*written weeks ago, about September 8th - Published now because, well, that's a long story* A long long time ago, at the beginning of my study abroad in Quito, Ecuador, I wrote a blog about an intense Sunday I had with my host family that went for eight hours, involved two different locations, and an enormous family. Little did I know, Ecuadorians have nothing on Spaniards. I have become more accustomed to “vermouth,” the Spanish custom of going out to bars for drinks and maybe have an appetizer or two before lunch and, even while it is still strange for me, I have begun to enjoy the community feeling of having a “vermouth.” However, as I am with everything, I like to know ahead of time that it is going to happen so I can be prepared mentally and with appropriate attire/snacks for the hours it will surely take. Thus when Gonzalo asked me last Saturday if I wanted to come to his pueblo (town) for a ceremonial (outdoor) mass to mark the beginning of Fall, I said yes but asked if that would be all or if we’d be staying for lunch. He assured me that we’d be back in Logroño by two – although did say we may grab a drink or two before heading out. Saturday morning by 10:30, we’d picked up Gonzalo’s friend and were heading down the freeway to the pueblo. Though the ceremony was held outside of a church, the crowd was large and I couldn’t see or hear anything besides a mariachi band. Yes, a Mexican mariachi band at this Spanish tradition. Why? No idea. An hour or so later we went into town for our vermouth. Due to the whole “healing my stomach” thing, I can only drink water so as we went from bar to bar to bar I got more and more and more hydrated. The party in town was filled with traditional dancing, regular dancing, hordes of people chatting, drinking, and enjoying their Saturday fiesta. The mariachi band also made it back to town, so the music was excellent – and still unexplained for this Spanish festivity. A few drinks in, Gonzalo’s mom joined us and after one more we ran into some other family members who insisted we come over for lunch. They assured me they had something I could eat with my very limited diet – planning out my particular menu in front of me. I had suspected this would happen and could tell from the tone of asking that NOT going to lunch was not an option, so we said yes and joined even more of the family at another bar. I was confused, thinking we’d planned to eat at someone’s house, but sure enough it was just another stop of the vermouth. I got yet another water and chatted with relatives and friends of Gonzalo’s until we finally began to wander to the house. Once there, I stood around having YET MORE WATER and, of course, chatting. Eventually I helped set the table with dish-ware and then ham. Pork, being one thing I can eat, the ham was immediately removed from the table and handed directly to me. I took a piece and tried to put it back because it is awkward being the only one holding a plate of ham as people smile at you encouragingly, but was told to keep it, after all, it was basically all I could eat! Gonzalo’s friend took pity on me and began eating the ham too so I felt less singled out. By this point, it was past 3pm. I don’t remember exactly what time we finally sat down and were dished out soup and poured wine (or were grilled beef and poured water if you’re me), but I was perfectly content talking and eating and enjoying the huge and wonderfully welcoming family. Plus, I figured it may be 4 or 5 by the time we left for Logroño, but that’s not too bad all things considered. The meal was delicious and though I insisted the steak had filled me up, I was plied with more and more ham as the others had their first and second plates. We eventually finished with coffee and I got to check out the family chickens before leaving for Gonzalo’s family’s place. It was raining and I figured we would head out shortly. As with many things while living abroad, I figured wrong. I began to hear rumblings about bulls running through the town “like Pamplona but smaller and not dangerous”. I couldn’t figure out whether it was a joke or not until Gonzalo’s mom ensured me that they had “mini bulls” run around a circle of buildings within the pueblo – in fact, they would run right in front of their front door. I’ll be honest with you, I did not want to stay. It had been a long (and unplanned) day, I was tired, I was hungry and running low on snacks, and honestly, I have trouble with the whole bull thing. I’ve never seen a bullfight, and while I recognize it as integral to Spanish culture and interesting in terms of “human vs. beast,” my bleeding heart hurts for the bulls. Thus, I was hesitant to watch whatever was about to happen in this pueblo. Due to my shorter fuse, but tempered by the fact I was a guest, I resorted to slight sarcasm as I asked and then prodded what was about to happen and why. Just as I was realizing no one would be able to explain this tradition to me, someone in the street called out “viene!!!” which basically means “he’s coming!” and meant that the small bull was on his way towards us. At first, this was all ridiculous. I watched from the door as first people then a small bull ran by the door. Then there would be nothing for awhile until the bull would arrive back at our point in the circle, which we were forewarned by the shouts of “viene!” They’d pass again. Not much to it. We realized we’d have a better view from the garden, so we took advantage of one of the moments where the previous bull was put back in the pen and another was released, to sprint down the street to the garden. From the garden, we were above the street and had a much better view. Though I was even colder, this was the moment that despite my irritation and reservations, I began to enjoy myself. It was actually fun, the anticipation of the bulls rounding the corner, the people from the town watching from windows, houses, or hanging on gates and fences, other townspeople sprinting ahead of the bulls – stopping to allow them to get a little bit closer and give the audience a scare. One man put out an old chair with a reflective blanket covering it so when the bull saw it, he charged, throwing the chair into the sky with his horns, nearly missing those of us perched on the garden wall. It was thrilling. No one got hurt and the bulls left safely and happily for their next town. After dark, we finally began back towards Logroño. I was too exhausted to speak in English, let alone Spanish and was more than happy to fill up with an apple and almond butter before crashing into bed, chuckling to myself about my Spanish day and my classically skeptical approach to it.
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