Alright guys. Whether you wanted it or not, I'm going to be bothering you with my writing again. And to kick-start off that effort, I'm going to spend a week talking about what I do on a day-to-day basis out in el campo for Los Alamos in San Ambrosio, Spain. So for the next SEVEN days I will be dissecting every aspect of my life for your pleasure (as well as mine, nostalgically). I will try and remember to link to each other day...
Monday, September 20, 2010 at 12:30PM | 2 Comments
The end of the summer in my town means one thing: the mass exodus of tourists, jobs, crowds and heat. But before that can happen, Los Caños de Meca hosts its final hurrah for summer and sends our friend verano out the door with a bang; literally. It’s the annual Fiesta de los timbales (Party of the drums) called El Noche por la Paz - The Night for Peace (Don't click that if you can't read Spanish). That is when 40,000 people descend on our tiny hippie beach town and congregate in masses on the sand to listen to a hoard of other random hippies beat on drums.
by Brian AuerIf you’ve ever been to the Venice beach Sunday drum circle, than there’s really no need to go to this. It’s basically the same, except add a bunch of live music acts, some fire dancers and about 1000 drums. I know I just made it seem like it’s a lot better than the Venice drum circle, but it’s really not. It’s basically exactly the same. Only it lasts for like 14 hours more, as this festival starts at about 11 AM and goes until the sun comes up the following day.
But, all the same, and in the spirit of not comparing one place to another, I head down to the drum festival with Jack, Clair and our other friend Adrian. We take a cab because we know it’s going to be a crazy night and also because between the four of us, we can’t come up with a viable means of transportation. Adrian rides a dirt bike, which he is afraid might get stolen because (apparently) it’s nice. Jack forgot to fill his bike up with gas before the gas station closed and Clair broke her arm and can’t ride her moped anymore. So that leaves me with the big red van, which dad rightly told me I was not allowed to drive down and leave while I got plastered.
So we spent an hour or so on the beach, watching the drums and the firedancers do their dancing and drumming, while we sipped on our litronas and munched on a bag of ham flavored Ruffles – which in my opinion are just as disgusting as they sound, but with jamón being the national flavor of Spain, I’ve had to get used to.
by Brian AuerOne thing that’s really nice about running a tourist based holiday is that I’ve gotten close to many of the bartenders in the area. Most of them know me by name and recognize me even in the masses of people that trek around in the summer. Most know me as the stupid American who doesn’t speak good Spanish, but I’ve been called worse things, and as long as it gets me recognized, that’s good enough for me.
Especially tonight, as every bar we passed, we stopped, and every bartender I knew, gave me a free drink. Cha-ching! I knew the benefits would come in sooner or later. By the time we got to the end of the street by the lighthouse Faro de Trafalgar I was pleasantly toasted and it was nearly 4 AM. We had also acquired friends at this point who decided that it was a good place to sit down and roll a couple joints. The rest of us non-smokers continued to sip on one of the now 4 or 5 drinks we were carrying (it takes two hands to roll a joint – a super bonus of not being a pothead – cupholder) and enjoyed the incredibly chilled out environment.
But that wasn’t all, after we finished up our beach bar crawl, we headed back into Los Caños to our popular watering hole Ketama where we proceeded to shut the place down – mind you, it didn’t happen until almost 6 AM. As I looked at my watch at 6 and realized that I had to be at work in an hour and a half, I came to grips with the fact that I was not likely to be getting any sleep. It was even more apparent when we were still waiting for a cab a half hour later. When I rolled into my apartment at 7:15 I had just enough time to change clothes, stuff a couple of slices of toast and a cup of coffee down and meet Rachel outside to go tack up horses.
But that’s ok. I have the rest of my life to sleep right?
Wednesday, September 15, 2010 at 11:07AM | 3 Comments
The World Cup is kind of like, this event that as an American, we try REALLY hard to care about, but then we generally end up sucking and so we cease to watch any matches after our defeat and then have some ginormous party for the final where the game is on a big screen in some side-room while the main party is held in another room filled with sounds of the Boss or something equally as patriotic drinking Red, White and Blue Jell-O shots and American flag tattoos on our faces. Yes, sadly, to most of us, the World Cup is just some sporting event we’re usually not involved in for very long and therefore is just another excuse to get drunk with our friends.
For me, this year, was different. First off, I’m living with an English family. To say that the English live and breathe fútbol… ok so ya…
[Begin Rant]
While we’re at it, I will be referring to this game as fútbol. I refuse to call it football (although sometimes I do around here to appease my family and not begin another heated debate about how retarded we are to be the only people in the world to call it soccer) because football to me, is, and will always be played with a real, leather, oblong, brown football and that is the only sport I will ever… EVER refer to as actual football. However, since this post is being written in Spain, and mainly revolves around my interactions with Spanish fútbol, I will make everyone happy by just referring to it as that.
[End Rant]
Back to the Brits. They like their footy. When it’s not on television, the sidebar on Sky with the sports news is up, or Jack’s playing Football Manager (proper noun, it’s an exception to my fútbol rule) on the laptop, or Andrew’s reading up news on the internet. It surrounds me. We had a countdown to the beginning of the World Cup and the fam even bought England shirts when they were in Gibraltar the week before the first game and all wore MATCHING England shirts during the first game. So naturally, in addition to cheering for the good 'ol US of A, I decided to not cheer for England, but to cheer instead for the country where I am currently residing.
And that happened to be a very advantageous choice as – in case you’ve been hiding in a rock, or living anywhere in America where it would not surprise me if this didn’t make the 5 o’clock news – Spain won the 2010 World Cup. And I was here. In Spain! Ya, ok I know that’s not as exciting as being at the game itself, which if you’re interested in reading anything about, I’d highly recommend the blog of a friend of mine, Colin, who was every US game leading up to the World Cup Final and then at the Final itself, cheering on the brave Spaniards. However, this was a close second.
The games leading up to the final were always watched at Miguel’s. For the first few rounds, Vinny, Jose and I would meet about 20 minutes before kickoff and would take our places at the bar cheering loudly, drinking copious amounts of beer and generally not saying much of anything to eachother. The final, however was a completely different story.
Miguel brought down his flat screen from his house and perched it on a sherry keg (how Spanish) outside the bar. We then proceeded to pile every chair, barstool, table and human outside onto the patio, drawing the wind screens down over the sides and top to keep us shaded. We all dressed up in Red and Yellow for the final. Lots of kids came with faces painted and tattoos. There were flags, boas, bright yellow plastic earrings and even a pair of bright red corduroy pants on a man who likely has had them stuffed in a drawer since 1975.
by ArticularnosWe screamed, cheered, grimaced and hugged through every saque de esquina, puerta, mano o falta that happened throughout the game and (literal) fireworks were lit when we scored the first (and only) goal in extra time. The television sound was turned off, the music blared full blast and the parking lot ablaze with bright red and yellow fireworks (there’s no way we got a permit from the guardabosques to use those). And when the game was over, the entire bar erupted. Everyone was hugging one another, there was champagne being squirted all over, there were shots handed out to everyone who didn’t get champagne, grown men were crying and children were screaming. There were 50 year old men dancing on cars and 5 year old boys stripping their shirts off and swinging them over their heads. There was a parade down the main Yellow Brick Road in town with excessive honking, flag flying and just the right amount of screaming.
by ArticularnosIt was incredible. At one point after the game, the crowd was chanting “Soy Español, Español, Español” – I am Spanish – and I was clapping along and not yelling anything, thinking to myself, well, I’m not Spanish. A man next to me who is a patriarch in the community, would be the closest thing to a Mayor I would say this little campo town has (and the same one who was wearing the Red pants) tapped me on the shoulder and asked “Por qué tú no cantas?” – Why are you not singing? – “Porque no soy Española” – Because I’m not Spanish – “Esta noche, eres Española. Ven conmigo. Canta!” – Tonight, you are Spanish. Come with me. Sing! – he shouted as he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the congo line. And I felt it.
by JuanedcSemana Santa. Holy week. When I think of the places I want to spend Holy Week in, I would automatically think that Italy would be the best place to do so. However, having spent a disappointing Ash Wednesday at St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican City, I decided to give Spain a fair chance. After all, I do live here now, right?
Semana Santa, as it’s called here, blew the Pope’s socks off – and I generally like the Pope’s socks. I headed to Vejer de la Fronterra for one of the nights of Semana Santa where they were actively participating in the procession. You see, each village in Spain with a main cathedral has processions. During the month and a half of Lent, each church puts together a giant statue, or paso of one of the stations of the cross, or of a saint or something else significant to the particular church. These pasos are put on giant pedistals for the Lenten season on display inside the church.
by Fernand0During Semana Santa, each of the pasos are laden with fresh flowers. Women come in and spend days decorating them with roses, carnations, wildflowers. They each end up looking a bit like a float off the rose parade. Then one at a time, each church marches their paso up to the main cathedral in town. Traditionally, the pasos are carried by men who have penance that needs to be served, called costaleros. They are covered by a drape that drags to the ground on all four sides of the paso and the men must carry it on their shoulders in bare feet usually for a couple miles. Sometimes, the men even wear shackles if they've been particularly bad.
by JuanedcThose men who did not behave as badly during lent (or whatever you had to do to deserve 6 hours of holding a 3 ton statue on your shoulders) wear large robes called capirote which are the robes that inspired the traditional garb of the KKK. You know, the ones with the pointy hats. Each of the robes is a different color depending on what church you come from and the men march alongside the statues with large grim reaper type canes and torches of fire. If you had told me we had been transported back in time to some sort of Neo Nazi ritual, I honestly wouldn’t have been too surprised. In addition, each church has its own marching band that walks in front or behind the statue beating out the slow rhythm to which the statue sways down the city streets.
by ~ZitaNow, if these streets were wide, I’m not sure there would be too much fuss. Walk a statue, for example, from St. Monica’s in Los Angeles up Wilshire and you’re not going to have too much trouble navigating. Traffic would likely not even stop. However, the statues themselves, being at least 8 feet wide, on cobble city streets that are barely 12 feet wide and navigating hairpin corners ON A 12% INCLINE, is not an easy feat. Add three rows of people on either side of the sidewalk whose feet you’re trying to not step on and I’m not sure what kind of forgiveness would be enough to volunteer me for that job.
by CrucconeOn the final day of Semana Santa, all of the pasos are marched out from the main cathedral. Each church is represented and depending on how many churches or groups you have in a given town, the procession can last 7 or 8 hours beginning at 10 PM (Spanish time, which really just means that it will happen sometime after 10 – in this case, it started at 11:30). We stayed in our spots for about 2 hours and only saw 2 statues march past. There were at least 8 in the church before the procession began.
Needless to say, the only way this whole experience can really be shared is in video, which you can thank your lucky stars, I happen to have. So here is the not-so-short video I took of one of the statues passing by at the Semana Santa procession in Vejer de la Fronterra, Spain on April 1, 2010. Make sure and look for the KKK, they’re there, I promise, but they’re difficult to find (as the KKK should be – can’t be flaunting all that white power around these days). Also notice the 1534 point turn it takes for the statue just to turn down a relatively obtuse angled street.
Also, if you want to read more, the procession I saw was very similar to the ones that take place in Sevilla. You can read more on the wiki article here.
When I first arrived in Spain, I was surprised to learn that since my last visit here back in 2008, Rachel and Andrew had conjured up a new type of riding holiday geered towards those who were more serious about improving their riding ability. Coming to the rescue is Antonio Corrales, friend, co-worker and… Oh ya! World Renowned classical and cowboy dressage horse trainer/whisperer extraordinaire (woah – spell check just let me know I had absolutely NO idea how to spell extraordinaire). Antonio was schooled at the Royal School of Equestrian Art in Jerez and has trained horses that have competed literally up to the Olympic level. Unlike many horse enthusiasts in the area, Antonio makes his living off of riding and training horses and a fine living, he does make.
One of these such “Train and Ride” weeks came up quickly once I moved here and I was immediately thrown headfirst into the world of classical dressage. My riding background consists 90% of show jumping with a small amount of clinic dressage and leisure cross-country thrown in there. For those of you non-riders, this would be like if someone saw you playing football well and then assumed since you know what a “ball” is and know how to “handle” it (he… hehe) that you automatically are just as good at basketball or rugby. Not the case, my friends, not the case. But being that I was an employee, especially, I was expected to, more or less, instantly know everything about the dressage he was teaching. And not only that, but to understand it in Spanish and in English (as Antonio speaks absolutely no English – or as he puts it, “I do know English; I know how to say, ‘No’” which for those of you who are not retarded, is the same in Spanish and English).
To say the learning curve was steep would be a gross understatement, but rather than whine about it, I took this as an opportunity to not only drastically improve my Spanish skills, but my dressage as well. On a Train and Ride holiday, the guests are given hour long lessons on Monday, Wednesday and Friday with afternoon hacks back at Los Alamos and whole day hacks on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. It’s a full week of riding and quite an intense holiday. However, the experience you gain is invaluable as you learn everything from basic circles, shoulder in and half-pass to traverse, Spanish walk, piaff and cantering turn on the haunches.
On top of learning how to do cool shit, the horses you get to ride are really where the amazing part of Antonio’s yard come into play. My first experience with such a horse came within my first couple of weeks working here. Rachel had introduced me to Antonio, but that was the extent. He had never seen me ride, never watched me hack out. We went to his yard one afternoon with our riding clothes in the car “just in case.” Upon showing up at the barn, Antonio proclaimed that we were going out for a hack, to get changed and he’d get the horses ready. As he walked out of the barn with the most stunning horse I had ever seen in my life, I assumed it was for him. I had never seen an animal so beautiful. He was a charcoal grey, large fleabitten blaze about 15.2. He was a stallion with the large crested neck that only comes with the amount of testosterone flowing through the blood of a horse with his balls intact.
Dormilon.Antonio motioned me over and I did the comical look over my shoulder to see if anyone was behind me. There’s no way he’s calling to me. But he was. “This is your horse, Dormilon. He is only three so you will need to ride him carefully.” Um. What? So you don’t want to see me ride first to, oh, I don’t know, SEE IF I CAN RIDE? Apparently, Rachel’s word was enough. She said I could ride anything, so Antonio had brought me, well, anything. I took Dormilon into the arena and played around a bit. The horse did anything and everything I asked him. I could lightly shift my weight to the right and he would immediately turn. When trotting, shifting my weight a tiny bit to the back resulted in an instant hault. It was incredible. I had never ridden something so well trained, and I have ridden some incredible horses.
Antonio never second guessed me, never doubted my ability. He corrected me once and other than that let me get on my own way. He told me at the end of the ride I could ride anything he owned. “My horses are your horses,” he said. And horses, he has plenty. The main barn itself, houses only stallions, of which there are about 20. He has two other barns separate which each hold another 20 or so. He has a few geldings and mares which are mostly horses that have been sent to him to be trained. Most of his horses though, his babies, are stallions. Expensive, hot-blooded, gorgeous stallions.
Expensive, hot-blooded, gorgeous stallions that are now at my disposal. Sorry mom, it doesn’t look like I’ll be coming home for a while.
The feria in Barbate is much more like I had originally expected out of a fair. The only reason for this was that it was, more or less, similar to any we would have back in the states. I actually spent a couple of days at the feria.
The first was with a bunch of friends and two of their young children. Very typical fair experience including riding rides, eating way too much candy and trying our luck shooting cans off a wall and throwing darts at balloons. All of the fair rides are constantly screaming loud obnoxious music. Some of it is discotech type music, brit pop and rap, but some of it is obnoxious Spanish techno which makes me want to claw my eyes out. It is generally blasting so loud that you cannot hear your own thoughts, let alone the person standing next to you speaking in a foreign language.
One of the rides we rode on was a typical train goes around a track and into a mountain tunnel ride made for the kids. Only, rather than having a nice quiet riding experience, a clown armed with a large hand broom beats you everytime you come around the track. Yes you read that correctly, the clown beats you with a broom while you are on the ride. It is hilarious. Don’t believe me? Check out this video of my friend Antonio trying to steal the broom from clown man.
My second day at the feria was spent savoring the more gastronomic side. Barbate is known worldwide for their tuna and every year, when the tuna “run” from the Mediterranean Sea out to the Atlantic Ocean, the whole town comes alive with fisherman who still wrestle these thousand pound fish to the surface by hand. The tuna feria (as it’s known) has tents full of tapas made from the famous fish and most also offer tasters for those passing by. There was even a booth where once a day, a tuna was brought in live, chopped to pieces in front of you and served up raw for anyone crazy enough to stand in the queue for a half hour.
To wrap up my feria experience, I thought I needed to see it by the light of the moon. Knowing I could count on him for a good time, I phoned up my good friend Fran to show me the best time. When he offered to pick me up for dinner at 9, I trembled at the thought of the night only beginning that early. When we found ourselves strolling up the Paseo del Maritimo in Barbate to stall while we waited for the rest of his friends to arrive at 12:30, I really started to panic. “The tents we’re going to aren’t open until 2,” he assured me, “don’t worry, the night is young.” Ya, well… the morning will also be young when I wake up for work at 7.
After rounding up all the troops, we drove to the feria, parked and did what every fair experience began like back in Oklahoma: we drank in the parking lot. Only, so was everyone else. Like EVERYONE else. Hundreds of people with car music blaring, cups full of mixed drinks and kegs. Finally, at about 3:30, we headed to the main event, which was a large seemingly deserted tent in the middle of the feria grounds. We ordered some beers, stepped out on the dance floor and spent the next 2 or so hours dancing, chatting and partying. When I finally realized it was 6 AM and that I had to be at work in an hour, I begged Fran to take me home. As I looked around, I realized the party was just now in full swing, with our tent jam packed with people of all ages and all of the other tents similar to ours lined up along the side of a dirt path just as packed. There were several thousand people still dancing and drinking like it was just past sunset. But unfortunately for me, I had no time to spare.
So Fran dropped me off at home, I changed into my riding clothes and I stepped out of my front door only minutes before Rachel showed up to pick me up. When I hopped in the car, she took one look at me and asked, “Rough night?”
After spending the day in Los Naveros at the horse feria there, I thought I knew everything about how this whole feria thing works. But I was completely wrong. As could be expected, since Jerez de la Frontera has more than 200,000 people, the feria here was much larger than that in Los Naveros. But this was the complete opposite extreme as far as I could tell. The streets of Jerez are wide, and they were lined with booth after booth of restaurants serving tapas and sherry. Everyone was dressed in their finest flamenco dresses and the men were boasting their full vaquero show attire.
In the show arena, men were showing their horses. In hand, you could see yearlings all the way up to aged stallions. You could watch as one man on one beautiful black stallion navigated 12 spotless white mares without so much as a rope connecting them. You could watch full doma vaquera competitions, classical dressage, foals being shown at their mother’s sides. It was amazing. We watched Antonio show a yearling owned by one of our friends Paco. I wandered aisle after aisle of tiny baby horses, some looking like they were no more than a couple weeks old.
Outside of the main show arena, crowding the streets were thousands of Spaniards ready for a good party. Even though it was early in the day, the bars were packed and the streets overflowing with group after group of all ages of people swaying, singing, dancing and drinking. Then there were the horses, some organized, some not. There were carriages for hire with up to ten horses dressed in full regalia with bells, pom poms and giant headdresses carrying people up and down the streets. There were hundreds of free standing horses, ridden by mostly men and children (some of whom looked as young as 3 and 4).
Dispersed in between the hundreds of horses were the parades of flamenco dancers. Twenty or thirty women would walk arm in arm dressed from head to toe in fancy flamenco costumes inclusive of head pieces, bright makeup and matching high heeled shoes. Every 50 or so yards, one of the matriarchs in the group would begin a song and most of the group would start to dance. Sometimes it was organized, with a few girls dancing in the Sevillana in the middle of a circle, but more often than that, it was just a few women dancing and everyone singing and cheering in unison. Each group had at least a couple girls in strollers (but still dressed as lavishly as the rest) and each group had at least one woman who looked like if she took another step she may keel over. We’re talking hunchback grandma Maria who looked about 95.
And the party didn’t stop. We arrived in Jerez around 9 AM and when we did, there were people who were just going home from the night before. The word fiesta should not be taken lightly here.
I’ve grown up around fairs. In fact, I’ve spent a lot of time at some of the most country fairs that exist in the little backcountry towns of Oklahoma. Nothing could have ever prepared me for this kind of fair. From April to November every year, each small town in southern Spain takes its turn hosting a fair, or feria in Spanish. Most ferias are typical American type fairs with a procession of dinky fair rides, chocked full of calorie fair food and carnies. Only, there are small differences, and at some feria’s, these differences are much more evident than at others. My first feria experience was in Los Naveros, a small town about 18 miles away from San Ambrosio.
I knew we were riding to the feria, but I really had no idea what to expect. I had seen the townsmen riding to other ferias in prior weeks and I knew it involved a lot of booze and many hours in the saddle.
We started the procession. Rachel, Vinny, Jose and I left our barn about 8:30 AM and headed towards Los Naveros, knowing we were about to partake in about a 4 hour journey. As we passed by Paco’s house, Paco (and his son, Paco) both came out to join us on two of their stallions. As we passed by Braulio’s house, Braulio joined us on his purebred Spanish mare. As we rode past house after house, man after purebred Spanish man would come bounding down his driveway on his purebred Spanish steed. And after about a half an hour riding through San Ambrosio, we had acquired about 40 horses and their riders. Rachel and I were the only women, but we were told it was ok because we weren’t Spanish. Even though we picked up another 200 or so horses on the way to Navarro, we remained the only women in the procession.
We rode for hours through the countryside. I learned quickly that my Spanish was going to have to improve if I were to survive this day at all. About 11 AM, we pulled up to a field where there were 3 or 4 tractor trailers waiting for us with all of the women in the back. They had cooked us breakfast: tortillas, chorizo, manchego, bread and (naturally) sherry; lots of sherry. From here, the tractors led us – our own personal moving bar & grill. Fully stocked with gin & tonic, beer, sherry, summer wine and anything else you could fancy to drink. And drink we did.
We arrived at a gate at about 12:30 which was unlocked and opened by a man in a golf cart. He ushered the 100 or so horses in the gate and closed it behind it to lock us in as he rushed ahead about a mile to open the corresponding gate on the other side of the field. Suddenly, I realized why we were locked in, as I glanced to my right and spotted a herd of about 100 fighting bulls about 100 meters away. “Put on my jacket,” Paco demanded, “you’re wearing red and the bulls are trained to run to it.” Are you serious? They could see me from that far away? “Well, you’re more than welcome to chance it, if you’d like.” No thanks, I’ll take the jacket. About 20 minutes later, as the bulls slowly began walking towards us, I asked Antonio what we should do if the bulls start running towards us. “You run as fast as you can towards that gate, let the men take care of it,” he casually responded. Great plan.
So I can’t really relay to you the amount of panic that ensued, when a couple of minutes later I hear thundering hooves coming from behind me and a man screaming. I turned around to see a man on a beautiful stallion barreling full speed from about a quarter of a mile away. He was screaming in Spanish but I had no idea what. He was coming right for me, but I had nowhere to move – and I have a feeling if I had moved, he would have moved with me. Because this stud was after one thing and one thing only: my mare. The next thing I know, the horse runs right into me and all I see is hooves as he attempts to mount my horse while I am still on her. Naturally (good girl) she kicks out at him and he runs off to his next victim, which happened to be anything and everything in front of him: four or five other horses, one of the tractor trailers and eventually the ground as his poor rider gets tossed to all ends of the world. All the while, the bulls are standing about 50 yards away just watching, wondering whether to charge or not, and all of us are praying that they stay put; which fortunately, as we picked up the pieces of horse, rider and tack, they did.
Next on our agenda was our parade. A procession of our now just over 100 horses trotting through the streets of town after town while families poured out of their houses to take pictures, throw confetti and cheer us on. And then we were there. We came upon a field with several flagged areas set up, a couple rides and many tents. We all dismounted, grabbed a beer and a bite to eat out of the trailer and stood around with our ponies for the next 3 or 4 hours drinking, chatting and watching the amazing caliber of horses that seemed to emerge out of the sticks of Southern Spain. We saw display after display of horses trained to lay down with their riders on board, horses walking on their back legs, horses doing cabrioles in any empty space and tons of horse related feria activities which included ribbon races, dancing, obedience and then traditional doma vaquera. It was incredible. Here we started to see a couple other women riding, but only on the back of the horse, sitting sideways in flamenco dresses while their significant others rode up front.
Here we sat and got pretty much trashed. By about 5 PM when it was time to start back to home, I thought I was going to have to sleep the whole way back. I’d kicked back at least a 12 pack and a half bottle of sherry. And there was no end in sight as even when the trailer’s booze supply ran out, the men mysteriously produced hip flasks and saddle flasks full of cool dry sherry – full with accompanying glasses and everything. When I politely declined a pour from Antonio explaining that I didn’t have a glass, he shook his head and produced a spare out of his saddle bag, “Don’t worry,” he said, “I always carry an extra.” Of course you do.
So we stumbled (or rather, our horses did) slowly back to the house. At this point, I thought my knees might dislocate. I was no longer drunk, but hungover. It was dark (we didn’t get home until almost midnight) and we were trusting that our horses could see in the pale moonlight. Vinny and I were cursing profusely at our heads, stomachs and aching bodies as we slid off back at the yard, threw our saddles in the van, and then poured ourselves into bed.
But all pain was forgotten the next morning as we recounted the best day in any of our lives and plans were already being made to do the ride again the following year, with a bit more preparation. And as I retell the story week after week for the new guests that come in, I still can’t believe the day actually happened. And I count down the days to submit myself to such misery again next year.
Saturday, October 30, 2010 at 1:45PM | 
Alright guys. Whether you wanted it or not, I'm going to be bothering you with my writing again. And to kick-start off that effort, I'm going to spend a week talking about what I do on a day-to-day basis out in el campo for Los Alamos in San Ambrosio, Spain. So for the next SEVEN days I will be dissecting every aspect of my life for your pleasure (as well as mine, nostalgically). I will try and remember to link to each other day...
