MKOTBlog

Before I move on to my flashbackfriday for this week, I want to share with you the music of my longtime friend, Rob Kennedy. For any of you out there who like artists such as Jack Johnson, John Mayer, and John Butler, this should be an instant hit with you. To add a little personal touch: Rob was the very first friend I made when I moved to my house in North Vancouver, and also one of the very first friends I ever had in Canada. When we were younger, you could not separate the two of us. He introduced me to a lot of things that have had, and still continue to have a great influence on my life, like music (he’s an extremely talented musician, a master of the sax, guitar, bass, drums, vocals, and whatever else he has managed to pick up since the last time I spoke with him. He also had a big part in convincing me to start playing music), snowboarding, and my first involvement with sports like soccer and baseball. Unfortunately we’ve lost touch after I moved high schools after sophomore year, but I just recently discovered his myspace page, and I’m really happy he’s kept up his music. I highly recommend taking a listen…

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After a summer in Philadelphia, I head off to a strange and distant land tomorrow, to which I have never been. Until today, I had only heard tales and seen movie depictions of this location, and thought to myself, “could a place like this really exist?” What strange sights, sounds, and tastes will I experience? What kind of people will I meet? Am I ready for such a culture shock that will no doubt be thrust upon me the moment I arrive over there?

I’m talking, of course, about the Deep South of the United States of America.

Yes, tomorrow, I pack my bags and head to Douglas, Georgia, two hours north of Jacksonville, FL and three hours south of Atlanta, GA… or in other words, the middle of nowhere. For 11 days I expect to be dazzled by southern charm, comfort foods, big houses, swamps, alligators, everyone talking like Matthew McConaughey, the lack of civilization, and the remnants of intolerance (prove me wrong, Georgia). I can’t be more excited.

But don’t worry, I won’t be alone. I will be with the rest of the Mask and Wig writing team. Every summer, a couple weeks before school starts, the juniors and seniors of the cast go away on a writer’s retreat to write the upcoming spring show, which is an all-original full-length Broadway style book show. The daily routine is pretty much the same… for 11 days we will get up, eat, write, eat, do something fun, write, do something else fun, write, eat, party, and sleep. For any of those who wonder how the Mask and Wig creative process works, this retreat is probably the most important part of spring show writing. We confine ourselves to such glamorous locations like Ohio and Wisconsin and pump out the funny for hours at a time. It’s exhausting, but also incredibly fun, exciting, and rewarding to see our final product come together in such a relatively short amount of time.

Last year, we the writers spent our retreat in West Palm Beach, Florida. One night we drove out to Miami (which didn’t exactly live up to the hype), and I was faced with one of the most profound questions I had ever been asked in my life.

One of the greatest whodunnits of our generation.

Indeed, who killed Killah C? Who could have committed such an atrocious crime? I guess some mysteries in life were never meant to be solved…

Oh and by the way, a simple search on Billboard kind of discredited your marketing hook, “the most anticipated album in the country.” Sorry about that. I guess I should have guessed by your sophisticated use of print media.

The point of the story is, starting Sunday (I arrive late on Saturday, so I should be able to squeeze in another Philly post before I leave) I will cover my journeys through the Deep South, where I’m sure, I will fit in just perfectly. Oops, I mean, I won’t be “like a bump on a log” but instead will be “busy as a stump-tailed cow in fly time” and “going whole hog” in “giving y’all down the country.” Yeah, I don’t know what means either.

Having my mom out here to visit this week, and the prospect of seeing my sister later today, has really gotten me nostalgic about home, Vancouver. And then I realized, I really haven’t talked about Vancouver much on my blog… so here’s my chance.

Honestly, if you haven’t been there (most Americans I have met have only been there just to stop for a day before heading off on their Alaskan cruise), I really can’t describe to you what a beautiful place it is. Words aren’t going to justify what you will see or experience. First of all, the drinking age is 19, so naturally, it’s better than any other American city right from the start. And sure, it has its problems and rough neighborhoods like every other metropolitan area, but the pristine natural setting that surrounds the city and its fair share of prostitutes, bums, and insane heroin addicts really cannot be beat. There’s a reason why it was selected to host the 2010 Winter Olympics (and yes, we can be friends that you now know I have a place in Vancouver you can crash at for the Olympics). Oh, on a completely irrelevant and disconnected note, for any of my future employers: I will be requesting a vacation for the dates of February 12-28, 2010 to… um… overcome a foreseeable bout with the… flu. Yeah, that’s it. Flu. Don’t want to get the rest of the employees sick and bring down the firm’s productivity! … What do you mean I don’t look sick? I’ve got all the symptoms, like gold fever! Eh? Alright, you can now officially mark down 8.8.08 for its real historical significance: the worst pun found on this blog.

But okay, I guess by this point, you’re expecting some sort of analogy or story that will whet your appetite for visiting Vancouver. The story I tell anyone who asks about Vancouver is my daily drive to school:

Most mornings I would wake up to a misty, partly-cloudy morning. I would do my morning routine of showering, brushing my teeth, eating breakfast, and putting on my pre-determined outfit, as I went to a private school. That, I know and hope, isn’t really exclusive to Vancouver, but the point of mentioning my morning routine is that by the time I finished and got in the car to go to school, it would be a bright sunny day, as the weather is probably the most unpredictable thing about the city. By the time I pulled out of the garage, it would be pouring rain, and by the time I got to the end of the street, it would be bright and sunny again. Typical.

My drive would first take me through the center of downtown Vancouver. I would cross Granville Street bridge to enter the downtown area where I would admire a scene like this:

View from Granville Street Bridge

I would drive through tall skyscraping apartment and office buildings, at the base of which I would watch casually dressed men and women walking into their respective offices holding Starbucks, Starbucks, and more Starbucks. Although many people claim their cities have the most Starbucks’, Vancouver really is a league of its own. For example, on one street corner located on Robson Street (the main shopping area of the city), which I like to call the “Whitest Street Corner on Earth”, the four corners are occupied by two Starbuckses (Starbucksi?), a Banana Republic, and another establishment that is not worth mentioning here because its not a Starbucks nor a Banana Republic. By the way, if all this talk about Starbucks has really triggered your craving for a triple-shot non-fat Caramel Frappuccino and can’t find the nearest Starbucks quickly enough, here is a complete list of Starbucks’ in Vancouver.

Anyway, driving through Starbucks, er, downtown Vancouver, I would get distracted by the city and forget about its surrounding natural beauty. All of a sudden, though, before crossing the second bridge of my trip (the iconic Lions Gate Bridge) I would be rudely reminded of nature’s presence by the enormous Stanley Park. Driving through a three-lane causeway flanked on both sides by towering evergreen trees, I would often forget, in contrast to a few minutes before, that a city even existed beyond the vegetation dominating the sight beyond my windows, rearview mirrors, and sunroof.

After getting through the causeway, I would finally drive on to the Lions Gate Bridge, Vancouver’s smaller answer to the Golden Gate Bridge. Here, outside my car, would be a portrait that perfectly integrated the charm of the city, its people, and nature. Driving across the bridge I would simultaneously observe 1) in front of me, dominating the landscape, the snow-capped peaks of the North Shore mountains and the miniature renditions of the classic suburban homes that dotted its slopes, 2) to the left of me, the beaches of West Vancouver, the vast Pacific Ocean, and far off in the horizon, the outlines of the West Coast Islands, 3) to the right of me, the suburbs of North Vancouver where I grew up as a kid causing trouble around the neighborhood before moving to downtown Vancouver, and in the distance, the peak of what I believe is Mount Rainier (locals of Vancouver and Seattle, please correct me if I am wrong about this), 4) behind me in the mirror, Vancouver’s cityscape adorned with tall, shiny buildings of all heights and sizes, 5) above me, a flying seaplane, and finally 6) below me, a giant cruise ship barely squeaking by underneath the bridge. Traffic jams on the bridge (it’s only a 3 lane bridge) aren’t even that bad, considering that there is so much to look at while you sit there waiting, stupefied that some drivers still don’t know how to merge (enter other inside-Vancouver jokes here, nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!).

And the drive continues. Here, would be a true test of temptation from the Devil himself to skiiers and snowboarders. As you get off the Lions Gate Bridge, there are two options. You can either 1) turn left to go to West Vancouver, or 2) turn right to North Vancouver. Taking the route of North Vancouver, you could go to either Grouse (my proverbial stomping grounds) or Seymour Mountain. Taking the route of West Vancouver, you could go to the third local mountain, Cypress, or get on the highway and keep driving for about 1.5 hours and go to the massive Whistler-Blackcomb ski resort. On a side note, as already mentioned, before moving to downtown Vancouver, I spent my days in North Vancouver, where my home was located a 5 minute walk from the skytram that would take me the top of Grouse Mountain. Yeah, it was pretty sweet.

After overcoming Satan’s temptations, I would then keep driving into West Vancouver, turning off up into the mountains just before the large shopping mall Park Royal. When I was growing up I used to hate this place, but I do admit now that it has been getting much better with its new developments. The food court in this mall was also a favorite location among students who just hated their high school so much that to prevent killing themselves, they would just have to leave school during lunchtime to eat.

From here, I would leave the city behind and enter the British Properties, complete with country clubs, multi-million dollar homes, and some of Vancouver’s most affluent families. To this day, I can only imagine how much cocaine there was lying around up there. I would skirt by the Eastern section of the Properties and drive by very nice homes surrounded, once again, by the dominating evergreens. A few moments later, I would arrive at my school, backdropped by the North Shore mountains. My car would have received its daily car wash, complementary of Mother Nature’s Vancouver rain-sun cycle, which by this time would have occurred about 5 different times. This entire drive, by the way, usually only took about 15-20 minutes in the morning, and probably provided the most VASPM (Visually-Appealing Sights Per Minute) you can get.

Anyway, that was the first and very microscopic insight to my life back in my hometown. If a description of a morning commute can convince you to come to Vancouver, I know I’ve done my job.

Forgive me blogosphere, for I HAVE SINNED!

After a month of steadfast dedication to posting daily to my daily photo blog, I finally missed a day yesterday. Can you ever excuse my heinous crime? To be fair, I have a good excuse… I was in Washington DC all day yesterday to mark the end of my internship, meeting with representatives from the World Bank, SAIS, and a government organization I will not name here.

To make up for it, this will be a two-part post; the first briefly recounting some highlights from my day in DC, and second, of course, a flashbackfriday.

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Washington, DC

As I already mentioned, yesterday was the last day of my internship with a think tank in Philadelphia, and we as a group went to Washington DC to meet with people from the World Bank, unnamed government organization, and the Johns Hopkins University’s The Paul H. Nitze School of Advanced International Studies (fancy, no?). I didn’t take a lot of photos through the day, because honestly, I felt a little uncomfortable as a non-US citizen taking pictures in buildings in which, to work there, US nationals must go through a complex security clearance process. But that’s not to say I failed to pick up some gems, like this:

Crazy times at the World Bank?

Yes, that is a condom machine found in a bathroom at the World Bank. If you look carefully, you can see that you have 3 choices: the 50 cent Bare Skin Ultra Thin Condom, the 25 cent Durex, or the 10 cent no name brand. First of all, do you think anyone actually stands in front of this to seriously consider the cost-benefit analysis of the differently priced condoms? “Well… I don’t know if she’s worth the high quality 50 cent one…” And second, this, in conjunction with the fact they sold beer at the World Bank cafeteria, completely changed my previously held opinions regarding the institution. If there was one place I never associated with naughty situations involving sex and alcohol, it would probably have had to have been, until yesterday, the World Bank.

Later on in the day we met with representatives from the unnamed government organization. I won’t say much about this… but we basically watched grown men and women, deeply engaged in the top security matters of global concern, make fun of and complain about other fellow organizations involved in the same line of business. Oh, and also, our escort (visitors without security clearance have to be escorted anywhere within the building) got completely lost in his own building after taking us to the bathroom, and I, a non-US citizen who could never work in this unnamed government organization handling some of the most sensitive foreign policy matters of today, had to lead him back to the room in which we were meeting. Brilliant.

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flashbackfriday

Now on to what this post really should have been about had I not sinned so badly yesterday. Being on a bus all day reminded me of the annual tours we go on with Mask and Wig. Alright, be patient with me, as there’s some explaining to do. Here at Penn, I am a member of the Mask and Wig club, the nation’s oldest musical-comedy troupe. We do two major productions a year, one in the fall, which is composed mostly of sketches, and one in the spring, which is a full-length Broadway style book show. Everything we do is original material written, produced, and performed solely by students. You can get more information here, but long story short, we take our spring production on tour around the country every year during our spring break. Future posts will refer to tour many, many, many times, as some of my favorite memories from college so far have been from this tradition. It is a glimpse into the rock star life (or the musical star life, close enough), where we do shows in different cities every night, party like crazy, all of this along with massive sleep deprivation for 10 straight days. Past tours have taken us to beautiful and action packed places like New York City, Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Diego, Montreal, Toronto, and Quebec City.

So naturally, I share this photo with you from Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, taken on the first day of our 2008 tour.

Just like my Wal-Mart post, I think this photo sums up the area pretty nicely.

As I was looking through some old photos for some inspiration behind this week’s edition of flashbackfriday, I knew that this one was perfect given the “Fire” theme that has been apparent on this blog this past week.

Awesome.

Now there is an explanation for this… my friends and I don’t do this just for fun. At the beginning of sophomore year, the Department of Safety (or Division of Public Safety or something… basically, the group of people who do presentations on safety at Penn), approached my friends and I and asked us to take amusing photos that taught valuable lessons to incoming freshmen about campus safety. Given this task, we were given free reign over the content, which would portray your average Penn student participating in “unsafe” activities.

Among our humorous portrayals of assault, theft, and drunk frat boy passed out on the stove next to a pot of boiling water, this was our favorite: the classic college activity of chugging back beers while lighting WD-40 on fire.

To my knowledge, they still show these photos every year at the massive safety demonstration during New Student Orientation. So Class of 2012, as you prepare for your big move to college in the next month, remember you can still take part in foolish activities, as long as it is endorsed by the Division of Public Safety.

For this edition of flashbackfriday, I will tell you a story about how I didn’t help someone when I could have, with pretty hilarious results, in the beautiful country of Switzerland.

After visiting Pamplona, Barcelona, and Cinque Terre, Chris and I left the blistering heat of southern Europe and took the train to Interlaken, a city located in central Switzerland and widely known as the “extreme sports capital of the world.” Every guidebook I had ever read praised the wide variety of adventure sports activities, including skydiving, canyoning, paragliding, river-rafting, bungee jumping, and of course, zorbing. I was excited about the seemingly endless opportunities to defy death that was available to me, and wanted to do everything!

Of course, that’s until I realized these things actually cost money, and lots of it. Skydiving, for example, can cost you around $400, while you can do the same in Philadelphia for less than half that price. In fact, everything in Switzerland – food, drinks, internet cafes etc. – is incredibly expensive. My brief protest against the cost of Swiss goods and services (in this case, 2 Red Bull Vodkas) almost resulted in us getting kicked out of the “most happening” club in all of Interlaken, located in the basement of a hostel. But that’s another story, nevermind, anyway…

An interesting fact about Interlaken is that it is the Korea-town of Western Europe. As soon as we stepped off the train and walked into town, I was surprised by the number of Korean flags waving from the various flag poles around the city. Korean flags also decorated many windows, signifying Korean restaurants and Korean hostels. Korean characters adorned the windows of shops welcoming Korean tourists to shop in their stores. I thought that it might have been a joke. Maybe the entire city of Interlaken had learned that I was coming into town and had mistakenly put up Korean flags instead of Canadian ones to make me feel welcome.

But then I realized, Korean people were everywhere. The entire city was buzzing with Korean tourists, and I started hearing more Korean being spoken around me than French and German. If I ever wanted job security, I would work as a tour guide in Interlaken, as I can’t imagine a shortage of business for anyone who speaks Korean there. Remember these Korean tourists, by the way, it’s an integral part of the story later on.

In the meantime, we had arrived pretty late in Interlaken, so we grabbed some dinner and were mildly amused by these condom condiment dispensers.

The next day, we decided to take the train up to the top of Jungfrau, the highest point in Europe at close to 12,000 feet. The roughly three hour train ride took us through some of the most beautiful scenery we had ever seen. The train chugged along past pristine landscape composed of snow-capped mountains, green farmlands, waterfalls, tiny little towns, and grazing cows.

Moo.

Here’s how the journey worked: the train picked us up from the base station in Interlaken, and the ride up to the peak of Europe was interrupted two or three times (can’t remember the exact number) at stations where you would have to either A) change trains or B) wait in the train to pick up more passengers, to continue your journey up the mountain. One of the stations stopped at a little town where you could get off and hike around for a bit. The other stations, on the other hand, were literally in the middle of nowhere, thousands of feet above sea level.

These trains take you up to the Top of Europe.

So here’s where the story gets really interesting. After the first stop, the train got pretty crowded, and Chris and I sat next to two Korean tourists, both male and in their 20s. We both kind of zoned out as we watched the landscape go by, awestruck by the soaring mountains outside of our windows. We came to our second stop, and waited as the train picked up more passengers. Now you have to understand, the train only stops for maybe 5 minutes. People who were smart got out of the train immediately after it stopped to take a picture and immediately jumped back on the train. You’ve probably guessed by now what’s going to happen next, but I’m going to describe it anyway.

About 4 minutes and 30 seconds into our brief stop, one of the Korean guys got up and asked his friend to take a picture of him standing outside of the train (Bad move #1). I can understand Korean, so I heard this, but it was like one of those dream moments where it literally went into one ear and went out the other, and I continued to admire the landscape outside, not realizing the potential consequences of my absent-mindedness. So Korean Guy #1 stood up, and exited the train, leaving all of his personal belongings on his seat (Bad Move #2), while Korean Guy #2 got his camera ready inside. KG 1 then stood next to the window beside KG 2, smiling, excited about this once in a lifetime photo opportunity. KG 2, realizing that KG 1 was too close for a good photo, told him to take a few steps back away from the train (Bad Move #3). KG 1 obeyed, happy that his friend had his interest as the number one priority, and turned his back to take a few paces away (Bad Move #4). As soon as KG 1′s back turned, the train doors slammed shut, and the train started to move.

At this point, I realized what had happened, and realized that I probably should have said something to the likes of: “The train is leaving soon, you should probably stay on board.” But hey, whatever, it was too late by then.

KG 1 started to yell, and ran beside the train, trying to force the door open. KG 2, still holding his camera, stuck his hand out to reach his helpless friend, to no avail. The train started going faster and faster, and KG 2 sat down, shoulders slumped, realizing his friend was stranded literally in the middle of nowhere in the Swiss Alps. Chris, by the way, had no idea what was going on, since he was napping or something. I woke him up and told him what had happened, and we exploded into uncontrollable laughter, with KG 2 still sitting beside us. I don’t know if that guy ever made the connection.

Today, when we talk about Switzerland, this is the story that always comes up. I felt bad for KG 1 and 2, but seriously, it could’ve been much worse. Imagine if two parents had sent their young children out of the train to take such a photo, and the same thing had happened. See? You always have to find the silver lining.

But I do wonder whatever happened to the guy, and how in the world the two of them would have met up again. And I can also honestly say, I have not lost a wink’s sleep over it.

More photos from Interlaken and stories from the actual peak of Jungfrau will follow in a future flashbackfriday.

Welcome to another edition of flashbackfriday. Today marks the 6th day of the San Fermin festival in Pamplona, Spain, better known as the “Running of the Bulls”, so I thought I would share some of my experiences from that event from summer 2007.

This story actually goes back the night before we left for Pamplona, exactly a year ago on July 11, 2007. I was finishing up an immersion program in Tours, France, where I had spent the previous seven weeks. My friend Chris from home traveled approximately 36 hours straight from Vancouver to London, where he then took the train to Paris, and then boarded another train headed to Tours. After picking him up from the train station (which I almost forgot to do because I was out celebrating the end of the program), my friends and I took him out to a bar and then a club where we stayed for another few hours, which was probably the last thing he needed after that much traveling… but hey, I’m a good friend who looks out for the needs of others.

After sleeping in and being about 45 minutes late to meet Chris in the morning (have I mentioned what a good friend I am?), we were on our way to Pamplona. We had had heard so many ridiculous stories about the festival, yet we still had no idea what to expect. For those of you who don’t know what the “Running of the Bulls” is, it is a 9 day festival in Spain where everyone parties 24 hours a day (the bars are open well past 5am), drinks, passes out outdoors in pure filth, drinks some more, then runs down a course at 8am with hundreds of people trying not to get gored by vicious 1500 pound bulls, and then watches the bullfighting at night before repeating the cycle. How can you possibly have any sort of expectation about something like that?

We arrived in Pamplona at around 1:30am, to an absolute silent and empty town. Confused, Chris and I followed a few people wearing the traditional San Fermin outfit (white top, white pants, red scarf and bandanna) to see if they would lead us anywhere. After trudging through darkness and climbing up endless hills, we started hearing faint sounds of music. Then it got louder. Then we started seeing bright lights. Then we started hearing the unmistakable sounds of a seriously inebriated, riotous crowd. Then we rounded a corner and BAM! It was all in front of us. Hundreds of people roaming the streets overfilled with raw sewage and filth. I really cannot stress the amount of garbage you could see on the streets. Trash of every kind laid out in heaps on every inch of street and grass. Rivers of beer, sangria, urine, vomit, and other unmentionable fluids flowed through the streets to the nearest clogged drain. It was as if any sort of authority in the form of government and police had packed up and left and complete anarchy ruled the streets.

Garbage everywhere. Don't even ask about the smell and dampness that pervaded the area.

People were everywhere, partying well into the night. All the clubs and bars were filled until the sun rose.

People were jumping off things for no apparent reason.

A good idea.

And then there were people like this guy.

The end of the either the best, or worst, night of this guy's life.

And I think it was at this point, I realized, that I was going to like this place.

After failing to fall asleep in a nearby park, we roamed the town and took in the absurd concept of this whole event, waiting for the morning and the bull run. At approximately 6:30am, people started filing into the course to prepare for the run scheduled at 8am. Hundreds of drunk people piled in like sardines into the course, waiting for the traditional song and fireworks that marks the start of the run. The song’s lyrics are the following:

“A San Fermín pedimos, por ser nuestro patrón, nos guíe en el encierro dándonos su bendición”

(“We ask San Fermín, as our Patron, to guide us through the Bull Run and give us his blessing”)

Oh, I forgot to tell you this, but apparently all this debauchery is part of a religious event. Cheers to Saint Fermin of Amiens, the most bad-ass Saint ever.

So, I started jogging down the course, past “Deadman’s Corner” because frankly, I was going to avoid any section that had that kind of reputation (it’s called that because it’s the sharp 90 degree turn where bulls usually lose traction and crush people into the opposite wall). All of a sudden, fireworks began going off, signaling that the bulls were on the course, and about to come kill you.

The next few seconds, was one of those weird moments where everything happened in a flash, but at the same time in super slow motion. I started running up the course, suddenly swarmed by a huge crowd of people, pushing and jostling each other, all with the reasonable intention of not getting gored by a giant bull. You could feel the ground shake under your feet, as the bulls came closer and closer and closer. One second they are behind you, then, in a flash, they are past you. The one image I will never forget in my life is running alongside and looking into the eyes of a giant, brown bull, and seeing its massive size and strength no more than an arm’s distance away.

The next second, I was in the stadium. Your feet, by now accustomed to running on cold, wet cobblestone, hits dry sand-like dirt, and your senses are overwhelmed with the bright sun and and the sounds of a loud, cheering crowd. Other than that, I can’t really describe the experience, except that it was probably whatever Maximus was thinking when he entered the ring for the first time in Gladiator.

Once inside the stadium, the second part of this whole event begins. Hundreds of people who just survived the fury of these giant bulls now stay in the circle of dirt and run around as they release a smaller bull, one at a time, approximately every 10 minutes. The bull, disorientated and overwhelmed by the flurry of activity around it, runs around rampantly and tries to gore everyone and everything in sight. These bulls, by the way, have corked horns, so theoretically it’s not supposed to hurt as much… but try to tell that to the guys who got knocked the F out in the ring. I stayed and ran around with the first four bulls, then came out of the ring to take these pictures.

Inside the ring.

Dudes getting own'd.

Now, I don’t want you to think it’s all chaotic and that there aren’t any rules to this event. For one, you can’t grab the bull’s horns. It’s apparently a sign of disrespect to the bull that is incredibly frowned upon. We saw a few unfortunate people who tried to do this, who were promptly thrown down to the ground by a group of locals and given a beating. What a great show of respect! Defend those bulls’ rights and teach those insensitive horn-grabbing bastards! You know, before you inevitably murder that animal in a brutal and bloody bullfight later on in front of a cheering audience… yeah… animal rights?

Oh by the way, everything I just described happened under the watchful eye of this bull with huge balls.

He's watching you.

Immediately after these events were over, it was almost as if nothing had happened. The Pamplona garbage disposal team was probably the most efficient one I have ever seen, who made the streets pristine within an hour after the event. You would have no idea that hundreds of people were out just a few hours before urinating and drinking on the streets. As the clean up started, people were wrapping up the day, and went back to their hotel rooms or wherever they were staying to catch a couple hours of sleep before it all started again.

The only word to describe this whole event is madness. No stories I had ever heard could have prepared me for what I saw and experienced. I would have loved to have stuck around for another day or two, but Chris and I had a train to catch to Barcelona in the afternoon. We met a guy in Switzerland later in the trip (who I swear was an exact twin of Owen Wilson) who had camped in Pamplona for a full week without sleeping. Alcohol + sleep deprivation + bull running = greatest idea ever.

Anyways, San Fermin is a fantastic event, and I definitely plan on going again sometime in the future. If you’re looking for a rush and a good time, this is just one of those things you have to do sometime in your lifetime. And it’s not like it’s dangerous or anything, only 35 people been gored in 27 years and the last death was in 1995! Well, if you don’t count the guy who got his head brutally trampled and died after months of being in a coma in 2003. Wait, why did I do this again?

My one regret with this blog is that I didn’t start it earlier, because I have literally thousands of photos I have taken over the years that I want to share. So, to remedy this, I am starting FlashbackFridays, meaning each Friday I will post one or two pictures from the past.

Before I go on, in the spirit of 4th of July, my newly-appointed research assistant Chris Whittle did some background research on my godblessamerica post. Now I have further proof that not only is that dress/suit bad fashion, but it is UNPATRIOTIC! Read Section 8D of this “Federal Law Relating to Display and Associated Questions.”

So as an addendum, if I see you wearing this, not only will I laugh in your face and throw something at you, but I will feel good about it because you are un-American.

Enough of my “Colbert Moment.”

This is one of my favorites from the Sierra Madres mountain range in Mexico.

Here’s something you don’t see everyday… a pig on a diving board in Prague.