When my group of friends and I decided to take a trip to Pamplona for the running of the bulls, I will admit I had no idea what I was getting myself into. On a bus ride that should have taken 8 hours but instead took 11, we got to know each other pretty well, and thought nothing of arriving in Zarauz, not Pamplona where we all expected to be staying. After being greeted by a group of rowdy Australians who were our travel guides and getting a 30 min nap in, we set out for Pamplona and the running of the bulls. I will never admit that I was too afraid to run with the bulls, but one of us had to make sure the girls were safe in a strange Spanish city filled with crazed drunken Spaniards. After watching my friends make fools out of themselves (from the arena seating) it was back on the bus to Zarauz and off to one of the most beautiful and amazing beaches I have ever had the pleasure to be at. We spent the afternoon playing and swimming in the ocean and admiring the gorgeous scenery around us. What was boggling was the fact the Spaniards simply took their surroundings for granted, but those lucky locals don't realize just how lucky they are. Returning from the beach meant a cookout with the Auzzies and lots and lots of sangria (5euro all you can drink!) and another sleepless night of partying before returning once again by bus into Pamplona, but this time we were all too exhausted or drunk to run. Sleeping in a large clump on the floor of the Pamplona bus station probably wasn't our smartest idea, but at the moment was a necessity, as we boarded the bus back to Barcelona none of us had any idea what we were in store for next. The way I see it, if you are a bus driver, you really only have two duties the first being knowing where you are going and how to get there, and the second being remembering to put gas in the tank. Well our driver had already showed his incompetency by adding 3 extra hours to our trip on they way there, but he had to go and run out of gas on the freeway; we were stranded for an hour and a half while the local police ran to the gas station and came to fill up the tank. Fortunately, we made it back to Barcelona with just two hours to spare before the Spain-Holland final of the World Cup and were able to celebrate with Spaniards, at least those who were rooting for Spain, before we all crashed from a long weekend of drinking and running on no sleep. I can honestly say that the first thing I did at CEA that next monday morning was have Monica Rodriguez write down the name of that little beach town because I made a promise to myself to return there before I die. I recommend you do the same.
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