Dancing with a man in Malaga airport: Spain Part 4

As I look at the three of them coming out of the pub laughing, screaming and falling over each other, I smile. Einar looks around the street for me, but I make no effort to confirm my presence. As Peter whispers in Isa’s ear, and she doubles over laughing, a sudden wave of affection fills my heart and I know then that the trip to Malaga is  not going to be about the Moors, nor the sea, not the history or the sightseeing. It will be about the four of us.

Let us go back a few hours in time.

Or maybe first, let us tell you a bit about Malaga. Seville, Granada, Malaga and Cordoba form the four major cities of the Andalusian region of Spain, and it is these cities that the Moorish empire most left their mark on. The city is in the Costa De Sol region, an area that is renowned for some of the prettiest beaches of the Mediterranean. The rock island of Gibraltar lies a stone's throw away, and if you have a really strong arm, the stone might cross over and land prettily in Morocco. But if you are not Hercules, Hulk Hogan or me, and still hell bent on having your stone in Moroccan territory, you can hop on a ferry. It will take about four hours to cover the distance.

How I educate you all. Must start charging money soon.

Right, let us now go back a few hours in time. 

Coughing and sniffing, I got down from the bus that brought me from Granada to Malaga. It was 8 pm, and the sun was still shining brightly in the sky.

I called up Isabel, the Couchsurfer whom I was going to stay with in Malaga, and she gave me directions to her house. Moments later, she messaged to confirm if I had understood the directions. I replied saying I would not really mind if she came galloping on a horse, picked me up in one sweeping movement and carried me to her abode. She asked if all Indian males were as macho as I.

 I liked Isa, even though we had only spoken online. Right from the first time I had mailed her asking if I could stay with her, she had been cheery in her replies. I had a feeling we would get on well.

Twenty minutes later, I rang her bell.

Her house was every bit as welcoming as her.  Another Couchsurfer had already been staying there for a few days. “Einar”, he said and there was no doubting the baritone. “Nero”, I replied in the deepest voice I could muster. “Wine?” quipped our pretty host.

We spent the next two hours just the way three strangers meeting for the first time should… drinking wine.

And some more wine.

Somewhere along all this drinking, Isa and Einar told me that at eleven pm, they were going to pick up one of Einar's friends from the airport. I declared, between sips, that Indians hic love picking up people, err fromsh airports and stations, not bodily, so I shwould go too, hic hic!

As the clock struck what it was supposed to, we ran down to the car. Einar insisted that Peter was a fun guy, an absolute character, and it was our duty to play a gag on him at the airport. After sharing several inane ideas, we came up with a plan. Earlier, we used Facebook to identify Peter Castenback.

On arriving at the airport, Isa and I rushed to the receiving gate, while Einar hid behind a pillar close at hand. A camera was positioned strategically to capture the whole scene.

A number of men walked passed us, heading for the exit. A few women streamed in. Some dogs bounded by. None looked very similar to our man. A man walked in our direction, to his family standing next to us. The two young children, both below 7 years of age, fell all over his legs, trying to hug him, and the wife looked on with happy tears. He kissed her, and kissed again while the son tried to lift his heavy suitcase. It wouldn’t budge. The daughter was stuck onto his right arm, wanting to be airborne. She was crying, though maybe, just maybe she was too young to understand pain or separation. For a minute forgot our shenanigans and smiled at the reunion.

Suddenly, Einar hissed from behind the pillar. A gangly figure was approaching. As he neared us, he resembled the man we had seen on Facebook. But wait, what was he wearing?

Right before Peter would pass us by, Isa stepped forward and launched into her speech, as per plan. She insists that Einar has passed out in the house and therefore we have come to receive Peter. The man nods. He is then told that he can accompany us only if he dances here, in the airport.

What would you do in such a situation?

It is my turn. I tell him that I was made to go through the same ordeal, that because I was an Indian, I had to do the kuchipudi to enter Isa's house, that Isa has unusual artistic fetishes. I sound quite rueful. Maybe I should try become an actor. 

Would you have danced? In front of two foreigners you have never met or spoken to before? In front of an entire airport? In a strange country, a strange land you are visiting for the first time? Would you?

Peter Castenback would. Our strange request does not faze him at all. Instead, he grins and tells Isa, "Well, you will have to join me then." Isa looks surprised, if not shocked, but before she can come up with an answer, Peter has spread out his arms and has pulled her into a waltz. Before I can collect my wits, he has started to sing a Swedish song. Loudy, for the entire airport to hear.

Isa sportingly follows his lead, and there they go waltzing around the airport as the clock strikes midnight. Peter is in his element, twirling and waltzing her around as if he has been doing so for years, as if he knows her for years. I am trying to appear nonchalant, as if I have been looking at strangers dancing in airports all my life.

I move back, and look at the man closely.  He is wearing a coat that was part of a suit once, but under that there is no shirt, only a vest that he has probably worn for a week. Where the coat ends, and it was rightfully a trousers’ right to occupy position, there are a pair of shorts. Far below the hairy knees, there are white socks, and pointed black shoes. His hair is tousled and he wears thick spectacles which could pass off as fashionable. From his left ear, sprouts a feather. A blue feather.

Peter Castenback. The man with a feather for an earring. 

Minutes into the performance, Einar bursts out from his hiding place and we all start laughing. The two Swedes hug and clap each others' backs just as all men who are bosom pals do.

We settle into the car, and before the suitcase has been out in the back, Peter brings out a bottle of wine. In the twenty minutes that it takes to reach Isa's house, we are taking large swigs from the bottle, I face a barrage of questions about India, Isa is accused of inviting men over only to see them dance, and Einar is on some alpha Viking trip where he keeps going "oiii" at random people walking on the road, the sky, and surprised dustbins.

We go back to the house to put down Peter's bags. He announces that he would like to change his attire, and before we are halfway close to mouthing 'certainly', he has pulled down his trousers all the way down to his ankles, and we have no choice but to know what Swedish undergarments look like. 

 We spend the whole night hopping from one pub to another. We dance with random people, we speak to random people, and we forget those people. Around 4 am, I step out of a bar and sit on a kerb on the opposite side of the street. Maybe to clear my head, maybe to feel some fresh air, or maybe just to soak in the moment. A girl whom I have seen inside earlier is standing near the bar. Facing me, she does one of the dance steps that I had been doing, and laughingly says something in Spanish. I don’t understand her so I smile. She smiles back, waves and goes down the road.

I would have stared at her walking away, had it not been for my friends bursting out of the bar. As I look at the three of them coming out of the pub laughing, screaming and falling over each other, I smile. Einar looks around the street, to find me, but I make no effort to confirm my presence. As Peter whispers in Isa’s ear, and she doubles over laughing, a sudden wave of affection fills my heart and I know then that the trip to Malaga is  not going to be about the Moors, nor the sea, not the history or the sightseeing. It will be about the four of us.

The next day, Peter, Einar and I had breakfast together. Earlier, Isa had already bathed and left for her father’s house. Towards noon, Einar and Peter left for a seaside village where they planned to surf for a few days. Surf, not couchsurf. Strangely, even though we had only spent a day together, I felt I would miss them.

Isa and I spent the evening talking and made plans to go to a concert and a beer festival with some of her friends. When we reached the venue, she wondered if Einar and Peter would have liked to be there too. We called them up and the lazy louts said they would, and if we would be kind enough to pick them up.

Isa being Isa, that brilliant woman who really should have been a boy, turned the steering wheel and off the two of us went in the middle of the night to pick two Swedish men we had only met a day before. Half an hour later, after getting lost and then finding our way, we turned into the street of their hotel. The two were standing outside with a crate of bottles. When they saw the car, they jumped up and down and screamed as if they were two little boys and not the thirty plus year olds that they were;  hugging us as soon as they got in.

I don't know if I shall ever see the three of them again. Maybe we were meant to meet only once,or maybe they will come to India some day. But that trip to Malaga, it was about the four of us. Isa Per Mar - that lovely girl who welcomed us into our homes and hearts; Einar Norstedt - the alpha male always for a challenge; me; and Peter Castenback - the man with a blue feather for an earring.

How I met Lisa - Spain Chapter Three

The story of Granada will start at the gates of the Rambutan hostel, yes the same hostel where we discovered a furry dog, some hippies and... well, and love.

Sigh.

Earlier, I had left Valencia in the morning. As the first bus to Granada was leaving only in the evening, I carpooled my way to the historic Moorish city. Thanks to the times we live in, I managed to find a couple of hostels on my phone Internet while we were driving, and froze on the Rambutan Backpackers Hostel.

When I reached the old part of the city, passerbys  indicated that it was perched right on top of the hill. In the mail the hostel staff sent to me, they informed that it stood right next to a house with orange trees and a cactus bush. As an attachment, they had also sent me a scanned copy of a handmade drawing with the directions. A pub, some bushes, and a few steps stood out prominently in the drawing.

How do you not smile and conjure up a picture in your head when you are told that you live next to a house with orange trees? I decided then that I had probably made the right choice by settling for the Rambutan.

Sacramonte, the part of town where Granada originally grew from, and where the Rambutan is present, is the oldest part of the city. Hilly and unplanned, all the house walls are a delightful white in colour, and lie shoulder to shoulder, right next to each other.  Between the houses, there are small streets that go up and down, never level, and at no point there is space for more than three people to walk side by side. The streets are cobbled and pebbled, and not tarred as the silly ones in our cities.

As I trudged up and down with my heavy backpack,  the Alhambra Palace shimmered with its lights in the background. It lay just 3 Kilometres away, on top of another hill.

I could not find the hostel. If I  found houses with cacti, they did not have orange trees and those that did, refused to have any cacti. Also, I was probably giving the wrong signals to worried owners as I peered over their walls, inspected their gardens and kept going 'Gaah, dammit!' 

After half an hour, I was exasperated. the sun was beating down mercilessly, my back was killing me, and I was probably as close to the Rambutan as penguins are to the equator.

As I passed yet another pretty little White House, a voice beckoned me to stop.

Ladies and gentlemen, we shall take a moment and pause here, for the author has closed his eyes and is smiling like a jackass thinking of ...

Right. Continuing from when the voice beckoned me to stop,

I turned and like magic, a gate opened up to reveal the prettiest girl ever. The prettiest girl ever, in a knee length blue dress. The divine  little creature, actually she wasn't that little, smiled at me and said "Hi, I am Lisa. Welcome to the Rambutan". 

And indeed, suddenly,  I did feel extremely welcomed. Suddenly, the heavy backpack on my shoulders felt like cotton, the hot sun felt nice and warm, and the thing nuzzling close to my thigh...wait, what was that..

I looked down to see a giant black dog pushing itself into my legs, hoping I would pet it's ears. "Oh, he likes you" the divine voice said happily, and I wondered if we had spent enough time for me to ask her if she would marry me. He could go on nuzzling if it made her happy, though a part of me felt quite concerned about his proximity to my groin. But then what is love, if you can't even let a predator attack your manhood.

"Follow me" she said, and I walked behind her, just like Mary's little lamb would. Just that, instead of only Mary and her lamb, there was a giant dog too trotting along, wanting the lamb to pet him.

"His name's Poker", Lisa informed me as Poker poked me for the twenty third time in my groin, lovingly albeit. Good name", I replied, and pushed away the poking monster hastily as soon as Lisa looked elsewhere.

In the next eight minutes, Lisa had taken down my details, had handed me a room key, and had told me about some of the best things to do in Granada. In the same eight minutes, I had rehearsed my marriage proposal speech sixty two times. 

"And you must, must go to the gypsy caves"

"In sickness and health, in rich or poor.."

"Excuse me"

"Errr nothing. So you shall give me a key..err how silly of me..haha I see they are in my hand already. So, nice weather eh"

And with such classy lines, I was trying to woo the most beautiful girl in the world. God save me.

I did not see Lisa that evening again. Neither did I see her for almost the whole of the next day, or the day when I left Granada.

After Lisa left to cater to another guest, and the world seemed dull again, I went for a shower. When I had had a bath and came out, I noticed that unlike other hostels, the Rambutan's dormitory rooms did not have lockers. I was to leave my passport and money in the open? At the mercy of seven others sharing the room with me? Well, they were doing the same. So, I guessed I should be okay with it too.

I walked into the reception again, to make myself a coffee. As you entered, on your right was a little washbasin and a platform for coffee, tea and anything else you wanted to make. On my left lay a huge table who's top surface was an inscribed world map. Straight in front, there was a foosball table, behind which stood a giant, giant shelf full of books from all over the world. A few board games sat along with the books. The room hardly had any space to move through, but it was warm, friendly and I loved it.

At night, I walked down and up, literally, the streets of Sacramonte, lost in my own thoughts. From every fourth or fifth house, a guitar or a violin was being played and in the quiet of  the night, it sounded lovely.

 Granada had a different vibe to it. Or maybe, it was just Sacramonte. In its streets, in its gypsies, in its music, it had a unique flavour about itself. And they were all looked after, watched over by the mighty Alhambra at the top of the hill. I found a little square with a bar sometime later, and sat down to have some paella with seafood and beer. And all throughout, I could hear somebody play the guitar from the house yonder. It is easy to lose yourself in your thoughts, to surrender your conscious mind, in such environs.

The Alhambra kept looking at me, from up above the hill. I bought my tickets the next day and saw the palace and it was as beautiful as they had said it would be.

Two days later, I left the city. But Granada had  taught me something that Barcelona and Pamplona did not. In Barcelona, I had begun my trip. Excited and over enthusiastic, I followed all the guidebooks and in five days saw all  the important sights of the city. Then in Pamplona, I did what I had come for. Run with the bulls. The rest of the time, I was either drunk or dancing. Just like the rest of the tourists. 

But in Granada, I learnt to relax. That, travelling was not about seeing the best sights, not just about eating new things, and marking them all in your notebook or diary, but also about relaxing and taking in the moments. In Granada, we sat for hours on the hostel porch, both on the second and third days, high up above everything else, just sitting, talking and looking at the hills, the trees, the man playing the guitar on a cliffside bench, and the Alhambra. If I could, I would stay at the Rambutan for a month, with all those Germans and Swedes and Brits, storing cornflakes and bread in the fridge just like they did, and sit on the porch and do nothing for weeks at a stretch.

Next time, we'll get a six month visa instead of a one month one.

But I left after three days, for Malaga, with the Rambutan, the Alhambra, the past and the future of the trip swimming in my mind.

Wait, we need to insert Lisa somewhere in that last line, eh?

I saw her on the second night, again. I was sitting in the porch and she breezed in just like that, and Poker ran lovingly to her. When I nodded at her, she asked me if I had seen a flamenco performance in Granada. She was wearing a violet dress that ended just above her knees.

"No, I haven't".

"Want to see an original one? By the gypsies?"

When I nodded, she said she would come to my room at 2 am and if I was still awake, we'd walk through the hills, into the caves, where the gypsies lived and see if we could catch an original flamenco performance.

At 2 am, she knocked and I threw the cologne that I had just sprayed so liberally, and opened the door nonchalantly. We walked out of the Rambutan and for the first time in days, I followed Lisa, instead of my Google maps. We walked past houses, narrow streets and squares. I a, jot sure if Sacramonte had street lights, think it was the moonlight that guided us in our walk.

We climbed a wall, and jumped into some bushes, thankfully not cacti. We walked and I looked at the skies and imagined that we were using the stars for directions. Over the hills, over the Alhambra, over Granada, they shone, silvery and twinkling, in the dark of the night. We stumbled over little rocks, and kicked a few pebbles. Somewhere, I could hear a little stream, maybe to my west. At 3 am, we reached the caves, and saw light streaming out of some of them.

We walked inside and I worried for the little money I was carrying. There were a few people sleeping. We tiptoed past them silently,and found a group of gypsies sitting around a fire, laughing and singing. When she sat down, so did I. They looked at me gravely. An old woman spoke rapidly in Spanish, and someone else shouted back angrily. I looked at my partner, but she did not seem to understand too much of what they were saying either. After a while, they were back to talking and joking and singing.

A woman rose and the people cheered. A man joined her, and suddenly the pace of the music gathered momentum.

In the shadows that the fires cast, I saw the most beautiful flamenco performance that I could ever. And I did so, sitting next to a girl called Lisa, whom I never saw again either.

Barcelona - Spain Chapter Two

“So, will you go to a nude beach with me tomorrow?” , she asked.

You know folks, you really should not drink too much with a woman.

But then, I hadn't. It was just my first glass, or so I thought and looked at my glass for an answer. The liquid sparkled in the blue glass, but did not feel in the least to help me out. Instead, I saw in it, all the people I had met in the last four days.

I looked up at her, and she smiled.

Somewhere in that moment, the city got defined for me. Oh Barcelona.

Silvia and I had met only a couple of hours earlier. I really do not know why. Two weeks earlier, I had put up a post on facebook about my trip to Spain, and she had asked me if we could meet up when I was in Barcelona. A luxury travel company wanted an Indian partner, and Silvia wanted to discuss if I could get the company where I worked, to partner them. As we sat in the bar, I wondered if I should tell her that I had quit my job.

Two hours earlier, I was scampering across the road from my hostel, towards Maria Cristina station, to take the train to Parallel station where we were to meet. I was already fifteen minutes late. As I ran down the station stairs, I had no clue which metro line to take.

“Scusa?” said I, in my best Spanish accent, to a passing girl. When I had asked her, she told me that she was taking the same train line, and that we could walk together. In the twenty two minutes it took the train, and us, to reach Parallel metro station, we had figured out that we both loved writing. She told me she was an English language teacher and I yelled. My station approached, and as I jogged out, we promised to meet later for drinks. As I stepped out of the station, just like everywhere in the city, a man was sitting and strumming the guitar. Oh Barcelona.

No, we didn't meet up later. Maybe some other day, some other train, some other part of the world.

When I saw Silvia, she was dressed in an Indian kurta. We greeted each other in the traditional European way of a kiss each on both cheeks. Her skin was light, and I would never have figured that she was Venezuelan had she not decided to tell me later on.

Presently, I was trying to decide if I should start wondering that when people asked you to accompany them to a nude beach, it could possibly suggest that they were hitting on you. Or maybe it was a Venezuelan culture thing, to ask to go to a nude beach together. In India, you ask for coffee, maybe in Venezuela you ask if the person would like to accompany you to a nude beach.

Of course, I had not drunk enough absinthe to come to such asinine conclusions. I looked across the dimly lit bar, and a couple of Germans were arguing about something at the far end. A prostitute stood at the door smoking a cigarette and Silvia smiled at her. She knew Raval really well, Silvia did.

“I don't think I could do that”, I told her laughingly.

“But isn't that what your trip is all about? New experiences? Trying out new things?”

She had a point. You know, I am quite sure she wasn't hitting on me at all.

Let us go back two hours again. When we had met near the station, she had asked me if I would like to go to her favourite part of Barcelona. I asked where, and she had muttered “Raval”. So we walked from our meeting point, across La Rambla – Barcelonaùs most lively and touristy area, full of clubs, bars and performers – to Raval – the poorer neighbouring grotto with small shops and bars, dingy looking hostels, but ethnically Barcelona most diverse side of town.

We stopped at a bar to eat some rice and turkey. Of course with some Cerveza, the spanish word for beer.

“So, Neeraj, you like Barcelona?” I nodded, though I was desperately trying to work the knife through the hard turkey.

Silvia has been to over fifty countries. She left her house when she was 17. I asked her which was her favourite city in the world, and she said it was right there, in Barcelona.

Barcelona has glamour, you know. And it has personality. It has Gaudi, and it has people from all over the world. It has seventy year old women roller blading to the nearby grocery store, it has kids walking their dogs while they are skateboarding. It has men kissing each other on the streets, and it has people with every single hairstyle you could possibly think of. I was walking down the road on the first day, and there was a six foot three man, incredibly built, walking absolutely topless, a bag strapped on his shoulders, lugging another suitcase, on one of the busiest roads in the city. He did not care. Surprisingly, no one else did either.

The city has flair you know.

“Character”, I told her between mouthfuls. “Barcelona has character.”

“You must try absinthe, you know, especially since you have never tried it before”

I wasn't sure if I wanted to get drunk, but this trip was about trying new things so I agreed.

So, we left the place and headed off in search of the vile drink. Minutes later, we were inside a bar with furniture so old that it looked antique, with lights so dim that I would think that they were candles, and a bar table so big that I thought it would never end. “This is where the first bar scene of ZNMD was shot”, she told me and I rolled my eyes. We both laughed.

Minutes later, the barman served us two glasses of the much mentioned drink. To mix the right amount of absinthe and water, you first put a fork horizontally across the glass. Then taking two cubes of sugar, you place them on the fork and pour ice water on the cubes. The cubes melt and fall along with the water into the glass.

“That, senor, is how you drink absinthe”, she told me while raising her glass, following her tiny demonstration.

And that is probably why I like to travel. Maybe to have a Venezuelan tell me how to prepare a glass of absinthe. Or sit across an Israeli man in a bar and have him tell me how it is to come out of school and serve in the army for three years. I don't want to spend half my life sitting on an office desk.

“You know Silvia, I think I can teach english langugage in Mexico for 6 months. And then South America.”

“Absinthe, originated from Switzerland in the 1800s, and became very popular in France, especially among Parisian writers in the mid 19^th and early 20^th century”, Silvia informed me. “Oh, Hemingway, Oscar Wilde, Vincent Van Gogh drank it regularly”

“To Vincent, Ernest and Oscar then.” I announced, raising my glass.

One day, we shall have a Neeraj next to their names.

And that is approximately when, two hours from when I first met Silvia, she asked me if I would go to a nude beach with her.

“I don't think I could do that”, I told her laughingly.

“But isn't that what your trip is all about? New experiences? Trying out new things?”

“Si senorita. But to be nude publicly. I don't think I would like that too much.”

“You are on your way to become a traveller, my friend. And the first step is to embrace what comes your way. You don't have to like it, but try it, and then know if you like it or not.”

We stayed at the bar for an hour more. And then, just like that, we bid farewell.

On the entire way back to my hostel, I pondered about whether I should do it. I had asked her at the bar where the closest nude beach was, and of course it was in the city itself. Though I wasn't drunk, the idea started becoming appealing. Not to go with her, because I cannot imagine going with anyone I have ever spoken to, or known, or befriended. It sounds catastrophic to me to go with someone I am friends with. But it felt appealing, ony because it sounded a hundred times more dificult than running with the bulls.

When I got off the train, I was still thinking. Ahead in the distance, a man in white trousers and a white vest, held a mike and was singing a Catalan song. A system blaring music, and a small hat for coins, gave him company. Three women walked ahead of me, and as we got closer, one of them broke into a little jig. As we passed him, his eyes fell upon her, and he advanced. Taking the surpised woman into his hands, he drew her close to his body and started to dance. She looked shocked at first, embarassed next, and then started giggling. Her friends clapped loudly and so did I. The man continued to hold her close, and kept dancing, moving her around the small strip in the subway, much to her delight.

After about a minute, I walked away smiling. Oh Barcelona.

The Day I ran with the Bulls - Spain Chapter One

As I desperately tried to hold onto something, anything, to break my fall, only two thoughts crossed my head. One, if I was at the end of the heap, the bull would get me first. And two, could it really all end here? How the hell could my script go so wrong.

I turned to look, and the bull stared back at me...

A day earlier, Pamplona transformed from the sleepy town that it is, to one of the most colourful places in the world, as it does every year on 6 July - the date of the opening of the week long San Fermin festival.

People walk all day long on the streets, singing songs and drinking as if there is no tomorrow. Although the opening ceremony was at noon, even at 9 am people were in the traditional red and white attire of the San Fermin, inspecting new things to buy, drinking Sangria, or just walking in the streets. As noon approached, everyone crowded in the town hall square. It was so jam packed that there was not an inch of space between two bodies. And then, at noon, Pamplona went crazy, just as it does this time of the month, every year. All around people started throwing Sangria at everyone, even at the people looking from the balconies above. Women were lifted off their feet and hoisted on the shoulders of their friends. Not just that, every time a girl was hoisted, she was egged on to remove her top.

Some of them did. And every time a girl did, the whole crowd cheered as one. Men tried to spray Sangria all over her naked body, some even tried to touch, but everyone laughed and clapped when she alighted from her pedestal, from her two moments of complete liberty. We shall not argue on the wisdom of the choice.

Some of them did not. When they didn´t, the crowd booed. But mark my words, all in good spirit. Everyone laughed, boy, girl, man and woman. It amazed me, that the whole performance did not feel lecherous at all. Here were men urging women to go topless, and whether they obliged or not, everyone laughed and cheered and hooted.

On the opening day of San Fermin, nobody sleeps in Pamplona. We all walked on the streets the whole day, drinking and laughing and spraying each other. When people passed out, they slept in the small grass beds next to the streets, or in the huge park. Pamplona's San Fermin is an unusual festival, and also arguably one of the craziest festivals around. and yet, despite a hundred thousand people being in an inebriated state, there wasn't one single instance of violence all day.

What i did not know then, as I sauntered happily through the street was that it was the very same route that we would have to take during the bull run. I wanted to do the bull run, on the very next day itself, day one. When I told that to Alberto, a cheery bearded Spanish lad of twenty something, he remained me of a few things that ten people already had.

One should avoid running on the first day, Sunday. It is the day when all the tourists want to run, and have no idea how to. Rule two, always sleep well on the night before the run. Rule three, do not be drunk before running. Rule four, no matter where you start, how fast you run, the bulls are faster. They will always overtake you. So don't get in the way. Run on the sides.

We drank all night. I danced all night.

So, I have no idea why at 7 am Sunday morning, first day of the Bull run, I made my way to the starting line. Maybe I did because I couldn't find my friends. They had all left the dance floor long ago. Maybe because, I had just one more day in Pamplona and I wasn't sure if I left it to Monday, I would one hundred percent complete it.

Or maybe, I wasn't thinking at all. Maybe I like to worry in the moment and not before.

As I walked to the starting line, I thought about the rules. Rule one. Well, I would look out for the locals and follow their lead. Rule two. Hmm, my legs did feel quite tired. But it was only 800 metres, plus we would get a head start. Rule three. I wasn't drunk, the last drink i had was maybe five hours back. Or was it four? Rule four. The sides it was going to be.

As we stood there, a number of work personnel came in their go- carts and cleared the road off all the plastic, the bottles, and every single object lying uncared for. Minutes later, the whole road was sprayed with water. Were they doing it to slow down the bulls? Wouldn't we slip? As the clock ticked, the doubts increased. You have been up the whole night boy, dont do it when you are this tired. C'mon, it's only eight hundred metres. I looked at the street. It was narrow, maybe twenty feet in width, or less. Some of that would be taken by the bulls. How would all of us run?

The first day of the bull run has the maximum runners. What I did not know then was that the Sunday of the 2013 San Fermin had the maximum runners ever.

It got closer to 730 am. Only half an hour more. I found a couple of friends in the running street. James and Capo. The guards were now cordoning off the running street. Those who were waiting in the front, two three hundred metres from the finish line were told to go off to another street and make their way back to the starting point off the race. The guards did it cleverly. They would walk casually among the unsuspecting runners, and after every couple of hundred metres, they'd form a horizontal line. All the runners in front of the line were then asked to go off to another street and find their way back to the starting point of the race.

We all stood eight hundred metres from the finish line at 740 am.

The crowd had taken their positions long back. As early as 6 am, some people had gathered near the wooden barricades at the corner of the last bend, fifty metres from the finish line, and had hoisted themselves on top to get a grand view. In the streets of the race, people who lived there, were watching us from the balconies. And many of them had rented out their balconies to the tourists for viewing the race. People had paid upto 80 euros to view from the balconies. 80 euros for 2 minutes of viewing time.

All around me, runners were discussing their strategy. Some stretched themselves, some jumped, some just looked grim. Everyone was nervous.

A lady was announcing something in Spanish. I couldn't bother about her. All I could think was for the race to begin. The minutes passed by miserably slowly. Also, there was no space to move, there were so many runners. And we couldn't move ahead as the cops stood firmly in front of the first row of runners.
To egg ourselves on, we sang football songs. We jumped as we sang, and the people in the balconies joined in the singing.

At 755, the cops moved away and we were allowed our head start. Some people ran ahead, some stood there. We kept looking back, waiting for the first gun shot that would signal that the race had started. The second gun shot, that would be fired moments later, would signal that the bulls were on their way.

As we moved forward, everyone in the balconies cheered. It felt good.

It all feels good till the first gun shot. That is when the screams begin. That is when you stop jogging, walking, and start running. And when the second gun shot is fired, everything then becomes a blur.

I waited for the second gun shot. A voice inside told me that all I needed to do was to run on the sides. The first people to see the bulls are those in the balconies, and they are the first to scream as well. Within moments, I could feel bodies push me from behind. Some of the runners had already started panicking.
There wasn't time to look back to see who was pushing. There wasn't time to do much. So, I ran in the centre of the street, and again changed course towards the inner side as fast as I could. The shouting intensified.

About two hundred metres from the end, the first bull passed me. It was huge. I don't remember if it was the screams of the people or the sounds of the bull's feet pounding the ground that made me notice it first. It was soon followed by two other bulls, and as we ran, our hearts raced faster than our legs. James had asked a friend to click our video as we ran, but once the race began, I can guarantee that no thought of picture, video, glory, celebration struck us at all. We were running for our lives, and maybe one can forgive the mind
to ignore trivial things like the camera then.

And then came the finish line, only thirty metres away. And that is when the last of the bulls decided to do what we never expected it would.

It stopped.

And then, it turned. Towards the crowd.

In a moment, all hell broke loose. Everyone started screaming. A few people standing on the sides, actually fell off the top of the barricades, but on the other side. It all happened so fast that I really do not know what happened. The next moment, I was heavily pushed from behind and I slammed into the guy in front. Man had, as usual, fallen prey to panic. Ahead one person tripped, and all the ones following fell like a pack of cards right behind him. As I saw the girl in front of me crumble, and her feet getting entangled with mine, I struck my arms desperately in the air hoping to find some support that would break my fall. As I stumbled, and willed myself to somehow stay on my feet, I could feel the beast right behind me. The next moment, my feet flew underneath me.

As I desperately tried to hold onto something, anything, to break my fall, only two thoughts struck me. One, if i was at the end if the heap, the bull would get me first. And two, could it really all end here? How had my script gone so wrong?

The next moment I lay flat at the end of the heap of people on the ground.

I turned to look, and the bull stood, only three metres away. I don't think I was scared in those moments. All i felt was pure disbelief. It really couldn't all end here. And honestly, the run hadn't been too difficult. Hell, I wasn't even tired. C'mon, not like this. Heh, in hindsight, I think I love how ridiculously biased my optimism is.

I looked at the bull, and it looked back at me. It might have been for a second, but in that case, it was probably a really long second, the longest second I have known. The next instant, it struck me that the bull really wasn't moving and was just staying put. Somehow I pulled myself from the heap and stood up. Someone screamed, and I wonder if I should have stopped to check.

But I ran. And crossed. The finish line.

Later I was told, that the bulls usually don´t do anything if you are flat on the ground.

We were back to drinking in the evening, and dancing in the night.

Nero goes to Spain!

I had always wanted to go to Spain. But I never knew it would turn out this way.

It all seems quite surreal now.  One evening last year, I saw a video clip of the Pamplona Bull Run and it became difficult to sleep that night. The next morning, it rained while I was going to office, so I pulled over and called up a friend to tell him that we just had to go and run with the bulls.  He insisted I was daft and went back to sleep.

Tomorrow night, I shall be standing in IGI airport, wondering why I am going alone to Europe, that too for a month. My friend could have had been right that day, come to think of it.

For the past two months, this trip notoriously became the most important thing in my sphere.  From the outset, four things were clear. That I was going for the bull run, that I would not do a miniscule ten twelve day trip but would return only after a month or when my money got over, that I would not do the trip in a planned  manner, and that it was going to be a solo affair.

Of course, each of these four things hugely titillate my senses. As a fifth, I decided not to do any internal bookings. No hotels, no transport. The only advanced booking I would make would be my flights from Delhi to Barcelona, and from Rome to Delhi.

Then I opened couchsurfing.com, and started sending out couch request mail to all and sundry, every day. And the response absolutely amazed me. From Europe’s latin lands came so many mails that made me grin. From Padova, Italy, Sarah Chreyha told me that the dates I was planning to go there, she would be going to her parent’s place, and that I could stay over in the family house. She was also fantastic enough to suggest that she’d show me around two three cities including Verona and Venice. I think I was sold right when she told me about her family house, and I imagined sitting across a large dining table and having dinner with a colourful, noisy and happy Italian family. Hopefully, they won’t be the Don Corleone variety.  I am worried, for Sarah has ‘made me an offer I cannot refuse’.

In Barcelona, my host sounded apologetic that there was no spare room and if I was okay with sleeping on a mattress, on the floor, in the main room.  How can you say no when someone enthusiastically goes out of their way to host you.  In Umbria, my hosts asked me if could get for them, any little souvenir that was uniquely Indian. The couple did make it a point to inform me that they had been to India several years back, that they had witnessed an Indian wedding, and that they had a poster of Shiva in their living room. I promised to gift them an elephant.

 Very soon, I decided that I would visit anyone who said yes to me, and suddenly the Italian leg of my trip also includes - besides Rome, Florence, Venice and Naples - the lesser known but prettier cities of Ravenna, Umbria, Verona and Bologna.

I learnt a lot from people who said “no” to my couch requests too. I would imagine that if some stranger sent me a couch request and if for some reason I could not host them in my house, I would probably send two lines saying that I was sorry but I could not host them without elaborating much on the topic But in Spain and Italy, when people said no, they took care to tell me why. A girl in Madrid told me that her boyfriend had made her promise that she would not host a boy. She felt apologetic and said that we could instead go out for dinner. I thought it was funny for somewhere in my mind earlier, I had figured that Europe was so far ahead and evolved that trivial things like possessiveness would never come up. Of course I was wrong, for humans, whether European, African, Asian, American; black or white; will always remain fallible.

Somewhere else someone told me that their exams were going on, and that my presence would be distracting. I agree, I am quite distracting. Obnoxious too, you feel?

In Pamplona, I could not find anyone willing to host me. In fact they wrote back saying that they would not host anyone during the San Fermin festival.  The population of the town increases from 200,000 to 1 million during the nine days of the festival. So, I pored over a number of forums and spoke to strangers asking about their plans. James Polanco, who has just quit his job in USA, and I shall now be setting forth together from Barcelona to Pamplona for the Bull Run. I plan to bawl loudly if the bulls as much as get within five feet of me. He plans to faint.

And it is in these mails, these forums, these conversations and messages, that the trip formed a soul for me. In the beginning, I was extremely nervous. Makes sense to be that, when you travel alone, when you don’t make any advanced bookings, and when you don’t know the native language. Again, even if couchsurfers do agree to host you, there is always the possibility that they might back out later. I had my fair share of hosts who earlier agreed to host me and later had to say no. Also, how much can you trust a stranger even if he does let you into his house? There were a thousand questions in my head. Where would I go if my host backed out on the day I reached a city? Where would I leave my passport when I was at the beach? What if my money somehow got stolen? Hell, I am an extrovert; I love company, what am I doing travelling solo. Heh, suddenly the rampaging bulls did not seem as much of a tension as these other things did.

But as the days passed by, I think I started letting go. Maybe because I am too lazy to bother, maybe because in the uncertainty of it all, lies all the excitement. Maybe because there is no point worrying. Maybe because one can only try and be cautious. Or maybe because we’ll tackle it all headlong. For I know that a thirty day unplanned trip will bring its share of problems, that it will not be all hunky dory. But we shall see, and know, what we are made of.

As quoted Caeser, ‘Alea jacta est’.

And that is exactly the point of a solo trip. For the past two years, I have read a number of articles on solo backpacking trips. Those who have done it, insist that when you travel alone, you absorb more. Many believe that travelling solo gives them perspective and is a path to self discovery. In my two months of unplanned planning, I have come to know that a solo trip is foremost about stepping out of your comfort zone and having the power to let go.

When I could not find a host in Pamplona and was going through forums, someone suggested we form a group and sleep in a large park at night. Hundreds of people do that in Pamplona every year during the San Fermin festival.  There is an incredible amount of partying on the streets of Pamplona during the  festival, and every night once people get exhausted, those who do not book hotels, sleep off in the park. There are Churches and bus stops where one can safely leave their belongings in lockers, and that’s the plan.

In Italy, when I sent a couchsurfing mail to a particular person, she replied saying she knew no English and was using Google Translate to type out the mail to me. But that she was willing to host me for two days, if I would still like to stay over. The reply touched me for she really did not have to take the effort to send me a translated message. But that’s how nice and welcoming the world can be.

And maybe that’s why we should trust it.

And that is why I agreed to sleep off in a park with a hundred strangers in a foreign land. That is also why I replied to the Italian girl using ‘English to Italian’ Google Translate saying that I would love to stay over. Chances are we shall feel terribly uncomfortable and weird, sharing house together for two days, without knowing each other’s language. But in a trip that is meant to be about new experiences, it shall rank among the top, whether comfortable or not.  Not to forget, I am an expert at dumb charades.

Somewhere along all the conversations, I decided to let go. Let go of all fears and insecurities. I have probably reached a stage where even if I lose my passport, I shall be okay. Works for me if they can’t let me leave Italy without a passport and I am not allowed to come back to India.

I leave for Spain tomorrow. But I never knew that it would turn out this way.

Gullu...The End of an era

For only a dog knows true unadulterated love, and shall never judge you whenever, however you return.

History will find it a tad bit difficult to remember Hector Narayanan for, if we were to pursue the matter objectively, there was little that the little spaniel did to alter the former’s course. Contrary to Homer’s illustrious character, this fellow displayed not the tiniest shred of valour. On most days, he preferred scratching his hinds over fighting wars. On all days, he was scared of balloons and crackers and all things that were not of edible format. If dogs were employed just like humans, he would most surely be a Church priest, his countenance reflecting  age, wisdom and a subtle primness in manner.

 The only rare violent streak in his otherwise benign soul was witnessed whenever Hector was finding a spot to settle down on and found a pillow in his way. In such cases, he would change in manner from a Vatican Pope to a Viking warrior, sitting atop the bemused pillow and massacring it with paws and nails for no rhyme or reason.

It is little surprise then that at this thoroughly non flattering reputation earned him the nickname Gullu. It stuck on almost immediately and henceforth in this article, that’s how he shall be referred to, much like in life.

Literature too, especially of the British kind, would shake its head ruefully at Gullu. For when you read these books with dogs as characters, these books by Blyton and Co, they always spoke of a loyal animal that was forever ready to go on long walks. It beats me why they would not talk of the same loyal animal wanting to squirt every single bush on the way, or what to do when the pooch decided to wet a car when its owner was glaring at you from his house. Instead, they spoke of an attentive, intelligent animal that would know when you were upset and comfort you by licking your face or pressing his furry self into your body. I tried that when I was a kid, pulling Gullu close after being particularly upset after a quarrel with the pater. In the kitchen, mum was cooking chicken and as it happens, the only organ that twitched in that dratted mutt’s being was his nose, not his heart, and with one leap and two bounds he had journeyed the physical distance that separated my sobbing chest and mum’s ankles. Enid Blyton, you and I need to have a separate chat.

The folks of Noida will not remember him much, for it has been six years since the Narayanans moved to Kerala, but if there are any folks in that northern city with a fantastic memory, they would laughingly say, and I quote, “Yes yes, we do remember that Honda City going round Noida every night and that spaniel looking out of the window, the wind blowing his long ears back. Gullu, you call him? Who calls their dog Gullu?”

Kerala shall remember him fondly though. The cats in his street would laugh at him, for despite all their advances, he failed miserably in catching them. The one rare occasion when he did corner a poor kitten, he remembered that the script had not informed him of this sudden change of events, of what to do when you did finally manage to corner a cat. So he stood his ground, bemused and gentle, until poor kitten decided to play Xena Warrior Princess and scratched his nose and walked off proudly.

But lets not just make fun of the boy, and instead let us tell some tales of his studness too, such as the one when he stood on a bunch of rocks and looked on as his family swam in the river beneath Athirappilly Falls. Upset and frustrated at the distance and the water that separated his family from him, he kept pacing up and down on the rocks at the banks. Never having swum before, and having an intense dislike for water, he was at a loss at what to do.

But that’s the thing about love, it does not see rationale. It makes you want to take that leap, to conquer fear and the world, and be right next to your loved ones. And so Gullu jumped, for the first time into a river, not knowing if he could swim, sure only of the fact that he could not stay away from the rest of us.

Moments later, he was paddling in the current, and the Narayanans screamed in joyous celebration, some calling him a stud, some likening him to Michael Phelps, some rushing to hug him. The fish in the water just rolled their eyes.  ‘Swimming, a big deal, really’ they asked each other in sarcastic tones, between pauses.

Gullu passed away three days back, on March 15. He had been sick for the past two years, but even in his last moments, just like his life and illness, he rode it with grace and peace. He was buried under the pomegranate tree in our garden, and it shall bear fruit in the summer. He was buried there with his chew sticks and toys and a banana bread that amma had made for him a day earlier.

 Those who know us will remember him for being all important to us, for being more important than any of us. Those who love dogs and have had dogs will know why it was so.

And we? Well, we shall miss the fellow. The baby. The idiot. We shall miss that face near the drawing room window, a face that would furiously stare back at us from amid the curtains as we came back from the market. Furious, for in fourteen years, he could never really believe or accept that we could leave him alone even for fifteen minutes or an hour. We shall miss that body that heaved with love and anger and temper and fire and that would collide against us the moment we opened that house door.

We shall miss our playful fights, about whom he loved the most. We shall miss laughing at his embarrassed face when we caught him stealing food. We shall miss that happy, now-i-am-ready-to-sleep feeling in the night when he would eventually stop moving and settle at our feet. Eventually, he would make his way into the blanket and would settle his smelly fat self right on our stomachs.  We shall miss that feeling of content when he did so. We shall miss hugging him close.

We shall miss the sound of your feet pitter pattering everywhere, Gullu.  The house smells of you, you smelly mutt, and there shall never be a corner that doesn’t breathe of you. To put it most honestly, we shall miss you.

Gullu, you taught us love. For the entire fourteen years, every day, every moment,  we remained as  fascinated by you as when you first came into the house, and we could never ever stop exclaiming, cooing, wondering, laughing about your antics, your behavior, your mere presence. Even on your last day, you were a baby to us, and you shall always remain so.


It will be futile and never ending if I have to talk of all your stories. And it shall pull at more strings in my heart than I wish.

So let us not be sad or whine. And instead try to celebrate the life of a dog that will go down unceremoniously in history as the only mutt in the world that was scratched and embarrassed by a kitten one third his size.

Till we meet again bro, here’s a toast to you – ‘May you always chase cats and kittens and when you corner them, may you hold back, for it is better to be made fun of later than to hurt a creature’.
 

Attaboy, Gullu, you really did live upto the name we kept for you. Homer would be proud of you.

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