It is my morning ritual during the fiesta: awake early, drink a double espresso around the corner from the hostel, and read the morning paper. I'm specifically reading the section related to the bulls and bullfights for the day. The Diario de Navarra publishes the pictures, ranches, and weights of the six bulls that will run through the streets in less than two hours.
In running, I lived life not just to the fullest but to its potential end, less than a macabre call for help than living life all out, or at least as much as I could without staring a bull down in the bullring later that evening.
