It’s that time of year again when the residents of Spain’s bigger cities flock to the beaches leaving urban epicenters like Madrid more like ghost towns. People skip pueblo like it’s Armageddon. The same streets that are usually buzzing with booming Spanish voices and horn honking (I never really escape it) are eerily quiet on August afternoons. Aside from this mass exodus to the coastline, August is also often the time of year that towns celebrate their fiestas – a week of celebration in honor of the city’s patron saint.



It just so happens that our town, San Sebastián de los Reyes (a part of the community of Madrid), celebrates its fiestas during the last week of August. Essentially this entails a week-long carnival of chocolate covered churros, concession stands where you can win a jamón (just what I’ve always wanted – no, really!!!), roller coaster rides, and….the running of the bulls! Always out-shined by its more popular rival in Pamplona, the running of the bulls, or “encierros” as it is called in Spanish, in San Sebastián de los Reyes is indeed the second largest in Spain. I like to think of the running of the bulls in Pamplona as the run for tourists – while this may not be so true, I can guarantee you that non-Spaniards are far and few between at the encierros in my lovely town just ten minutes away from Madrid.


Early in the morning for a week, people eagerly mount the fence-guarded streets of SanSe (an affectionate abbreviation of the city name) to witness all the Spanish crazies that decide they want to run along side the bulls. Perched on top of these fences you wait wobbly as the designated shepherds of the race stretch their legs while clasping on to their sticks that will be used to ensure the bulls keep on the move. At this early Spanish hour, drunken teenagers with mullets and abnormally large numbers of piercings are a more likely site than bulls, but just as entertaining nonetheless.





Despite the potential chaos, as the clock approaches 8am, everything falls into place – fence watchers brace themselves (I clutch onto Jacobo for dear life), runners take their final calm breathes, and silence ensues as the firework man (I’m sure he has some fancy Spanish title like “fireworkerero” – I’ll do my research and add that to a follow-up post of Awesomely Spanish Jobs) prepares his rocket. What’s this you ask? It signals the start of the run, and let me tell you, this is not a normal firework that bursts into an array of beautiful colors and is accompanied by a friendly boom. The first few times I heard it while lying fast asleep in bed I legitimately thought it was a bomb and that the world was ending – no, really, I did. This sensation still hasn’t changed, but at least now I realize a few moments after I wake up that in reality it is not a bomb and, no, the world will go on for another day, or at least long enough for the bulls to do their run.






With that, the bulls run and charge, probably as lost, confused and angry about the sound of the firework as I was. The majority of the runners (particularly those with mullets and peculiar piercings) run way ahead of the bulls, out of harm’s way, only to secure their free spot in the Plaza de Toros (where later they let younger bulls chase around these same young, invincible-minded teenagers). After this first group of people staggers its way to the Plaza, there are seconds of deafening silence before the real deal begins. Then, in the flip of a Spanish tortilla, you see a rush of people sprinting as though their lives depended on it (oh wait, they do!) intermixed with several hundred pound bulls and the alarmingly peaceful sound of cow bells strapped around their necks.


And then it’s over. People plop off the fences like rubber duckies in one of the carnival games, rushing to the cafeterias that line the street in order to watch the never-ending loop of run-replays. While folks sip on their coffees and chow down on their chocolate and churros, their eyes remain glued to the television as though each replay of the run were the first they’d ever seen. Then you go home and inevitably every time the news comes on they passionately show the run again just in case you missed it the first 50 times. And heaven forbid there be an accident or injury – this will be played in slow-motion, close up, multiple times so that the viewer may carefully analyze exactly which bones were broken and what puncture wounds may have been incurred.


Welcome to Spain my friends. Until next year, felices fiestas!

You thought my honeymoon was over, didn’t you? So did I. Well, the “luna de miel” gods must have been feeling generous as we were given the gift of one extra quick stop on our trip – Bangkok. In the original itinerary for our trip, we were supposed to start in Bangkok for several days before resuming the rest of our journey. Although given the political unrest at the time in Bangkok, we (and by we, I mean Jacobo) decided to go with a country that wasn’t having any anarchist uprisings, which took us to Vietnam instead. I couldn’t be more happy that we ended up going to Vietnam, but having had three layovers in Bangkok was leaving me a little bummed (and maybe a little whiny) that we would know its airport inside and out, but nothing more. Somewhere between drinking pineapple smoothies and laying on the beach in Koh Phangan, however, we discovered that we had a seven hour layover in Bangkok and that if we left from the islands earlier in the day, we could potentially have as much as 12 free hours there! So with the help of our travel agency we shuffled our flight and boat rides around and scrambled to figure out what we would do with several free hours in Thailand’s big city.


After taking our twelfth flight in three weeks, we arrived at the Bangkok Airport, fluttering through its terminal only to practically throw our bags at the folks at “Left Luggage.” Moments later we were in a cab battling traffic before finally arriving at one of the piers along the murky, choppy, water-hyacinth-filled Chao Phraya River where we then boarded our own private long-tail boat named “Obama.”

Elated to have had the opportunity to even step foot outside the airport, we were only minimally disappointed when our boat driver told us that the famous Grand Palace had already closed for the day and therefore we could only see if from the river. We would have been happy just sitting on the boat for five minutes and then heading back to the airport to be quite honest. So, when we had the opportunity to stop for 15 minutes at our first and only Thai Temple, Wat Arun, we did so with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning (or me as a full grown adult on Christmas morning). It was so colorful and ornate compared to the other temples we’d seen on the trip – a mosaic of glass and stones that came together to make flowers, landscapes and other peculiar figures. The steps climbing to the stupa rivaled those of Siem Reap’s temples, recalling conversations with my father of Half Dome in Yosemite where you need to clutch on to a cable to scale the rock or fear rolling down the side of its steep incline (a vision I played over and over again in my head as a child after my dad told me we would climb it – needless to say, I never did attempt it). From the top was a 360 degree view of the city – in the distance you could see the lights starting to twinkle on the sky scrapers of the big city, and in the foreground the menacing (that day anyway) Chao Phraya River. We could have absorbed every colorful glass tile of that temple, but with only 15 minutes, it was time to quickly and carefully temple-climb our way back down to the riverfront.


Returning to our Thai-style gondola, we began our journey through the klongs – essentially like the canals of Venice in that the klongs serve practically as roads that weave between the ancient neighborhoods of the city. We were struck by how just off the large commerce-filled river, you could find such antiquated neighborhoods. Small dilapidated homes that seemed to be one wave away from washing into the river, children swimming, jumping and playing in the water, men fishing, woman hanging clothes. All along the river, people graciously and enthusiastically waved at us as though we weren’t the millionth boat of tourists that had disturbed their daily routine, taking pictures, staring wide-eyed with goofy grins. I felt like I was on a ride in Disneyland, seeing a microcosm of Thai life, fast-forwarded, and from the safety of a wildly colored boat (the only thing missing was the “It’s a small world” song looping in the background).


After an hour or so of getting lost in the back rivers of Bangkok, we arrived once again at the Chao Phraya where we would be taken to dinner at a restaurant brilliantly recommended to me – Baan Klang Nam. Sitting right on the river, we were able to climb up to the pier from our boat and promptly be seated just 10 feet away with a full view of the sun setting on the water around us. We ordered curry and bass, anticipating a light Thai meal, until out came our fish – our entire fish (reminding me of that time I ordered two pieces of fish at the market in Spain, and rather than getting two pieces, I got one giant fish, cut into two pieces…thanks for the heads up on that one Jacobo). After one bite though, we attacked it like the mosquitos were attacking us. How could this fish be so fresh and delicious? The Chao Phraya is pretty and all, but surely it wasn’t the source of this happy bass. And it wasn’t – when we departed the restaurant later that night, we saw the pool full of live bass in the entryway of the restaurant (along with cages filled with other strange creatures like a monkey and squirrels – I’m glad I saw these after dinner).


For dessert we decided to treat ourselves to one last plate of one of Thailand’s famous desserts – mango and sticky rice. We need to talk about this actually. I am becoming particularly fascinated by all the wonderful things that can be done with rice. A self-proclaimed arroz-con-leche-aholic, the idea of mango and sticky rice or even coconut and sticky rice is a mind-blowing concept. Before this trip, I thought I didn’t even like mango, and my love of coconut was minimal. But now, I’m clamoring to find mango, and oh my lord, some sticky rice (what are the odds that I will actually find it here in Madrid??).


Finally yes, the honeymoon is over, really over. After three weeks eating my way through South East Asia, I’ve returned to Madrid to pick up some sort of food poisoning or stomach bug, which inevitably means that the universe is laughing at me because now I am stuck eating rice. Lots of really boring rice. Repeated pleas to Jacobo to at least hunt down sticky rice have gone unfulfilled. I might be taking a break from rice for awhile after this, at which point I will resume my intense diet of jamón, manchego, gazpacho and croquetas.

Sure, right, Cambodia you’ve been in Cambodia, but why have I not heard more about you? How come questions like “have you seen the Coliseum and eaten pasta in Italy?” aren’t followed up by “or have you seen the temples and stuffed your face silly in Siem Reap?” Why aren’t Cambodian restaurants (serving what is called Khmer cuisine) as ubiquitous as Chinese, or even Thai?? I feel like I’ve been deceived. I suppose I should snap out of my Cambodian-cuisine-coma though and first take you all back to the other stops on my trip. While I sit here on the beach of Koh Phangan Island in Thailand (translation: paradise), however, I find that my mind is a mush of sticky rice and curry after the last couple of weeks in Laos, Cambodia, and now my latest stop here In the Gulf of Thailand.


There was our first stop after visiting Vietnam – Laos. Outside of knowing that Laos was tragically labeled as being the most bombed country in the world (more bombs were dropped there during the Vietnam-US war than all those dropped in World War II – this was largely as a result of its location on the Ho Chi Minh trail), I admittedly didn’t really know what to expect. So when we arrived in the small mountain town of Luang Prabang, with my senses buzzing and my ears still ringing from all the horn honking, I was pleasantly surprised by the what a tranquil and humble place it was and by the sudden change of pace. With one small main drag lined with charming buildings frozen in time, the town was simple but welcoming. It reminded me of a Country Western town, except instead of cowboys roaming the streets you had monks, instead of cacti there were palm trees, instead of carriages you had tuk tuks, and instead of chickens running around everywhere you had….well, chickens actually. Our days there were filled with far more tranquil activities than in Vietnam – a long boat ride on the Mekong River, walks through small villages, bike rides through the town, early morning rice offerings to monks, and visits to chant-filled temples. The highlight was actually our visit to the Museum of Ethnolology, a little gem of a museum housed in a small old French colonial home nestled in one of the village’s neighborhoods. Not only was the visit incredibly insightful in terms of understanding the complex heritage and origins of the Lao people, but the building and location lent itself to what felt like an entirely authentic experience. The small cafe on the house’s patio provided us a front row seat to the backstreets of the town. We found ourselves sipping on our coffee as we played games of hide-and-go-seek with the local kids all while enjoying the view of the city just beyond the roof tops.


Laos definitely proved to be a good mental and physical break between Vietnam and Cambodia. Arriving in Cambodia, I was enthused to see the famous Angkor Wat temple, but had little idea of the what other surprises were in store for me. Before my love affair with Cambodia began, however, we were taken to our peculiar little hotel outside the main city center, where we gave each other sideways looks pondering how we ended up in such odd lodging (which shall remain nameless, but let’s just say I felt like I was in an oriental furniture warehouse that had been taken over by a jungle). When we discovered that we were in no way centrally located, we decided to seek out other accommodations. By some stroke of luck we ended up in the city center at the Hotel de la Paix and were upgraded to a junior suite where they treated us like Cambodian kings and queens. The trip took a decidedly fantastic turn back in the awesome direction that it was already going.


That day we were met by our guide Pol, who I’m now certain is one of the smartest people on the planet, and potentially equally as hilarious. While I only probably understood some 50% of what he said, that half of the information was probably all that my brain was capable of absorbing anyway. I spent my days there seesawing between being completely hypnotized by the ethereal stone temples, and tearful laughter at Pol’s jokes about five star bathrooms, stories about his dogs Angelina Jolie and Coca Cola, and various cross-the-road-jokes about monkeys and millipedes.


Then there was the food…oh the food! From hole in the wall restaurants to fancy modern cuisine, it just didn’t seem possible to eat something that wasn’t orgasmic! The food has the curry flavors of Thai food, but is a bit more mild and sweet such that your mouth doesn’t get a full workout just trying to manage the spice. Our particular favorite dish was the amok, which can be served with fish, or meat, or shoot why not ice cream…just a suggestion.


Our journey has come to its final stop here in Thailand on the island of Koh Phangnan, near Koh Samui (which, relative to Koh Phangan, is all hustle and bustle). We’ve spent the last days kayaking, wake boarding and scuba diving…oh, and just doing nothing while soaking up the sun by the pool, on the beach, or in our own little private pool area. The island here is spectacular – secluded enough that the beaches aren’t blanketed with boatloads of people, and populated enough such that you actually have something to do during a several day stay. The Rasananda Resort, where we’ve been staying, has been phenomenal and is a place I absolutely recommend if you are looking for a top notch trip to paradise, and who isn’t?


Apparently all good things must come to an end though (why? WHY!?!???). Now it’s back to reality where I will brainstorm ways to recreate Cambodian food and pineapple smoothies, which I can enjoy at our imaginary beach lounge (our balcony). I do hope Jacobo won’t mind being the towel boy.