first night in La Neza, Enid and I bought a quart of Victoria and climbed way up to the roof of my building. The bright lights of the city spread around us and ascended the mountainsides that surround D.F. like a cloud of pulsing lightning bugs. Enid was more beautiful than ever with her short black hair, dark skin, and big full lips. I marveled at how I’d found this gem of a girl and ended up in this monstrous third world maze as we passed the quart back and forth. Some neighborhood kids began to call up to us and talk shit from down on the street. So I poured some beer down at them and called them “little motherfuckers,” playfully. They just giggled and repeated “Motherfuckers! Motherfuckers!” and before you knew it we were exchanging lessons on swearing in our respective languages and swiftly becoming friends.
I wrote every day and hung out with Enid at night. This family that lived down the block from me befriended me. They were six kids from about eight to sixteen years old; a few of the boys were there for the welcoming party swearing lessons. They wanted to learn more English, and after I’d written all day they’d come and knock on my door yelling, “Willians” (they thought that was my name) until I came downstairs. They’d take me to go play soccer or play video games at the arcade; they taught me Spanish and I taught them English. I thought I’d have a check coming from home but it never came, and I was extremely low on money. So I survived mainly on Ramen noodles. When they found out I didn’t have money for food they began to trick me into coming to their home to eat dinner. I would refuse to go, but their mother would ask me to come and eat. The generosity of these people was just heartbreaking. I only was ever in their kitchen/dining room but the last day I was there one of the kids brought me into the bedroom to see something. Ignorance made me assume the house was big, but when I stepped into the other room I saw that they all slept in the second room. This just magnified my gratitude; they were so poor and had given me so much. I finished the book, ran out of money, and went home in early February.
Worked, saved, and came to be with Enid that June. Luckily I had money this time and gave the family a letter thanking each and every one of them for all the wonderful fun we’d had. I put a couple hundred bucks in the envelope. Knowing they’d give the money back, I told them not to open it until I left. I’d still go to visit those guys, but they moved away and we lost touch. Afterward I took Enid to a small town on the beach in Veracruz. I asked her to marry me on a little dirt road down the street from the house we’d rented. She said yes. I promised her that I would be a better man and I’ve striven every day to be that. We made crazy plans for our future. Our dreams filled us with astonishing hope.
BUFFALO
Returned to Pamplona that July. I’d stayed in contact with Graeme Galloway. He offered for me to come and work for him in his travel group, the Pamplona Posse. I said, “It sure as hell’d beat sleeping on the street,” and signed on. I walked up to Graeme the afternoon of the sixth of July outside of The Harp bar on St. Nicholas. He staggered drunk from the Chupinazo and didn’t recognize me. He kept asking if I was a punter. I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Exhausted from the long trip I almost told him “go fuck yourself” and walked off, but eventually they handed me a drink and the job of bringing punters, tourists staying with the Posse, up to their rooms above the bar.
The Posse consisted of several dozen workers from all over the English-speaking world. Australians, Canadians, New Zealanders, Irish, Scots, English, and of course a few Americans; most were in their early twenties. I found an instant kindred spirit with a forty-something American from New Jersey named Gary Masi. Gary was an ex-New Jersey cop. He was big and athletic and a sick fucker. He reminded me of my football buddies. It was Gary’s and my job to settle any disputes with punters, assess and fix any damage they caused the several dozen apartments throughout the old section of town, and to kick out any punters who’d overstayed their booking. We played good cop, bad cop, and I was always the bad cop. Each morning after the run we went back to the restaurant above The Harp and ate a free breakfast: either eggs with bacon or Rabo de Toro, fighting-bull tail stew, butchered and bought straight from the Plaza de Toros. It’s a thick, spicy concoction, wholesome and hearty. Eating Rabo de Toro gave me this sense of completion: the hunt, the kill, and the feast. I ate Rabo de Toro every morning and drank red wine. After that, Gary and I’d take a full bottle of red and drift downstairs and out into the brisk and vibrant fiesta morning with our to-do list—passing the bottle back and forth along the way. The adrenaline of the morning’s run still buzzing through us, we tried to top each other with gross-out jokes; Gary always seemed to win. It was a paradisiacal existence. I threatened any cocky Englishman who spoke out of turn with serious bodily harm while Gary explained that it was time for everyone to leave or pay for an extra day. We’d laugh and bust each other’s balls along the way.
Was sitting in the plaza one night when Galloway introduced me to an elderly woman named Frosty. She was a frail, white-haired lady in her eighties and a bull runner. Graeme would position her in between two drainpipes along Estafeta behind Bar Windsor where she’d puff on a Marlboro Red as the herd rambled past. Frosty also had a long, storied history at fiesta, where she never lit her own cigarette. I lit a bunch of Frosty’s smokes as she told me stories about her decades at fiesta.
“One morning I was there on the street smoking my cigarette when the glorious herd swept past. Suddenly a few moments later a marvelous black bull appeared. He stopped right in front of me. I just froze, thinking, good heavens Frosty, what have you gotten yourself into now? He looked at me just a few feet away and tried to figure out just exactly what I was. Then the great Spanish runner José Antonio appeared. José called to the grand animal and swooped him away up the street. I really love José; he’s a dear chap.”
José Antonio wasn’t just a heroic runner who saves frail, old grandmothers. José also happened to be deaf and mute. His brother suffered from the same disabilities. His brother also had an anger problem, but José was different. He was very kind and friendly. José is one of the greatest communicators I’ve ever encountered. He’ll give all of himself to tell a simple story, using body language and objects and even writing words when needed. He is an incredibly giving friend as well. He runs the curve. To run with bulls is incredibly difficult, but to do it without the use of a fundamental sense like hearing raises the danger to outrageous heights. But the fact that José Antonio stands in the near center of the curve and waits for the animals to hit the wall before running just shows you the type of phenomenal, raw courage that churns in this man’s heart.
This time, I did plenty of research on the run in the leadup to Pamplona. I found an interesting article in the New York Times by a New York bar owner named Joe Distler. A Spanish newspaper recognized Distler as one of the five greatest runners of a twenty-year period. I’d met Distler briefly the year before and asked him a few questions. He was one of the nicer guys, with his spiked gray hair, big smile, and peppy Brooklyn accent.
Distler was a successful businessman when he read about the great American bull runner Matt Carney. At age twenty-two, Distler set out to travel to Pamplona and run with Carney.
“On my first run I ran into the arena way ahead of the herd. The Spanish taunt runners who do this and mockingly call them valientes (brave ones). I ran to the wall and jumped it, and when the herd entered the arena, the sight of those incredible bulls scared me so much that I pissed my pants. I was hitchhiking my way out of town when I stopped. I realized if the run had had such a powerful effect on me, that there must be something important back there on the street. I went back and followed Carney the next day. Later Carney became my maestro. The run was different back then. There was only a handful of runners on the street. It was wide open. It wasn’t until television and later ESPN came that the thousands of runners poured in from all over the world.”
Distler became a legend to the Pamplonicos by running on the horns of bulls for over forty years. He had the grace of a ballet dancer and a magical fluidity and speed to find his way into the pack. That, combined with his raw courage, luck, and fate, allowed him to become just the second American in
