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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