Balcony View

Here's what we saw (more or less) every morning from our balcony on Estafeta during the fiesta.




Those white-and-red clad days passed too fast. We drank too much. Slept too little. Though it should be said moderation was practiced (relatively) compared to other years. Age? Wisdom? Infirmity? Exhaustion?

All of the above.

And until next year.

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Ya Falta Menos

Departure stress aside, there are only good things ahead. A long train ride to the Spanish border. Good friends en route at the same time. A peaceful breakfast on a Basque terrace. The remembering of long hikes, sacrificial breasts and William Faulkner. Home-made paxtaran. Those people in the mirror. Soon enough we'll be driving down a familiar route, finding a familiar face with familiar keys and a familiar balcony. Bullrun watching will occur. Kaiku y Cognacs and mullets. Breakfasts at long, friendly tables. Late nights out and early morning visitors using keys on strings. The Ham bar. Fitero. Sixto. Drive-by the Windsor. Shampoo. Al Capone. Cafe Luis. On the ledge at the Kayak. The corrida. A box of bakery cookies and the lyrics to El Rey. The Geriatric Club. Bets are taken on when the mid-week crisis will occur. It will. And then things will resume. Music in the street, all day and all night. The boom-boom-boom is about to begin and will not let up until the end. ¡Gora San Fermin!

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