Summer is festival season in Spain. And that means one thing – lunatics willingly placing their kidneys within a hair’s breadth of an incoming bull’s horns. Sad but true. When people think of festivals in Spain, they think of Pamplona’s running of the bulls.

The running of the bulls takes place each year during Pamplona’s Festival of San Fermin, in honor of the city’s patron saint. The Festival has been held since 1591, but was “outed” internationally by Ernest Hemingway’s 1926 novel “Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises.” It has since become a magnet for knuckleheads worldwide.

The running of the bulls (known in Spanish as “el encierro” – which translates to “the enclosure” or, as I prefer to think of it, “you’re trapped, you bloody fools!”) starts at 8:00am during each morning of the Festival. This is an important point. Pamplona’s running of the bulls is not a once-per-year event, but rather occurs every day for a week. If you are not killed or maimed during the first morning, you still have seven more chances to get it right before calling it a year.

The streets are closed off and up to six bulls are released from a pen. The bulls then make a raucous two to three minute charge through the streets of Pamplona – admist cheering crowds – before emptying into the bullring stadium where they are met by the calming influence of a group of steers. Now, this event would be exciting enough as it were, don’t you think? But then add to the mix several hundred crackpots – many of whom are fresh off a night of debauchery – poised directly in front of the gates when opened. We now have an event that might cause even Evil Knievel’s heart to palpitate.

In the interest of full disclosure, Pamplona doesn’t have a monopoly on such foolhardiness. Many towns throughout Spain, both large and small, have a running of the bulls event at some point during the annual calendar. For those towns that do not run with the bulls per se, there are many analogous (and, from the bull’s perspective, equally antagonistic) variations on the event. In my own town of Cabanillas del Campo during its annual July festival, bulls are set loose in the local bullring so that the townsfolk may have the pleasure of leaping in, running for dear life across the ring’s diameter, and leaping out the other side. Other towns tie sparklers to the bulls’ horns and set them alight. Still others herd the bulls off the edge of a pier in furtherance of a bovine synchronized swimming display.

But back to Pamplona. The six bulls that run through the streets each morning are destined for the bullfight to occur later that day. We can make several generalizations about such Spanish fighting bulls.

First, they are big. “Enormous” would a better word. Anyone contemplating a run with these buggers should first find himself a bar in Spain that has the head of a fighting bull mounted on its wall. Stand next to it and take a good look. Your first reaction will be, “Jesus, that head is huge!” Quite right! Now just imagine the rest of its body. Do you remember how surprised you were the first time you stood next to a real, live horse? Remember how you thought to yourself, “I didn’t realize they were this big.” Well, a horse is a malnourished Chihuahua when compared to a Spanish fighting bull.

Second, they are strong. Spanish fighting bulls are a giant mass of muscle. Their necks, shoulders and hump are particularly imposing. A Spanish fighting bull can slide its horns under the belly of a fully grown horse, and lift it off its feet using only these muscles. Now imagine if one of those horns got a hold of a human…even one of those Big Mac-engorged, US-type humans. The bull would flick him into the stratosphere as effortlessly as a Polish-American plumber flicks a Marlboro butt out the window of his 1984 Chevy Impala.

Third, the bulls are fast. Much faster than you or I. ‘Nuff said.

Of course, this all begs the question, “Who is crazy enough to run with these monsters?” The Spanish? Some do, but most don’t. The Spanish are, by an large, content to play spectator. After all, why have your morning coffee and cigarette disturbed by a horn through the liver? Nope, a large chunk of Pamplona bull runners are foreigners. Especially, tourists and backpacking university students who have come to the Festival with a chip on their shoulder, an elevated blood/alcohol content and a misguided perspective on their own mortality.

Since record-keeping began in 1924, thirteen people have been killed running with the bulls in Pamplona. But as someone once said, there are things far worse than death. Running with the bulls leads to plenty of bruises and broken bones and to be fair, I’m sure these injuries hurt like a bitch. But it is the horns that are of foremost concern. Gorings comprise the most serious injuries suffered in Pamplona each year, and the bulls’ favorite targets are the runners’ thighs, groins, buttocks and rectums. A bull’s horn in the rectum! This makes death seem a lot less frightening, don’t you think?

But despite all this, the popularity of Pamplona’s bull run continues to grow. And this year, there was no shortage of participants…or casualties. Set forth below is a summary of the serious injuries suffered at this year’s event. You may think me cruel for making light of such human tragedy, but I disagree. If a person is given the choice between breakfasting at a cozy Pamplona bar or placing his body before the path of a charging bull and he chooses the latter, then he is fair game to be made light of…regardless of the state of his rectum.

DAY 1 – JULY 7:

Eight people were injured; none seriously. No gorings.

DAY 2 – JULY 8:

Various participants were hospitalised with bruises and other traumas, but no gorings

DAY 3 – JULY 9:

A 22 year old Spanish man was gored in the right thigh by a bull’s horn. The wound was 15 centimeters deep. And so we begin this year’s goring season!

A 27 year old Spanish man was hospitalised with a lumbar contusion. Note to self: When a bull is breathing down your lumbar, step aside quickly.

A 22 year old Louisiana man was gored in the left knee. Congratulations Bubba! You are Pamplona’s first US casualty of 2004. If past festivals are any indication, you won’t be the last.

A 22 year old British man received a “slight” horn wound to the groin. Slight? You must admire the British for their unflappable, stiff-upper-lip mentality.

A 53 year old Spanish man was hospitalised with a cranial contusion. Ouch! And he thought his hangover was bad before the run began.

A 58 year old Spanish man was gored in the left forearm. Spain’s pensioners seems especially well represented this year. What would possess men in their fifties to run with the bulls? I’m only 37, and it’s been at least 15 years since I’ve made an all-out sprint for anything. I envision a confused tour guide in a yellow nylon jacket unwittingly leading a busload of middle aged tourists into the path of this morning’s charging bulls. This is the only explanation that would make sense to me.

A 25 year old Spanish man was hospitalised with a contusion to his right thigh. At least we’re returning to a proper age group.

A 21 year old man of unknown origin was hospitalised with a sprained knee. Unknown origin? I guess he didn’t tell his mother where we was going this morning.

DAY 4 – JULY 10:

A 44 year old Spanish man was gored in the ass. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.

A 30 year old Spanish man was gored in the right leg. His ass escaped unscathed.

A 40 year old Spanish man was hospitalised with a trauma to his left arm.

A 20 year old Michigan man was hospitalised with multiple contusions. This should make for a good tale when he returns to the frat house in September.

A 25 year old Spanish man was hospitalised with a sprained left ankle. A sprained ankle? Oh, you poor wittle baby. Please have the nurse bring him some milk and cookies.

DAY 5 – JULY 11:

A 36 year old Spanish man was gored in the left buttcheek. The wound was 5 centimeters deep. He further suffered a neck and head trauma.

A 29 year old Spanish man was hospitalised with a contusion to his right knee.

A 42 year old of unknown origin suffered a broken left arm.

DAY 6 – JULY 12:

Today’s run was extremely dangerous. It resulted in many runners being gored. Details are as follows.

A 56 year old Spanish man was gored twice in the right knee. One of the wounds was 15 centimeters deep.

A 24 year old Spanish man was gored twice; one in the right arm and again in the right armpit.

A Spanish man of unknown age is (as I write this) undergoing surgery for “various horn wounds.”

The fate of these three men highlights a very important point about running with bulls in Pamplona. There is no “one goring per person” limit. If the bull is in a foul mood or just plain doesn’t like your look, it can gore you as many times as it wishes. I’ll bet you never thought about that. This presents one further argument for planning a beach vacation in 2005.

A 25 year old Spanish man suffered a 10 centimeters deep horn wound to the buttocks.

A 24 year old French man was gored in the right knee.

A 29 year old Spanish man was gored in the right thigh.

A 26 year old Spanish man was gored in the left thigh.

From this list, we can surmise that bulls prefer thighs and buttocks. It’s fortunate for all Pamplona runners that more bulls are not “breast men.”

A 47 year old man of unknown origin was hospitalised with a trauma to the lumbar.

A 50 year old New York man was hospitalised with a trauma to his leg.

A 24 year old Pamplona man was hospitalised with a knee trauma.

A 40 year old Colombian man was hospitalised with a contusion to his knee.

A 49 year old Spanish man was hospitalised with a fractured left arm.

Another Spanish man was hospitalised with a cranial trauma.

Incredible, isn’t it? All this pain and suffering in the name of fun and/or machismo. You’ll note the conspicuous absence of women from this casualty list. I think that says a lot about the inter-gender intelligence gap. I feel fortunate to have a daughter…yet fearful about to whom she might marry 25 years from now.

DAY 7 – JULY 13:

There were no gorings or serious injuries during this morning’s run. This is a welcome relief after yesterday’s carnage. Never let it be said that 13 is an unlucky number.

However…that’s not to say that there were no injuries this morning.

A 40 year old Spanish man was hospitalised with a cranial trauma and a scalp injury.

A 27 year old Spanish man was hospitalised with a minor cranial trauma.

A 20 year old Spanish man was hospitalised with a minor contusion to his right knee.

THE FINAL DAY – JULY 14:

A 43 year old man of unknown origin/identity was hospitalised with a 10 centimeters deep horn wound to the buttocks, and a slight cranial trauma.

A man of unknown age and origin was hospitalised with a contusion to his arm.

A 51 year old Miami man was hospitalised with a light trauma to his right knee.

CLOSING THOUGHTS ON PAMPLONA 2004:

The vast majority of injured bull runners at this year’s Festival were Spanish. There are two possible explanations for this: (a) the Spanish are becoming more reckless as their country becomes richer and more modern; or (b) American tourists all stayed home this year to work on John Kerry’s election campaign.

Given the strategic location of most horn wounds this year, there is arguably a large, untapped market in Spain for Kevlar underwear.

The Pamplona city council rejected, by a vote of 14 to 1, a motion that future Festivals of San Fermin shall feature a daily “Running with the Yorkshire Terriers.” Sorry. I made that up.

Wise parents in the Pamplona area will encourage their children to pursue careers in health care – or alcohol counselling.

Of all the beasts in the animal kingdom, humans are the only one that will risk life and limb for something as unnecessary and nonsensical as running with the bulls. We clearly have no business ruling the earth.

Woman smart; man stupid.

Damn! I can’t wait for next year’s Festival.

I went to Bar Alcázar at 10:15 this morning for coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. Unlike other mornings, however, today I went armed with a pen and pad. My mission: To conduct an earnest (albeit unscientific) survey of what the bar patrons were drinking at this tender hour.

As I’ve mentioned in past postings, the period between 10:00 and 10:30 is when the construction workers and shepherds arrive for their morning “coffee” break. Today was no exception. When I took my place at the end of the bar (right next to the Lotto machine), there were thirteen men lounging about; most of them beefy and wearing coveralls.

Here’s what these thirteen men were drinking at 10:15am:

– Five (5) coffees.

– Five (5) mugs of beers.

– Three (3) snifters of anis dulce (i.e., sweetened, liquorice-flavored 80 proof liquor).

– One (1) snifter of green apple-flavored orujo (i.e., a grappa-like liquor; also 80 proof).

– One (1) snifter of brandy.

– One (1) bottle of alcohol-free beer (you guessed it…this was Skeletor!).

And just like that, they finished their drinks, paid their bills and returned to their power tools and heavy machinery. Impressive!

I ask you…What could be more emasculating than sipping coffee and eating a chocolate chip muffin (dressed in shorts, no less!) amongst a group like this?

I need to buy a Harley-Davidson…and quickly!

How I lament the disrespect with which the Spanish wineskin, or bota, is treated in 21st century America. The bota, an essential tool for thirsty Spanish shepherds throughout the centuries and lovingly memorialized in the writings of Hemingway and Cervantes, has been reduced in the US to a vessel used by frat boys to smuggle peppermint schnapps onto ski slopes. What a pity. If more people were to appreciate the history and craftsmanship surrounding the bota, as well as the simple rules for its use and maintenance, then perhaps it would be treated with the respect it deserves. On behalf of Hemingway, Cervantes and my adopted country of Spain, I resolve to defend the bota’s honor in the paragraphs below.

The bota is as old as Spain itself, existing before wooden casks and bottles came in to use. It is said to have evolved from the pellejo, which is the skin of a largely intact goat carcass sewn and sealed liquid tight, and was used by Spanish families to store several months’ supply of wine. It was a line of pellejos that succumbed to the mighty sword of Don Quixote in the upstairs loft of the inn. The bota evolved as a small pellejo, holding approximately 1.5 liters of wine for individual use. No Spanish shepherd would dare tend his flock, or farmer work his fields, unless armed with bulging bota. Botas are still used in rural Spain, and have three common characteristics: they are made from goatskin, have a curved shape and impart a slight pitch flavor to the wine.

Making a quality bota is not like mass-producing tennis shoes in a Far East sweatshop. Rather, bota construction is considered an art in Spain and the botero a respected artisan. Bota-making is a labor-intensive process requiring a period of apprenticeship and a heavily calloused set of hands.

First, the hair of the goatskin is trimmed to a length of one centimeter and the skin is salted in order to close the pores. A pattern is then laid upon the skin and cut. The pattern-shaped skin is folded together, hair side out, and lightly stitched. The botero then intertwines several hemp threads to make one strong thread and rubs it with pitch so that it will pass more easily through the skin. The pitch-rubbed hemp thread is strung through a needle tipped with a stiff wild boar hair, and the bota halves are tightly sewn together. The botero keeps constant pressure on the stitching in order to assure a wine-tight seam. When tightly sewn, the bota is turned inside-out (so that the hair side faces in), wetted and inflated. The botero then pours a brew of hot pitch and olive oil into the bota and swishes it around to distribute it evenly. When the pitch cools, it clings to the hairs and renders the interior impermeable. Finally, the botero attaches a plastic spout (which, in bygone days, was fashioned from bone or wood), wraps the spout with a collar and attaches a carrying cord. Like a high-quality corkscrew or well-stocked cellar, the handcrafted bota is now ready to serve its thirsty master.

But how does one use and care for a bota? For guidance on this crucial matter, there is only one place to turn…a Spanish grandfather. As such, I sought the counsel of 78 year old Julio Montealegre, a lifelong Madrid resident who claims to have taken mother’s milk from a bota when Calvin Coolidge was in the White House. He gave me his ten commandments for use and care of a bota.

I. THOU SHALT NOT INFLATE A COLD BOTA. Never! When deflated, the two-sides of the bota will touch and, being covered with pitch, stick together. If you forcibly inflate a cold bota, you will likely tear the pitch from one of its internal walls. The end-result…a bota that can’t hold its liquor. A bota should be heated with a dry heat source (e.g., the summer sun or a heater duct) in order to soften the pitch before inflating.

II. THOU SHALT “CURE” A BOTA BEFORE THE FIRST FILLING. When you first unscrew and sniff the inside of a new bota, it smells like a freshly paved parking lot. “Curing” removes (or, at least, drastically reduces) this unappetizing bouquet. To cure a bota, pour in a cup of wine and a cup of brandy or cognac. Let it sit for two to three days, flipping the bota every 12 hours or so, and discard.

III. THOU SHALT NOT STORE SOFTDRINKS IN A BOTA. This is both sacrilegious and bad for the health of your bota. Softdrinks will eat away the pitch. Botas should only hold wine or liquors with an alcohol content less than 25 degrees.

IV. THOU SHALT NOT LEAVE AIR INSIDE A WINE-FILLED BOTA. Ignore this commandment if your goal is to dress a salad. There are two ways to avoid this problem. The most effective is to drink your bota dry during the same day that you fill it. Practical as this option may be, traffic police frown upon it. The next best solution is, after a good long drink, to hold the bota vertically with the spout pointed upward and gently yet steadily squeeze the bottom so as to force the wine upward. When you see the first drop of wine rising from the spout, screw on the cap.

V. THOU SHALT NOT HANG A BOTA. If you hang a bota, the pitch will drip down to, and accumulate in, the bottom. The result will be a bota that seems to have swallowed a tennis ball. A bota should be stored flat and horizontal. If the bota is empty, then it is a good idea to cover the spout with a small piece of plastic wrap before screwing on the cap. If the bota should accidentally slope downward and a drop of pitch migrates down and out of the spout, the plastic wrap will prevent the pitch from welding the cap shut.

VI. THOU SHALT NOT WASH AN EMPTIED BOTA. Soapy water will taint the pitch and, obviously, your next gulp of wine.

VII. THOU SHALT NOT PUT WHITE WINE IN A RED WINE BOTA. And vice versa. This is one of the few instances where the practice of segregation is encouraged.

VIII. THOU SHALT NOT BLOW CIGARETTE SMOKE ONTO A BOTA. Most Spaniards break this commandment, but it is still good advice. The bota’s leather absorbs cigarette smoke like a sponge. I once bought a bota from a smoky Barcelona bar. After several weeks of airing out, it still smelled like the Marlboro man’s finger. That smelly bota, for which a Spanish goat bravely gave its hide, ended up in the garbage…unused.

IX. THOU SHALT NOT PUT GOOD WINE IN A BOTA. The bota will impart a slight pitch flavor to any wine that it is filled with, so save your gran reserva for a crystal decanter. Nonetheless, pitch flavor or no pitch flavor, a less-than-stellar wine always seems to taste better when fired into the mouth from a bota held at arm’s length.

X. THOU SHALT NOT RUB A BOTA WITH SUNTAN LOTION. Mr. Montealegre concedes that few people would do such a preposterous thing, but his son-in-law once broke this commandment and ruined his bota. He therefore felt compelled to warn others.

Show a little respect! Slung over the shoulder during a sunny day’s hike (rather then stuffed under a ski parka during Spring Break), a handcrafted and well-maintained bota will provide its owner with years of bacchanalian pleasure.

Listed below is a survey of the business establishments in our beloved town of Cabanillas del Campo, Spain:

– Six (6) bars.

– Four (4) banks.

– Four (4) anything-for-a-Euro shops.

– Three (3) beauty salons.

– Two (2) grocery stores.

– Two (2) video rental stores.

– One (1) Spanish restaurant.

– One (1) Argentine restaurant.

– One (1) Italian restaurant.

– One (1) male clothing store.

– One (1) female clothing store.

– One (1) baby clothing store.

– One (1) bread shop.

– One (1) driving school.

– One (1) English language institute.

– One (1) pharmacy.

– One (1) hardware store (whose stock of useful items is limited, to say the least).

From this list, we can make the following generalizations about the needs, wants and priorities of our town’s inhabitants (affectionately known as, “los Campesinos de Cabanillas”):

– Buying booze is three times more important than buying food, and six times more important than buying medicine.

– Licenses are only granted to restaurants representing countries with good soccer teams.

– Personal bank accounts are either very large (because most things in town cost only one Euro), or very small (because townsfolk can only afford things that cost one Euro).

– Enrollment in driving classes and English classes are roughly equal. Presumably, this is because Spanish student drivers are confused about the four-letter English word printed on those red octagonal signs.

– Men, women and babies are generally well-dressed, whereas children and teenagers roam the streets nude.

The Spanish “menú del día” would be a miserable failure in the United States. After all, you can’t eat it while driving a car or typing on a computer. In Spain, however, the menu del dia is the centerpiece of each workday – and depending on one’s job satisfaction index, it may be the highlight.

A menu del día (or “Menú” – with a capital M, to show my deepest respect) is a fixed-price, three-course lunch that nearly every bar and restaurant in Spain offers Monday through Friday from 1:30 to 4:00pm. Each course provides two to five choices, from which you select one. First course typically consists of soup, salad or a vegetable. Second course is meat or fish, usually cooked a la plancha (i.e., fried on a skillet with a little olive oil) and accompanied by French fries or other vegetables. Dessert offerings might be fruit, flan, rice pudding, yoghurt or ice cream. And the charge for such an extravagant feast? A paltry 7-12 Euros, depending on the establishment’s location and level of snootiness. I should further mention that this price includes a basket of bread and a drink. We’ll talk more about the drink later.

Price is a big factor in the popularity of Menús, but it’s not the only one. We must attribute some credit to the food. I can assure you from four gluttonous years of experience that the food quality at Menús can be impressive, although I would caution against harbouring any delusions of Dover sole or Piedmontese white truffles. Menús also reflect regional culinary specialties. You are likely to find cocido Madrileño at a Menú in Madrid; or lamb chops with garlic mayonaisse at a Menú in Barcelona; or hake with green sauce at a Menú in the Basque Country.

Another reason for the popularity of Menús is cultural. The bars and restaurants offering Menús have stepped into a role that was previously filled by the home. In past years, when Spaniards were less mobile and agriculture was Spain’s main industry, most workers ate lunch at home. Many still do; especially when compared to the US. But Spain is now a modern, industrialized country in which accountants and management consultants are far more common than shepherds. These 21st century workers simply don’t have the time or desire to trek to and from home for lunch. But this is where the lunchtime similarities between Spain and the US end. Spain – mercifully – has not embraced the US-style practice of inhaling a Frito-Lay product from its plastic packaging or worse yet, skipping lunch altogether in the interest of increasing shareholder value or picking up the dry-cleaning. Spaniards are, like the French and Italians, a Mediterranean people who take eating seriously. Even the busiest, most nerve-frazzled Madrid executive will accept nothing less than a full, sit-down lunch when the clock strikes 2pm. Of course, it also doesn’t hurt that most companies here allow their workers a generous 1 ½ to two hours for lunch, and many provide lunch vouchers as a perq.

Or maybe it’s that Spaniards just love being in bars.

Speaking of bars, let’s return to the topic of the drink that’s included in the Menú price. This is one aspect of a Menú (or indeed, any lunch in Spain) that may shock the puritanical conscience of the average US observer: Namely, the presence of alcohol. Most Menús include a small (approx. 7oz.) glass of beer or a ½ liter of wine. A half-liter of wine! The wine tends to be well-chilled (to take the edge off) and comes in two categories: Vinegary and not vinegary; the latter of which is highly prized. And with the exception of pregnant women, odd is the partron who does not have at least one glass of something alcoholic with lunch. This would be unthinkable in the US. The returning worker would likely, upon the first sniff by Human Resources, get reprimanded (at least) or fired (at most). He would also be branded an “alcoholic” by colleagues and encouraged to follow whichever twelve-step counselling program is currently in vogue. Suffice it to say, the attitude in Spain toward the responsible consumption of alcohol during midday meals is more relaxed.

Of course, Menú diners who are not in the mood for a midday snort may instead choose a bottle of water. All Menús offer this option. Curiously, few offer soda. I think this is a good thing.

Lunch is typically followed with a cup of coffee. This is a wise move, considering the lethargy that’s likely to result after downing a half-liter of wine. Some Menús include coffee within the price, but most don’t. It is the coffee course that amuses me most. Why? Because it is common for Spanish lunch diners to either infuse or follow-up their coffee with…MORE alcohol. After all, what’s a meal without a digestif? Typical candidates are anis, orujo or brandy; each tipping the scales at 80 proof. These may be added directly to the coffee to create a carajillo, or drank straight from a snifter with or without ice.

If this doesn’t explain the continued popularity of post-lunch siestas, then I don’t know what does.

My sister Nina is not an adventurous eater. Her philosophy toward food can be summarized in five words: “Chicken good; all else disgusting.” To be fair, she does enjoy prime rib, Italian sausage and the occasional crab leg. I suspect, however, that she views these foodstuffs not for what they are, but rather as a form of genetically modified chicken.

Nina and I have had penetrating telephone discussions about our positions at opposite ends of the eating spectrum. Such discussions tend toward the following:

“What are you doing?” she’d ask from her home in Illinois.

“Just finishing dinner,” I’d respond from my home in Spain.

“What was for dinner?”

“Rabbit.”

[Pause]

“You ate Thumper today?”

“No. We ate Thumper last week. Today we ate his cousin.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s not disgusting. Rabbit tastes really good. You should try it.”

“Right. I’m sure you’ll say it tastes like chicken.”

“But it DOES taste like chicken.”

“You say that about all disgusting foods.”

“Fine. It doesn’t taste like chicken. It tastes like frog legs.”

I had long considered it my brotherly duty to open her eyes, mind and palate to the wide array of food experiences that await even the mildly adventurous. I’d neglected this duty for years, however, because she was a reluctant participant. Plus she had a tendency to yank the shorthairs on the back of my neck when annoyed, and I wished to avoid this fate. But alas, an opportunity arose through which we both could be redeemed. She and her husband came to Spain for a visit.

Now she was on my turf. And thanks to a recent haircut that rendered those tempting shorthairs un-yankable, I confidently launched into a well-crafted plan of action. It began with a tour of Barcelona’s largest and most famous fresh food market, La Boquería. Here she was bombarded with stall after stall of lustrous fruits and vegetables. Each morsel oozing with that magical perfume found only in produce that has been picked when perfectly ripe. She marveled at the fish stalls. Glistening whole fish in diverse shapes and colors, all clear-eyed and smelling of the sea, were neatly arranged on mountains of crushed ice. She stared transfixed at the shellfish stalls sporting heaps of succulent percebes (barnacles), cigalas (Dublin Bay prawns) and navajas (razor clams) recently plucked from the icy waters of Galicia; the likes of which have never graced the shelves of A&P, Price Chopper or Safeway. She stood nose to snout with cochinillo (suckling pig) from Segovia, cordero lechal (suckling lamb) from Aranda and cabrito (kid) from Alcarria. Fresh meat that had not been sandwiched between a Styrofoam tray and a sheet of bar-coded plastic wrap? What a concept! I sensed her growing enthusiasm toward the bounty that lay before her, and wisely decided to forego a visit to the offal stall. A morning’s worth of accumulated enthusiasm might evaporate at the first sight of lamb’s brain.

Having fed her eyes at La Boquería, it was time to feed her tummy. We thus embarked on a rolling feast through Barcelona’s smoky tapas bars. Nina’s world began to expand. She delved into espinacas a la catalana (spinach with pine nuts and raisons), a dish that epitomizes the mixture of sweet and savory that is a hallmark of Catalan cuisine. She expressed profound love for the grilled green onions known as calcots, whose tender hearts are pulled from the charred outer husks and dipped in a nut-based Romanesco sauce. She sampled mushrooms, fava beans, flans and the grappa-like digestive called orujo. But she refused to budge at jamon ibérico (Spain’s famous cured ham), salt cod or the aforementioned cochinillo. This was troubling. She was a good sport up to a point, but that point ended where the “critters” food group began.

To overcome this hurdle, I asked for and received her husband’s blessing to serve a special meal on the eve of their departure…rabbit stew. Rabbit is the perfect meat for an unadventurous eater. Its flesh is firm, white, mild and lean. And yes, Viridiana…rabbit DOES taste like chicken. It even looks like chicken when cut into pieces. As such, I stealthily prepared the stew, brought it to the table in a steaming earthenware pot, and heaped a generous ladle over a Nina’s bowl of Valencian rice.

“What is it?” she sniffed.

“Oh…chicken stew,” I non-chalantly answered while sipping a glass of Rioja.

She inspected the bowl with exacting precision. Hmmm…carrots, onions, mushrooms and chicken-esque chunks of white meat. All seemed in order. She slurped the tomato and white wine broth, nibbled on a small chunk of the meat and then, visibly relaxing her shoulders, emptied the bowl and requested a second. At meal’s end, she asked the unthinkable.

“Can I have the recipe?”

“Sure,” I said, and handed her the cookbook opened to page 130.

“Sautéed Rabbit with Herbs?!”

“Indeed.”

She looked at me with the eyes of a jackal. “That’s disgusting!”

“Come on! It wasn’t disgusting three minutes ago when you finished your second bowl.”

“I didn’t know it was rabbit three minutes ago. You are so mean.”

“No I’m not. I’m just trying to…”

“I’m going to be sick.”

The visit ended the next morning without hard feelings. I felt satisfied that Nina had finally pushed the gastronomic envelope, and Nina felt satisfied that she had an amusing story to share with the folk back home.

Nine months later, my wife and I made our bi-annual trip to Illinois to spend Christmas with my family. On Christmas morning, Nina and husband arrived at my parents’ house bearing gifts. She handed me a wrapped square gift box. This was exciting. Whereas a rectangular gift box usually means a shirt, sweater or other boring item, a square one offers the possibility of martini shakers or Monty Python DVDs. I tore into the wrapping paper, opened the flaps and parted the red tissue. The booty lay before my eyes: a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine, a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and a package of Twinkies.

“Good God,” I barked. “Boone’s Farm? Twinkies? Kraft Mac & Cheese? What? Why? This stuff is disgusting.”

“You should try it,” my sister smirked. “It tastes like chicken.”

When people discover that I’m an American expat, they always ask the same darn question: “What do you miss about the US since you moved to Spain?”

My typical response is, “Besides my family, not too much.” After all, Spain isn’t exactly a third world country.

Not everybody is satisfied with this response. Some even mistake it for sarcasm. To the contrary, my response is one of optimism. I’m quite happy living in Spain, and shouldn’t be made to feel sorry for it.

But I am also a team player and as such, I’ve compiled the following shallow yet well-intentioned list for the benefit of those nosey folk who insist that there must be something…ANYTHING…that I miss about the US.

THINGS THAT I MISS ABOUT THE US (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER):

– National Public Radio: Yeah, yeah…I know that I can hear a live stream through the Internet, but it isn’t the same. Morning Edition should be savoured in a moving automobile; not through the tinny speakers of a Dell laptop.

– Buying English-language books in a store: Most large bookstores in Madrid carry several shelves of English-language novels, but they tend to be works by Dickens, Austen, and that crusty bunch. I’m not saying that being forced to read the classics is a bad thing, but sometimes – after a draining day of work – I prefer to curl up with a tale of Calvin Trillin’s latest dining adventure, rather than one of starving orphans forced to pick a pocket or two in Victorian London. God bless Amazon.com – but damn its shipping fees!

– The Food Network: Spain has its own home-grown version, but it’s a pale imitation. A cooking channel without Iron Chef just isn’t a cooking channel in my book.

– Pepper shakers on restaurant tables: C’mon! The infrastructure is already in place! Every restaurant table in Spain has a caddy for oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. So why is the pepper spot always empty?!

– Traffic lights located on the **other** side of the intersection.

– Light switches located on the inside of the bathroom.

– Reasonably authentic Cajun food.

– Reasonably authentic Mexican food.

– Drinks with more than two ice cubes.

– Restaurants with more than one waiter.

– Shopping from 2pm to 5pm, after 8pm, and on Sundays.

– The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

– JIF, Skippy and Peter Pan peanut butters.

– Bagels!

* * * * * * *

And in the interest of full disclosure…

THINGS THAT I DON’T MISS ABOUT THE US:

– Driving to buy a loaf of bread.

– Shrimp without heads.

– Advertisements containing the phrase “Low Carb.”

– News sound-bites containing the phrase “the American people.”

– Jerry Springer, Geraldo Rivera and Ben Affleck.

– Country music.

– Exposed breast-o-phobia.

– Shag carpeting.

[Note: I would like to have added Fox News and JLo to this latter list, but it would be misleading. The truth is that I haven’t been able to escape these two irritants…even by moving to Spain.]

We were at Bar Alcázar this morning for our sacred Sunday morning coffees and muffins. It was 11:00am. Skeletor walked in and ordered an alcohol-free beer.

We pulled bartender José aside and asked, “What gives?”

“Doctor’s orders,” José informed. “He’s been forbidden to drink any more alcohol. Haven’t you noticed how badly he’s looked lately?”

Actually, no. To us, Skeletor has looked this badly since the day we moved here. But I suppose this is the type of thing that only bartenders notice.

Twice a day, an event takes place in our little town that brings traffic to a halt. Women and children freeze in their tracks. Homeowners peer tensely through their kitchen windows with a feeling of helplessness. You see…every day at 10:30am and 5:30pm, the Milk Dud Revolutionary Brigade rides roughshod through the sleepy town of Cabanillas del Campo, Spain.

OK, OK…so maybe I’m being overly dramatic. The Milk Dud Revolutionary Brigade is really just a placid flock of three hundred sheep and goats that are herded through town twice a day to graze. To be honest, there is nothing revolutionary about them. I just thought that this adjective would spice up the story a bit. The reference to Milk Duds, however, is appropriate. These critters leave a wide, speckled trail of them all about the streets and sidewalks through which they’ve passed. Once you’ve connected the dots through the streets of Cabanillas del Campo, following the Yellow Brick Road doesn’t seem quite so impressive.

The MDRB is based at ranch located a half mile from our house, and they graze at a different field each day. I suspect, however, that such grazing is of secondary importance since most of the flock dines quite heartily on flowers, trees and shrubbery planted by homeowners foolish enough to have built a house on or near the flock’s daily route.

The flock is led by two shepherds, four well-trained (albeit unkempt) sheep dogs and a donkey. One shepherd and the donkey take the lead, the four dogs flank the flock in staggered formation, and the second shepherd wipes up the rear – figuratively speaking, of course. This second shepherd is an interesting character. He is a balding man in his sixties who is partial to wearing straw hats. He carries a cane, but doesn’t use it as a walking aid. Rather, he wields it like a Viking battle-axe, which he gleefully whacks across the rump of any sheep or goat that has wandered more than four millimetres out of formation. What initially drew my attention to him, however, was his left ear. He doesn’t have one.

How the hell did he lose his left ear? After all, sheep herding isn’t an especially dangerous profession. The usual suspects of rural limb loss – i.e., combines and other mechanized farm implements – are more or less lacking from the daily life of a shepherd. I first speculated that the ear was gnawed-off by a goat enraged by one too many raps on the fanny by that cane? I quickly discarded this theory, however. Goats are herbivores and tend not to crave human flesh. My second theory took a more psychological angle. Perhaps this shepherd had an unhealthy fascination with the works of Vincent Van Gogh and Quentin Tarantino. Unlikely! He didn’t strike me as a man of the arts. In the end, I concluded that the answer to this (like so many of life’s other mysteries) could be found at Bar Alcázar, and resolved to tactfully broach the subject to José during a future coffee break.

I suppose this isn’t the stuff of a James Cameron movie. Neither Arnold nor Leo are likely view the role of a one-eared shepherd as being a prudent career move. Still, I find the MDRB’s daily sojourn to be an exciting event – and certainly not the type thing that I experienced with any regularity while growing up in Suburbia, USA. And there is a spicy side to living in the presence of the MDRB. Think I’m kidding? How does possible deportation from the United States register on your Spice-O-Meter?

Last December, we flew to Chicago to spend Christmas with my family. As we waited in the baggage claim area of O’Hare International Airport, I noticed a sign warning that incoming travellers who had recently visited a farm abroad must report themselves to the airport’s US Department of Agriculture officer. Foot and mouth disease had recently devastated Great Britain, and the US cattleman’s lobby was eager to avoid such unpleasantness on their side of the Atlantic. I thought nothing of this at first, but then…as the realization dawned on me…I lifted my foot to examine the sole of my shoe. There, clinging to the gap between two cleats, were the remnants of a flattened, hay-flecked Manchego Milk Dud.

This may someday cost me political office, but I must admit that I was unwilling to risk a vacation-spoiling deportation for the better good of a group of wealthy cattle ranchers. I therefore unlodged that sinister Milk Dud by clicking my heels twice and muttering “There’s no place like home…There’s no place like home.” An hour later, I was raiding my parents’ refrigerator with clean shoes and a clear conscience. Neither parent has since reported any adverse effects to their feet or mouths.