a part of the female experience. So when it happened in real life, I honestly didn’t know what to do. In the cartoons, some man always came in and saved the day. Where was the theme of self defense? Why didn’t Olive Oil practice Krav Maga? Why wasn’t Betty a total dom and whipped these drooling goobers into shape? Why was the whole world ok with watching these rapey scenes of helpless women for entertainment, but is suddenly surprised when women are saying that maneuvering a sexually predatory landscape is an every day threat? Why must we resort to #metoo for people to finally start believing, that every single female has felt the crushing hand of sexual harassment? Why must I be lead to believe that maybe I am the foolish one, for wanting to live my life freely and without fear. That if I was smart, I would be afraid of this world, and not walk alone at night or always have a man at my side. And why do we have to explain this every day impingement on basic freedoms, on basic thoughts, on basic considerations of how to live, to the male #metoo bandwagon riders?

I have been lucky. I have been lucky that I have only been abducted and shoved into a car once. That I have only been grabbed in the streets once. That I have only had a few strangers push themselves on to me and my body in ways that I did not condone. That I have never been in a situation so violent, I could not recover. I have been lucky. The spectrum of every day abuse that we females endure is vast. And perhaps that is one of our greatest strengths and weaknesses. Is that we endure.  Some of us have been trudging for so long, we lost our voice along the way. It’s hard to keep when the world is constantly trying to tell you where your place is. But we are finding it. And it may be quiet at first, so do your best to listen carefully. Now is the time to listen. Now is the time to believe.

BETTY BOOP "Old Man of the Mountain"
Proof of rapey-ness and people trippin' on some good shit back in the day.

Click here