Happy 4th of
July. With Cinco de Mayo behind us and Quatorze
Juillet (Bastille Day) just 10 days hence, we are awash in jours fetes. But nobody does it quite
like the Spanish. While assigned to the U. S Consulate in Barcelona long past,
we incurred a month with some 10 Spanish holidays and one American. More days
off than on.
One of my odysseys during
that period involved a summer crossing Spain to witness its plethora of festivals,
including Santiago de Compostello (with fireworks on metal wires exploding just
overhead a packed square) and the crown jewel Pamplona with its infamous bull
run.
I and amigo Archie, much
to the consternation of his Israeli wife (in no small part as they were parents
of 18-month old twins) vowed to participate in the running, the first iteration
of which occurs on the 7th hour of the 7th day of the 7th
month.
It is de rigeur for runners to spend the night
before in Hemmingwayesque fashion, drinking and bolstering courage through
multilingual braggadocio. Somewhere in the early hours I slipped off the rails
and regained consciousness to the sound of trumpets high in the hills heralding
the release of the bulls.
Simultaneously I felt a
rough passage over my midsection and looked up to see a street sweeper gently nudging
me out of his cleansing path. It is my only instance of sleeping in the gutter,
and I have often wondered if this was divine intervention or simply a drunkard’s
folly. The latter most assuredly.
It was on this sojourn
that Archie’s Ella and my companion departed to explore the town, leaving us with
the twins on an Atlantic beach. Shortly after their departure we heard cries
for help whereupon Archie and I leapt into the surf and rescued two pre-teen
locals caught in a riptide.
We were roundly feted by
the local populace, mostly with the presentation of jugs of vino tinto. When the women returned they
were offended by the accumulation of jugs and totally unbelieving of our feat
of heroism.
In fact Ella was sorely
agrieved by her awareness that one of the improperly attended twins was
ingesting large handfuls of sand. Not to worry, claimed Archie, he’ll figure it
out in the morning and the lesson learned will remain for life.
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Though I am poorly
equipped to do so, I am attempting to teach Spanish to Henrietta, the lady in
my GPS. She is resisting. Lujan comes out “low-jan,” etc.
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Mooshie2 (named in honor
of a former feline friend) hangs out around my ground floor balcony and is
often curled up in my balcony sling chair when I arise around 04:30. There’s a
rumor that s(he) – still haven’t got a good look at the south end – is feral,
but as even the wild must eat I lay out the odd morsel.
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