Salon Wanderlust | Running with the bulls

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__RUNNING WITH THE BULLS .|. PAGE 2 OF 2

A 300-meter circuit had been roped off in the ancient maze of Nîmes' downtown, and at every feasible outlet a barricade or flatbed truck had been stationed to create a tight, isolated ring into which the bulls would soon be added.
We idled with the throngs on the safe side of the fence as a few sangria-laden men paced about on the course. Suddenly, a gunshot was fired from the trailer that housed the beasts, the crowd cheered and a lone bull loped down the ramp. As is traditional, this one would get things going and the French cowboys monitoring the festivities would send out more at varying intervals, until a total of six would be churning through the streets.
The lead-off bull looked around and deftly swatted a fly with its tail before a man screamed and leapt at its head, grabbing for its horns. The bull, startled, skipped to its right and charged down the road as spectators flung flour in its eyes to piss it off.
I wasn't particularly wooed by the sight of drunken men in bermudas and old Adidas with no socks whooping after a frightened bull, but my brother apparently was, and, as three more bulls were added to the mix, we squeezed through the fence.
An important thing to remember when you're bull-chasing is that if a bull is brought to a standstill and you're not part of the lucky bunch restraining it by the horns and tail, you should run. Run as if your life depends on it. Because once the bull breaks free, it will charge in a terrified rage in whatever direction it is pointed, shattering store windows and denting fire hydrants. A liquor-lubricated woman had already been mowed down on the first day of the Feria, caught by a bucking horn that had cut her femur in three.
My brother and I waited in giddy terror. Unbeknownst to us, the lead-off bull, now thoroughly exhausted, had been halted on the far side of the course. So, as we fled from the three bulls slipping around the corner to our right, we immediately encountered Old Lead-off himself charging in a deranged panic from the left. We slammed ourselves into a narrow doorway and the bulls and their lunatic stalkers streamed past. My brother, his eyes shining with the frothy vigor of a rabid man, hollered something and ran into the street to join the masses, his bermudas billowing about his legs.
I just ran. I found the spot we had entered from and tried to exit, but got pushed back in by a very uncouth individual. The bulls were coming. I tried again, got pushed back in again, and huddled back into the tiny refuge provided by the doorway.
This time two perplexed bulls stopped right in front of me, their harried, puffing breaths adding to the sweat leaking from my palms. "Nice bulls," I said as they looked from right to left and then back at me. I peeked at them, and just before their would-be captors swarmed onto the scene, they gave me what I interpreted to be a pleading look and bolted in opposite directions.
I sidled back to the fence, beat past Mr. Uncouth and tried to shove him out on the course. He whimpered and I let him go, then sprawled myself out in a much larger and safer doorway, wondering just what the hell I had been thinking in the first place.
Eventually my brother rolled in, all gritty and happy. He gushed about how my greatest of French experiences was now complete and how proud he was to be my host brother. I told him to shut up and forced him into the nearest sangria-serving bodega, where he, of course, would be buying.
SALON | April 20, 1998
Andrew Taber is an editor for the Rough Guide travel book series in New York City.


T A B L E_T A L K Mama mia! Italian men: Culturally condoned harassers or charming studs? Join the discussion in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Road Warrior By Brent Gregston Frankfurt: Where to eat, stay and play (04/17/98) Mondo Weirdo An unforgettable introduction to Beijing (04/16/98) On Guatemala's Gringo Circuit By Doug Fine Volcanoes, videos and voluptuous backpackers (04/15/98) The best little pizzerias in Naples By David Downie Where to savor Italy's best pizza (04/14/98) Silver linings in the Asian cloud By Don George Travel execs pump each other up at annual confab (04/13/98) Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Feature archives - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -		__RUNNING WITH THE BULLS .\|. PAGE 2 OF 2 A 300-meter circuit had been roped off in the ancient maze of Nîmes' downtown, and at every feasible outlet a barricade or flatbed truck had been stationed to create a tight, isolated ring into which the bulls would soon be added. We idled with the throngs on the safe side of the fence as a few sangria-laden men paced about on the course. Suddenly, a gunshot was fired from the trailer that housed the beasts, the crowd cheered and a lone bull loped down the ramp. As is traditional, this one would get things going and the French cowboys monitoring the festivities would send out more at varying intervals, until a total of six would be churning through the streets. The lead-off bull looked around and deftly swatted a fly with its tail before a man screamed and leapt at its head, grabbing for its horns. The bull, startled, skipped to its right and charged down the road as spectators flung flour in its eyes to piss it off. I wasn't particularly wooed by the sight of drunken men in bermudas and old Adidas with no socks whooping after a frightened bull, but my brother apparently was, and, as three more bulls were added to the mix, we squeezed through the fence. An important thing to remember when you're bull-chasing is that if a bull is brought to a standstill and you're not part of the lucky bunch restraining it by the horns and tail, you should run. Run as if your life depends on it. Because once the bull breaks free, it will charge in a terrified rage in whatever direction it is pointed, shattering store windows and denting fire hydrants. A liquor-lubricated woman had already been mowed down on the first day of the Feria, caught by a bucking horn that had cut her femur in three. My brother and I waited in giddy terror. Unbeknownst to us, the lead-off bull, now thoroughly exhausted, had been halted on the far side of the course. So, as we fled from the three bulls slipping around the corner to our right, we immediately encountered Old Lead-off himself charging in a deranged panic from the left. We slammed ourselves into a narrow doorway and the bulls and their lunatic stalkers streamed past. My brother, his eyes shining with the frothy vigor of a rabid man, hollered something and ran into the street to join the masses, his bermudas billowing about his legs. I just ran. I found the spot we had entered from and tried to exit, but got pushed back in by a very uncouth individual. The bulls were coming. I tried again, got pushed back in again, and huddled back into the tiny refuge provided by the doorway. This time two perplexed bulls stopped right in front of me, their harried, puffing breaths adding to the sweat leaking from my palms. "Nice bulls," I said as they looked from right to left and then back at me. I peeked at them, and just before their would-be captors swarmed onto the scene, they gave me what I interpreted to be a pleading look and bolted in opposite directions. I sidled back to the fence, beat past Mr. Uncouth and tried to shove him out on the course. He whimpered and I let him go, then sprawled myself out in a much larger and safer doorway, wondering just what the hell I had been thinking in the first place. Eventually my brother rolled in, all gritty and happy. He gushed about how my greatest of French experiences was now complete and how proud he was to be my host brother. I told him to shut up and forced him into the nearest sangria-serving bodega, where he, of course, would be buying. SALON \| April 20, 1998 Andrew Taber is an editor for the Rough Guide travel book series in New York City.