It's 1973 and I'm on my way to Pamplona, to see the Running of the Bulls. I've cadged a lift from this American boy stationed at the Naval Base of Rota. He's a friend of a friend and he's driving to Pamplona as part of his grand tour of Spain. I'm to meet up with Australian friends who are camping in Pamplona and I'll come back down to Cadiz with them after a few days. Sounds like a plan!
The American boy and I arrive in Pamplona. People are sleeping on the streets, the bars are full and there's a general air of party time gone wild. We climb over people and look for the places that became so famous because Ernest Hemingway hung out there. Obligatory touristy thing accomplished, we start looking for the Australians. Yes, where are they? I've been assured they'll be on the outskirts of Pamplona camping in their Winnabago. How to find them? We drive everywhere looking for them. Guess what? They're nowhere to be seen! Where am I to stay? How am I going to get back down to Andalucia?
The American boy suggests I accompany him on his tour of the rest of Spain. Golleee. Slight problem is I don't have much at all in the way of money. He decides he'll just hang about in Pamplona and then take me back to Andalucia. Gosh, what a noble gesture!
"I'll still see the sights of Spain. We can go back a different route." He smiles broadly.
Okay. What the heck? Even although I hardly know this American boy, he does seem polite and quite unassuming. One might even describe him as a gentleman.
Now, gentlemen do lie. And words are cheap. That's what I've always heard. But still.
That night, we're dancing on the streets with all the crazy people who are boozing it up and singing away as if this was their last day on earth. All the hotels are fully booked, so we just know that we'll be sleeping in his car, or on the street. No rush, the night is still young. We keep dancing along one street and then another. People are hugging us, complete strangers grab our arms and walk with us, laughing hysterically.
The American boy calls out to me, "I'm gonna run with the bulls!"
"Really? It's dangerous! And, you don't have the red hat and scarf thing, do you?"
"I'll figure it out." He's grinning from ear to ear as he steps off the narrow pavement on to the road and trips over someone's feet. He goes down with a thud.
No longer grinning, he lies there, his body twisted.
"Are you okay? For heaven's sake, what happened?" It's so obvious what happened, but I ask anyway. He really looks a poor soul lying there on the street here in Pamplona.
"My ankle hurts! Ohhh!" He hops over to the pavement and sits down. "Ohhh, my ankle! My ankle. It really hurts! I don't think I can walk!"
Well, all those new-found friends we had just met disappear down the road all the while skipping and dancing. They probably don't even know that we're still here, so intent are they on making merriment. I've suddenly got a headache. All this Pamplona stuff is becoming one big nusiance. No Australians with their camper, no hotel rooms, and now this, the American boy damaging his ankle, unable to walk.
"I need a hospital." He's whining, his head held between two hands. "I think my ankle is broken."
I run into a bar and ask the barman where the nearest hospital is. Turns out it's not too far.
"Can you make it to the hospital? It's close by."
"I'll try. I sure will." He really does seem in a great deal of pain.
He hops along, hanging on to my shoulder, and somehow we make it down the road.
"One thing." He stops hopping and stares at me intently.
I can't imagine what he's about to say next. I hope it's not that he has to do the toilet and that he needs me to help him. Gosh, I hope not!
"Promise that you won't tell anybody what happened here tonight."
"Okay." I am so relieved that he doesn't want me to help him do the toilet.
"I'm going to tell people that I hurt my ankle running with the bulls." He grimaces, obviously in pain. "You keep quiet about it. Okay?"
"Yes, yes. I promise."
"Everyone sure will be impressed when I tell them I got injured in Pamplona, running with the bulls." His eyes glaze over as he imagines the praise and admiration of his friends.
Now, maybe it's just me, but I feel he'd be lying if he were to tell this story. And here was I thinking he is a polite, unassuming gentleman. I'm beginning to wonder who else has tall stories about running with the bulls in Pamplona?