I am sitting in front of my computer at work, trying to tie up some loose ends from stories I began over a month ago
and I can't help but wonder how come its late August already.
More than anything else, it has been a summer of unexpected choices and consequences. I said "yes" to a proposal
I didn't expect until next year and everytime I catch a spec of light reflect off my ring, I feel more and more liberated.
I made bullseye the first time I shot a rifle. I also shot a .couple of revolvers and found that I felt very comfortable
with the weight of a weapon in my hand and that I enjoyed the adrenaline rush that comes with pulling a trigger.
But perhaps the biggest surprise was spending the weekend in Pamplona, Spain, for the San Fermin festival and running
with the bulls. I ran with two friends and as we waited for the shot that signaled the first bulls were about to be released,
several men came up to us to tell how impressed they were that three girls were going to run (up until a couple of years ago,
women were not allowed to run).
That was at the same time, the fastest and the longest three minutes of my life. The crowded cobblestone streets, the
stampede of the stags, the fall and the sounds of the cheering are all a blur. I have never been more afraid in
my life than during those few minutes before the run and I still get butterflies in my stomach when I think about it.
Yes, I got a bit bruised in the process but I ran, from Santo Domingo into the Plaza de Toros. I was in the infirmary
when a moaning, bleeding man who had been gored by one of the irritated bulls was wheeled in, and at that moment, I realized how
quickly and easily any one of us (there were 7 of us total) could have been seriously injured or killed (especially considering
that we had been dancing and drinking sangria and
kalimotxo until 3 am).
But that is exactly why we ran. Because it was crazy and stupid and dangerous, we ran to prove to ourselves that we
had enough guts to try to outrun a galloping herd of bulls.
