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Tomorrow begins Pamplona’s annual Festival of San Fermín. And that means…the Running of the Bulls!

Go to the Expatica Spain website and check out my essay on this annual testament to man’s idiocy.

I once had a coffee table picture-book about gargoyles. Its Foreword was written by Stephen King, and contained a great line: “You don’t see them, but they see you.”

Since then, I’ve made a conscious effort to look up whenever walking past old churches and buildings. Quite often, a grotesque beast carved from stone is looking back at me.

Today was no exception. I was walking past the Banco Español de Credito (Spanish Bank of Credit) in downtown Madrid this afternoon and, of course, looked up. Looking back at me was one of the coolest gargoyles I’ve seen in a long time. He is pictured above.

It’s either an elephant, or the Hindu god Ganesh. I suspect the former. Not only because Spain is a predominantly Catholic country, but also because Ganesh would likely refuse to live in a city with so few descent Indian grocery stores.

Then again, it might be Al Molinaro.

If you are driving lost through a town with which you are not familiar, ask directions from one of the 3,000 retired guys sitting on benches doing nothing. Don’t ask the one young guy who is wearing a Sony Walkman and appears to be jogging. If he wanted to stand around and chat, he would’ve stayed home and called his mother.

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I love Spain. There are millions of wonderful things about living here. But customer service isn’t one of them.

Take restaurants, for example. In the US, going out to dinner is like visiting an exclusive spa. A smiling waitperson arrives at your table and asks if the chair is to the liking of your buttocks. He then takes your order with one hand, while giving a soothing scalp massage with the other. He leaves and—within 35 seconds—returns with your food. He asks if everything was alright during those 35 seconds. As you eat, he returns to the table eighteen times to (a) confirm that your food is OK, (b) refill your water glass, (c) smooth any unsightly wrinkles from your lapels, (d) buff your shoes to a glass-like sheen, (e) confirm that the food is *still* OK, and then (f) remove all empty plates within two nanoseconds after your fork is laid down. The bill is promptly tendered, payment is made, and then…the waitperson lofts you onto his shoulders and carries you to your home.

In Spain, however, things are a bit different. The 100-table restaurant has one waiter—typically the owner’s ill-tempered, blanket-sweating brother-in-law. Twenty minutes after seating, he appears at your table and grunts. Taking the cue, you place your order and the waiter disappears. Twenty minutes later, the food arrives. You finish your food, then spend another twenty minutes trying to seize the waiter’s attention by impersonating an albatross giving flight. Grunt! You request the bill and he stalks-off. Twenty minutes and another albatross flight later, you gently ask if—perhaps—it’s possible that he might’ve forgotten about your bill? GRUNT, GRUNT, GRUNT! With the flash of a Bic® pen, he slaps a plain-white slip of paper onto the table. It contains illegible handwritten scrawl, followed by the number “35.75€.” If you’re lucky, you’ll have exact change. Otherwise…another twenty minutes.

Don’t think that this trend is limited to restaurants. No…during my five and a half years here, I’ve seen displays of service across the board that range from comical to maddening to plain ol’ bizarre.

For instance, we once hired a bricklayer to cement decorative stones onto our living room fireplace. We told him that we wanted yellow stones. We showed him the yellow stones. His quote specified yellow stones. But what did he deliver? Pink stones. Pink stones!!!—followed by 45 minutes of arguing that (a) they’re not pink…they’re yellow; then (b) well…there’s a bit of pink, but they’re mostly yellow; then (c) OK…they’re 100% pink, but they’ll still look good.

He and his pink stones were asked to leave.

Then there’s the story about the heating-oil guy. Our house has a huge heating-oil tank in the basement and—three weeks ago—the oil company truck came to refill it. And while 1,000 liters of highly-flammable heating-oil were being pumped into this de facto nuclear bomb in our basement, what do you think the oil company guy did? You guessed it! He leaned against the wall and…LIT A CIGAR!!!

Strange? Indeed. True? I swear it! It should therefore surprise nobody that my greatest fear is that I might someday need an organ transplant while living in Spain.

“Doctor, is it—perhaps—possible that you might’ve forgotten about my kidney?”

I’ve just returned from a business trip to London, where I attended a meeting of my employer’s western Europe sales team. One of our post-meeting, extracurricular events was a trip to the greyhound racing track in Reading.

And while I have nothing but respect for this noble canine breed, I did notice something unsettling during the course of that evening: The people milling about greyhound race tracks appear to be the same people milling about Greyhound bus terminals.

Remember when you were ten years old and learned that you could mimic the sound of flatulence by cupping your left hand, placing it under your right arm pit, and pumping your right arm up and down wildly? Pffffft, pffffft, pfffft, pfffft, pfffft…

And remember how, a few months later during summer, you learned that you could do the same thing by placing your hand behind your knee? Pffffft, pffffft, pffffft, pfffft, pfffft…

Keep this hunk of childhood nostalgia in mind while I tell you a story.

Today I enrolled in a yoga school and attended my first class. Yes, they have yoga in Spain—and it’s a blast.

I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Midway through class, we did an exercise that was intended (I presume) to stretch and relax the spine. We were sitting on the floor with our knees drawn up to our chins. The instructor told us to put our hands behind our knees and fall backward so that we would rock back and forth on our backs like a cradle.

Well…as I rocked back the first time, suction was created between the palm of my left hand and the back of my left knee. And yes, you guessed it…PFFFFFT!

Panic-stricken, my first reaction was to leap to my feet and say, “Hey folks! I know what you’re thinking, but I swear to God…it wasn’t what you’re thinking!!!” But the room was so silent and the students so serious in their yoga practice, that such a discourse would’ve been inappropriate. Besides, my classmates would’ve likely found this explanation no more believable than if I’d blamed it on the family dog.

Suffice it to say, I’ll be wearing sweatpants to all future classes.

The four graying, balding, elderly men pictured above are a running team known as Fiel al Tao. This team competed in the half-marathon relay race that took place in Miraflores, Spain last weekend. Needless to say, they struck terror in few hearts on the other teams.

The race was structured as a relay. Each team member ran a five kilometer course, then passed the baton—which, in this case, was a polyester sash worn Miss America-style across the chest—to the next team member. Sounds easy, but there was an unexpected surprise—the first 2.5 kilometers were all uphill.

Given the steepness of the terrain, my time might have improved had I been wearing crampons. But alas, all I had were cramps.

Despite many years of library-lounging and alcohol abuse, team Fiel al Tao finished a respectable 39th out of 68 teams.

And to those 67 other teams, I’d like to issue the following plea: If anyone stumbled across my pancreas on or around the course’s 2.5 kilometer mark, would you kindly return it?