What an amazing stick this Cazadores was! Medium bodied, perfect burn and and awsome 4 dollar and change price point -you can’t beat that.

The cigar was a solid caramel and cedar flavor throughout the smoke, which was quite rich and flavorful, almost chewy. Usually I’d be disappointed with non- varying flavor profiles, however this one was way too enjoyable to even worry about it!

Pick one up if you run across them ASAP.

Yahoo! These girls have been found safe!!

The girls mother is one of three facing felony charges related to the girls disapperance. More as the story developes.

Source/Source

Two middle school girls from Tucson, AZ were reported missing on Dec 1, 2009. Not many details out yet. The girls were last seen at dismissal on Tues.

Police have given this description:

Police describe 11-year-old Marissa Padilla as being 5′0″ tall, 130 lbs., brown hair and brown eyes. She was wearing a black colored jacket and dark pants.

Marina Padilla, 13, is described by police as being 5′3″ tall, 130 lbs., brown hair and brown eyes. She was wearing a white shirt and tan pants.

The grandmother has given a public statment:

Grandmother Susan Bustamante said this is extremely out of their character to just runaway.

“I started thinking where are they? What’s happened to them? Why haven’t they called their mom? Why haven’t they called me? We have a very close relationship with the girls. It’s just been one really bad emotion after another,” she said.

The girls go by nicknames, Marina goes by “Dani” and Marissa goes by “Gabi.”

If you have any information please contact Tucson, Arizona police or call your local 911.

Kold

Adolfo Suárez Illana & Author (Photo: Carlos Cazalis)

Whilst writing up something more substantial, I thought I would put up a short anecdote about bullfighters in their time off before a fight. After a fight is predictably alcoholic, but before a fight simply cannot be. So, ‘matador’ being Spanish for killer, it should come as no surprise that shooting is a favourite pasttime.

First, a few words of introduction: at the end of September I had The Times journalist Giles Coren come and travel with me round Andalucia for a few days attending various bullfight-related places and events. The two high points were sitting ringside at the Seville bullring, the Maestranza, in the seats given us by one of the Maestrantes, Don Enrique Moreno de la Cova (who breeds the ancient race of fighting bulls, the Saltillos – see the post about them here) and going to the ranch of Don María José Barral where I got into the ring alongside the matador Juan José Padilla and the aficionado-pratico Adolfo Suárez Illana (events I shall leave to Giles to comment on for now).

King Juan Carlos I of Spain and his Prime Minister Adolfo Suárez

Adolfo was then staying with Padilla to train for his own re-entry into the ring. The eldest son of the co-founder of democratic Spain (alongside the King, who is pictured right with Suárez senior), Adolfo kills bulls publicly at the same level as a professional matador, although with far less frequency: something like once a year for ten years. However, last year Adolfo had a year off and contemplated retirement at the venerable taurine age of 45 (from the ring, not from his law practice, journalism, poetry or political life). 

So, I accepted an invitation to join Adolfo’s cuadrilla (team) for the fight that Tuesday in Castellón. However, when the fight was delayed by rain, Adolfo, the team (minus Padilla who was hospitalised after a bad goring in Granada the day before) and I retreated to the house of Adolfo’s father-in-law, the bull-breeder Samuel Flores. Flores’ estates are so great that it is said you can walk from Albacete to Seville without leaving his land, some 300 miles as the crow flies, and the 8,000 acre ranch of ‘El Palomar’ is the most beautiful of it all.

Behind the gates, the two mile driveway meanders through the estate, wending through green pastures spotted with solitary trees and little woody islands of shade. The ground is stony, the stones condensing into boulders as the land rises into great craggy hills all around. It is a fertile but hard and striking landscape, filled with herds of fighting cattle and horses, the latter clustering around the great lake.   

It is also packed with deer - their rutting calls cracking the night’s stillness – along with Iberian ibex, partridge and a variety of other wildlife. For this reason, as well as breeding horses and bulls, it plays host to a great deal of shooting and stalking. It is here that Adolfo, Samuel Flores and the King of Spain have taken it in turns to shoot the three largest deer in the history of Spain.

Meat-eaters amongst the readers should have no trouble with the swift death of cloven-hoofed ruminants - be it a sheep, cow, deer or antelope – unless it is endangered. That said, there are certain animals which I would regard it wrong to shoot for any reason short of conserving their species or another of similar rank* (see note) or a human being.   

That said, hunting of animals is often deeply misunderstood by urban meat-eaters, but this anecdotal blog post is not the place to argue it. I will confine myself to remarking on the vital role that such hunting plays in conservation. In 2008 the International Union for Conservation of Nature, the United Nations-founded body which determines the endangered status of species, adjusted its evaluation of a species also found on this ranch – the ibex - from “near threatened” to “least concern” with the statement:   

“This species is now abundant and its range and population are currently expanding as a result of habitat changes resulting from rural abandonment. Consequently it is assessed as Least Concern. Hunting reservations and protected areas have played a crucial role in species recovery.” (My empahsis, taken from the IUCN website here)

Now, we were actually here to keep Adolfo in shape and undistracted for his forthcoming contest, spending time training with capes (toreo de salon) and sometimes with small bulls which left the ring unharmed (actually, vaquillas, the females, as the males cannot have seen a man on the ground until they enter the official ring).

Serranito, Belén and Author (Photo: Carlos Cazalis)

However, on the second day, infected with the restless boredom of anticipation, Adolfo decided that we should take some time out and asked his team: the banderillero José Antonio Galdón, ‘El Niño de Belén’ and the young matador, Paúl Abdía, ‘Serranito’ whether they might like to help reduce the pigeon population that plagues the ranch; a chance to play with guns at which they jumped. This is from my notes on the day:   

Speaking in English so Belén and Serranito wouldn’t understand, Adolfo said we should go and pick out some guns. I felt a little anxious knowing that Adolfo was regarded as one of the best shots in Spain. Equally, when Adolfo had asked the other two if they knew how to shoot, their blasé manner had me convinced I was facing the judgement of an entire team of experts. I have shot since I was young (see my regretful experience of shooting my first pigeon described here), but no more than a few times a year at most (although I did become House Captain of Shooting at School, but with rifles).

However, I soon discovered that, as in so many things, bullfighters fear of being outdone can leading to a ‘bending’ of the truth, even when counter-proof is imminent. As Adolfo unlocked the gun cabinet - Holland & Holland English ‘Best’ Guns naturally - he explained,   

“Serranito has probably shot once before and hopefully knows how to handle a gun without killing anyone, but watch Belén closely. In fact, you carry the ammunition, I don’t trust them. Also, help me pick out two guns – I don’t want more than that out there. I’ll only take a couple of shots myself as I don’t want to damage my shoulder before the fight.”   

I duly picked out one with a long stock for myself – at six foot I stand a little taller than most of my friends in Spain – and a shorter one for the others. We rejoined them and handed over a shotgun to Serranito and it became rapidly clear that Adolfo’s estimate was correct.

In a moving, ‘rough’ shoot like this it is traditional to walk in a line to reduce the risk of shooting each other, but as I watched the loaded barrels of Serranito’s gun swing past my body for the umpteenth time with his finger resting on the trigger, safety catch set to ‘off’, I broke with convention and told him to walk in front of me. I could rely on myself to avoid blowing his head off, but my confidence definitely didn’t go both ways.   

As we walked along an extended set of farm buildings, we  fired a few pointless rounds at birds passing high overhead, sending pigeon flocks circling. Then, as we neared a head-high wall, another flock lifted off from one of the fighting bull holding-pens and Serranito and I both fired, felling a bird each. Despite the lack of training, a killers eye and reflexes and training served him well. He then handed his gun over to Belén.   

Belén, it should be added here, is one of the finest ‘bullfighters of the silver’, having been denied the matador’s gold when a bull removed his right eye with its horn early in his career. He is also a blunt, honest, cautic, loyal, rustic and hard-drinking individual who is both excellent company and an extremely brave man. However, he is also competitive, proud, with no sense of danger and has to shoot left-handed against his natural inclination.

It was then hilarious to watch Belén peppering the clouds with huge quantities of shot in record time. Double-barrelled shotguns of this type, with barrels side-by-side, have two triggers. Belén, true to form, pulled both at once to increase his chances of a hit. However, zero doubled is still zero. The massive explosions echoed off the hills disturbing wild and human life for miles around and occasionally one or other of us would have to duck to avoid suffering a fate the pigeons were completely safe from.

Spying a likely place, and for my own safety, I left Belén blasting the heavens and wandered off to another set of buildings to bag my second bird of the day. On hearing a change in the shooting tone – from dynamiter to sniper – I returned to find Adolfo handing the gun to Serranito, having briefly taken it from Belén to reduce the risk to bystanders and to fire a few shots himself. At his feet lay three pigeons.

As we ran out of ammunition no more birds were circling and I gave the last of the shells to Belén so he would have chance to salvage his immense pride. Despite the fact that there were half a dozen pigeons now roosting in the trees beside the house on our return – “sitting ducks”, as they say – he still couldn’t hit a damned thing, sending wood chips – but no feathers – flying as he vented his rage on the tall pine trees. Adolfo even suggested throwing one of the dead birds in the air to increase his chances, and Belén scowled at him through his one good eye. I withheld my laughter as even the young, quiet and immaculately polite Serranito joined in ribbing Belén.

And that is how bullfighters unwind when they can’t drink… below is a photo from the fight Adolfo fought two days later, which I am writing up now, and below that a film of his fight before that one. Maybe 45 is not so old…

Adolfo Suárez Illana (Photo: Carlos Cazalis)

(*Note: By ‘rank’ with reference to animals, I mean where they stand on a modernised version of Aristotle’s scala naturae – the so-called Great Chain of Being - which starts with man, goes down through apes, dolphins, whales, elephants, monkeys, dogs and cats, horses, the ruminants, rodents, and so on into birds [the crow and parrot families are actually higher], reptiles, amphibians, insects, plants etc. The ranking here is something I have spent years trying to approximately work out, and have a lifetime ahead of me doing so with more precision. The principle is simple, though. A complex mental life should not be extinguished lightly. For example, elephants recognise themselves in mirrors, bury their dead and grieve, so we should take ending that awareness – and causing that emotional pain in their herd - very, very seriously. This is a medieval notion, rewritten in the light of empirical observation, and shorn of any religious connotations.)

Alexander Fiske-Harrison – 1,750 words

I thought I’d drop by and check in with you folks…I know it’s been awhile. I’ve been working on a lot of various things to get the site better and forgive me for not posting anything in a timely manner. After talking to some folks, I’ve realized that I need to be posting on a regular basis and I will try to do so.

I thought I’d share some INTERESTING stories that I’ve come across in the world of sports these past few days. Certain people need to THINK before they act and others are just CURSED with bad luck. And than there are those people who we sit and wonder, “WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?!” I’ve broken them into two parts. There’s just too much INSANITY GOING ON!!!)

Enjoy these AMAZING and AWESOME stories coming out of the sports world.

Oh Vincente Padilla…the current Dodger pitcher was in his native Nicaragua when he handed a pistol to a shooting instructor who didn’t realize it was loaded. The gun went off in the instructor’s hand and it the bullet GRAZED Padilla in the leg. To make matters worse, the pitcher’s agent Adam Katz told the L.A. Times that his client was injured in a “hunting” accident. Cmon Vincente…seriously? You’ve been known to have attitude problems and issues with your teammates and once was released for being a “disturbance in the clubhouse.” You’re lucky the Dodgers are looking to re-sign you after you got SHELLED in game 5 of this year’s NLCS by giving up 6 runs in 3 innings. Man, I guess some people just can’t win huh? SI.com

You gotta love Allen Iverson…the former Philadelphia Sixer, Denver Nugget and Detroit Piston is at it again. After leaving the Detroit Pistons with a bad taste in his mouth, and stating that he was lied to by than coach Michael Curry, Iverson was signed by the Memphis Grizzles and was given another shot to salvage career which has been mediocre the past few seasons. After playing 18 minutes in a loss to the Sacramento Kings, Iverson came out and boldly stated “I’m not a sixth man.” Iverson, who also coming back from a hamstring injury made matters worse by saying “I had no problems [with the hamstring]. I had a problem with my butt sitting on that bench for so long,” in a recent interview. This is the same guy who made a HUGE deal back in 2002 about practice. Cmom A.I., you’re making MILLIONS of dollars to play basketball in the NBA.  Stop complaining. You’re old and worn down. You should you be thanking the Grizzles for taking a chance and signing you. Let’s stop talking bout practice and get it together!

ESPN

Brandon Spikes, what are we gonna do with you? You’re an All-American linebacker who came back for your senior year at the University of Florida because your leader Tim Tebow said that he wanted to win yet another national championship. That would be three in four years. Something that’s NEVER been done before. Everyone from ESPN to your coaches and your teammates rave about your professionalism and your leadership on defense. But seriously bruh, eye gouging? The camera’s caught you on Halloween night sticking your fingers into the facemask of Georgia runningback Washaun Ealey after tackling him as his Gators smashed the Bulldogs 41-17. I understand that the game was chippy and you were upset cause Ealey spit on your earlier in the game. But with a million cameras around, that probably wasn’t the smartest move there buddy. Cmon Brandon. But I will give you credit for one thing. After your head coach Urban Meyer suspended you for one half in your upcoming game against Vanderbilt, you decided to sit out the entire game. Come on bruh, you gotta know better than that.

ESPN

End of part one…enjoy. Part Two coming soon.

Emotions used to be thought of as a sign of weakness. Arthur Padilla, Executive Director of Multifaith shatters this myth by doing some of the most courageous and powerful work I’ve seen. Just as Multifaith is about bringing religions, philosophies and worldviews together believing none is superior, Arthur helps clients and staff acknowledge all of their emotions to feel unity within themselves. That’s a great starting point for any adventure!

Why it’s difficult

Arthur notes that the current social construct gives little permission for adults to express the wide range of their feelings. It’s appropriate to be happy, successful and share stories of achievement. Many adults aren’t afforded the luxury of a safe space to be real about what they feel… especially if it’s sad, angry or depressed. It’s much more acceptable for children and the elderly to say if they’re feeling lonely or upset. Adults have learned to protect themselves by hiding their true feelings. When they can’t hold their feelings back any longer, they often express them in inappropriate ways, scaring the very people they want to get close to. Others clamp down even more, making it virtually impossible to know how to support them. These outdated, dysfunctional ways of handling emotions lead to isolation, fear and victim mentality.

How to share your emotions

The most important thing, Arthur says, is being able to know exactly what it is you’re feeling. After a discussion with one client who was looking for a solution, they were able to name the feeling as being lonely. Arthur said, “You don’t need a pill for that… you need more friends!” Take time to feel what’s going on in your body. Avoidance is a sure way to feel stuck and exacerbate the struggle.

When you acknowledge what’s really happening, you can do something with it. First off, being able to have an emotional conversation and tell someone what you’re feeling is a giant step in the right direction. Be OK with it and know that no one needs to fix you. You’re not broken – you’re experiencing an emotion!

Admitting when you don’t have the answers, are confused or afraid is real integrity. Have you ever noticed that when you’re completely honest is the very moment you start to make progress in a healthy direction? It allows others to be real with you, too.

Arthur and his staff ask clients personal questions on a regular basis – the kind that make most people flinch.  The staff decided to put themselves in their client’s shoes by asking each other these questions during an off-site retreat. Not an easy thing to do! One new staff member said he felt like a frog pinned up in a biology class with his guts exposed to the world. When they ask their clients these personal questions now, they know what they’re asking of them. Each staff member has experienced feeling vulnerable and also realize the freedom connected with revealing inner truths to someone who really cares.

Having these kinds of honest and emotional conversations deepens the level of trust. Steven Covey makes a strong case for this in his book “Speed of Trust.” By learning to trust your voice and trust your team, you’ll get better results, quicker. So how do you develop an environment where people feel safe enough to express themselves and speak up when they feel incongruence among their peers?

Creating a safe space

Arthur’s staff meetings go quickly because they have consistent emotional check-ins in the beginning. Sharing is optional and they rarely go over 20 minutes. It’s not about expecting someone else to share. By owning their own feelings, there’s no temptation to project unresolved feelings onto others. People learn to be concise and express what really matters in a non-judgmental space. Ground rules are clearly explained with experienced role models setting a compassionate example. While many groups rush in with agendas, people talking over each other and a lot of debate, Arthur incorporates a few minutes of silence in the beginning of each meeting. This helps everyone to be fully present before they begin. To speed up, learn to slow down!

Last night the Philadelphia Phillies reached baseball’s World Series for the second year in a row, and are on course to retain their title.

The Phillies beat the Dodgers 10-4 on the night, and 4-1 in the series, to become National League champions, and will now face one of the New York Yankees and the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, still going at it in the American League series.

As the score betrays, this was a night for the hitters, not the pitchers. The highlights made it look more like a home run derby than a play-off game. There were sixteen hits in all, including seven home runs. Padilla for the Dodgers saw his post-season form grind to a halt, giving up six runs in three innings. His counterpart, Cole Hamels, wasn’t a whole lot better, giving up three runs, before being pulled from the game in the fourth.

The Dodgers had their chance to mount a memorable late comeback, but failed to make the most of loading the bases late on. And so the Phillies go through, and in all probability to face the Yankees.

Neither side is the most likable, so in the meantime I’ll be rooting for the Angels to turn around their series against the Yankees. As that looks like a losing battle, I’ll perhaps take this advice from Fear and Faith in Flushing, and reluctantly support the Phillies…

Jayson Werth continues to mash

Fire up that shower, Manny — this one is over. For the second straight year, the Phillies sent the Dodgers packing in the NLCS, cruising to a 10-4 win tonight to grab a spot in the World Series. Jayson Werth got Philly on the board with a three-run bomb off Vicente Padilla in the first and put it to bed with a solo homer — his fifth of the postseason — in the seventh.

Joe Torre’s decision to start Padilla over Game 1 loser Clayton Kershaw proved costly. After scoring three times on Werth’s homer in the first, the Phillies tacked on another run in the second on Pedro Feliz’s solo shot and a pair in the fourth on a Raul Ibanez RBI double and a bases-loaded hit-by-a-pitch by reliever George Sherril. Philly’s first six runs were all charged to Padilla.

So, it’s back to the World Series for the Phillies, where I’m hoping more than anything that Facepaint Guy will make a glorious return. Man, watching playoff games just isn’t the same without a creepy guy covered in red staring right back at you. If you’re out there my good man, please, please make a comeback. Those fake umpires that keep showing up at Jays games could learn something from you on how to sit behind the plate and be cool.

The World Series, by the way, tips next Wednesday, likely at Yankee Stadium, since the American League won the ever-important All-Star Game and every Los Angeles Angel not named Jeff Mathis forgot to show up for ALCS.

Robinson Cano readies himself for a ski trip, A-Rod readies himself for pneumonia

Merry Christmas! At least it looked a little like December at Yankee Stadium tonight, where the New York beat the Angels 4-1 in the opener of the ALCS. Temperatures dipped to 45 degrees with a 17 mile-per-hour wind, forcing a few players to wear Elmer Fudd caps and Robinson Cano to dress as though he was heading out for a ski trip.

Understandably, the Angels looked a bit out of place in the New York chill (by comparison, temperatures at the Dodgers-Phillies game this afternoon reached 93 degrees) — they committed three errors, not including an infield pop-up Chone Figgins and Erick Aybar let fall between them for a hit in the first, resulting in a Yankee run. If the weather wasn’t too much to deal with, CC Sabathia certainly was. The overweight lefty gave up just four hits and a run in eight innings before some guy named Mariano Rivera closed it out in the ninth.

The Yankees got a pair of hits apiece from Derek Jeter, Johnny Damon and Hideki Matsui, chasing Los Angeles starter John Lackey with two outs in the sixth. Playoff hero Alex Rodriguez had a sac fly in the first and added a single and a walk later on.

Well, a bit of a disappointing start if you’re a Yankee hater like myself, though I’m hoping for a competitive series more than anything. A.J. Burnett (13-9, 4.04) and Joe Saunders (16-7, 4.60) are on hill in tomorrow’s Game 2.

Also of note, the Dodgers evened the NLCS this afternoon, scoring twice off Chan Ho Park in the eighth to win 2-1. Pedro “The Yankees are my daddy” Martinez and Vicente Padilla were both masterful, as Martinez went seven shutout innings and Padilla gave up one run in seven-and-a-third.

(Note: Special thanks to the lovely Ms. Meyer for keeping me up-to-date on the Yankees-Angels game while I was at the Argos game tonight. I couldn’t have written this informative piece without her. I declare her the new Heidi Watney. Or Erin Andrews. Maybe a bit of both…)

PER (Player Efficiency Rating) is one of the most popular and most complicated one-number overall ratings in basketball today. Created and popularized by John Hollinger to be able to sum up all of a player’s contributions in one number, putting into account the number of minutes played by the player and the pace of the game played by the player’s team. What this means basically is that the statistical contributions of player on a team like the UST Tigers can be compared fairly to the output of a player from a team like the Ateneo Blue Eagles. This also makes comparisons of players across leagues and even across eras possible.

I can’t be absolutely sure that this hasn’t been done before, but to my knowledge it hasn’t been done and made public. So here, my friends, are the players with the ten highest PER (and with at least 210 MP) in Season 72 of the UAAP Men’s Basketball tourney.

1. Eric Salamat, Ateneo – 21.64
2. Aldretch Ramos, FEU – 20.7
3. Rabeh Al-Hussaini, Ateneo – 20.62
4. Nico Salva, Ateneo – 20.5
5. Pipo Noundou, FEU – 20.23
6. Elmer Espiritu, UE – 19.67
7. Dylan Ababou, UST – 18.92
8. Woody Co, UP – 18.68
9. Pari Llagas, UE – 18.05
10. Alvin Padilla, UP – 17.52

A few things on these ratings:

• The MVP race this year (based on the UAAP’s overly-simplistic Statistical Points formula) was primarily a three-man race among Ababou, Al-Hussaini, and Ramos. Ironically, while they are all in the top ten, Ateneo’s backcourt sparkplug, Eric Salamat lead the league in PER, and by a considerable margin at that. Ababou, the eventual winner of the MVP award, on the other hand, disappointingly (for some) lands at #7.
• This first bench player to enter the list is Ateneo’s Nico Salva. This just goes to show that his relatively silent contributions really added up, and also proves that Ateneo’s depth is even better than had thought.
• The top two teams, Ateneo and FEU, took all five top spots in the list. While FEU is still a very good and very deep team, you can make a very solid point that Pipo’s loss towards the end of the season was a big one for the Tamaraws.
• The UE Red Warriors’ frontcourt duo, Espiritu and Llagas, both make an appearance, further enhancing the idea that they are the heart and soul of the team this year after the Warriors had previously been mostly driven by their backcourt.
• Another surprise is the appearance of two UP Maroons. Finishing at 7th in the league after the elimination round, finding that two of their players, Co and Padilla, are in the top ten of player efficiency is a pleasant surprise for State U.

A quick note on PER: As Hollinger himself admits, PER doesn’t necessarily conclusively indicate that one player is better than another. Defensive stats are somewhat undervalued by PER. Moreover, contributions on defense that don’t come up in the box scores are obviously excluded, and therefore underrating defenders such as Kirk Long.

  The Review

Our first trip to Calle Ocho results in this photo taken at the Padilla store

Los Rangers de Texas tomaron una decisión radical hoy, al dejar libre al lanzador nicaragüense Vicente Padilla, quien no ha llenado con las expectativas del club en esta temporada debido a lesiones y enfermedades, como la influenza humana AH1N1….Rangers dejan libre a Vicente Padilla – ultimahora – La Prensa .…… Confirmaron que tienen 10 días para negociar al lanzador a otro equipo, pero lo más seguro es que no lo volverán a tomar, en una muestra que se cansaron de su inestabilidad. …..La salida…se produce apenas dos días después que el pinolero fue sacudido con tres jonrones por los Atléticos de Oakland, con media docena de carreras, para dejar su balance en 8-6 y 4.92 en efectividad.

…..Padilla anunció su regreso a Nicaragua para mañana sábado, y al parecer esperará en su casa en Chinandega para negociar con otro club su continuidad en el resto de la temporada de Grandes Ligas.

Rangers dejan libre a Vicente Padilla – ultimahora – La Prensa .

El viernes día 24 de julio se inauguró la fase II del Paseo Marítimo de Castelldefels.

A ella asistieron destacados cargos del partido socialista de Madrid, Barcelona y por supuesto, de Castelldefels. Ante la mirada atenta de muchos funcionarios y personal de confianza del Ayuntamiento, se realizó la inauguración, la cual fue recibida a gritos por un grupo de ciudadanos que expresaba su disconformidad con la obra realizada.

En resumen:

- El nuevo paseo es muy estrecho

- El Ayuntamiento vendió el proyecto a los ciudadanos como un lugar idílico para pasear y hacer deporte, pero ahora ha prohibido patinar, ir en bicicleta, etc.

- El paseo se cubre de arena de la playa, quedando con facilidad cubierto y semienterrado

- Las maderas de las duchas se hinchan aumentando el riesgo de accidentes de los usuarios que van descalzos

- La iluminación es muy deficiente

- Apenas hay bancos, papeleras y otro tipo de mobiliario urbano en el recorrido del paseo

- Se han perdido con la peatonalización de las calles más de 400 plazas de aparcamiento gratuito

Desde el Partido Popular expresamos nuestro malestar por una obra que no sólo llega con años de retraso, sino que nace con muchas carencias e insuficiente para el turismo de calidad que debe ofrecer Castelldefels

Author - circled far right - running with the bulls in Pamplona (Miuras)

The train from Barcelona to Pamplona is old-fashioned for Spain and yet it still boasts a long bar complete with bar stools where I can sit with tapas and a beer as the arid hills and tall thin trees sweep by the windows. Catalan country makes way for the ancient kingdom of Navarre and its capital, the city of the running of the bulls.

The day before I was in a very different place, at the very heart of the British Army on Salisbury Plain, where I learnt a very different perspective on bullfighting. My day was with General Sir David Richards, Commander-in-Chief of the Land Forces of the United Kingdom (and soon to be Chief of the General Staff). Much of the day was spent driving prototype desert vehicles, testing the limits of the Challenger II tank, using their vast simulators to test my identify-and-kill skills on filmed sequences from insurgency areas and so on. All great ‘boys own adventure’ stuff, but infinitely more interesting were the informal one-on-one discussions with the General and his subordinates, including two Major Generals and a Lieuentant General, (along with a day’s worth of chatter with various lesser ranks including our aide-de-camp for the day, the tirelessly polite and enthusiastic Captain William Squires). My conclusions about the current role of the British Army in Afghanistan I have published elsewhere (to be found here), but what struck me with reference to my work here is the particular type of courage and the particular view of death with which these men are infused.

When I arrived in the office of one of the Major Generals, he apologised for the delay (an army delay – i.e. two minutes or less) but the office was running at unusual speed to deal with the fact that a record number of British servicemen had died earlier that day in Afghanistan. The main incident which killed five men at once involved a secondary attack with Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs). The Major General, whose role that day was really to explain the structure of Land Command to me, happily leaped up and explained with devastating clarity with a whiteboard and marker the threat his men faced and its infinite upgradeability (in answer to a media-led question as to whether better armour on personnel carriers was required, he remarked, “You could give me a main battle tank and in the end it would make no difference, because they would just use a larger charge. I need local intel and troops on the ground who can tell me where the damn things are placed, not to take an area for an hour with casualties on both sides, then retreat claiming victory and leaving the locals to the tender mercies of a vengeful Taliban. I need more soldiers.”)

However, what struck me most was the calm manner with which everyone – and I include the rank and file I met – dealt with the death of comrades and the risk of death to themselves. It contrasts a great deal with the way people talk about matadors, and sometimes the way matadors talk about themselves, even though none has died in the ring since 1986. However, another thing which comes across is the fact that bravery is not something much discussed in army training. The troops are so heavily conditioned by exercises and simulations that one has the impression that when a vehicle is fired upon, they are out of the vehicle in a defensive perimeter, calling in air-cover, and then on the offensive themselves, before consciousness has time to voice its thoughts (this is not to say that great courage does not exist, but that is what goes beyond the training.)

Of course, the matador does something very different. He must not only stand fast and use his training with the bull, but he must dance with it, linking a series of passes with the cape into a deliberately chosen faena, or display, which contains within its graces an exquisite and esoteric death. Art is the order of the day, not assassination, although it all too often stoops to mere butchery (and lack of bravery, lack of skill, and lack of taste are the reasons for this.) Sadly, the soldier´s conditioned response is predictable, and so it appears that when the first IED took out the vehicle, the troops deployed into a nice looking patch of ground – one with cover or some other advantage – and it contained a secondary explosive which finished them off.

Oddly enough, I spend quite some time explaining what I am doing to these men of action who seem to find it as interesting as I do their strange career choice. And it is as I am explaining it to them that I start to receive text messages asking if I am alright from concerned friends. It would appear that in a relatively unusual incident a young man – at first rumoured to be British – has died running the bulls in Pamplona that day. To say that I find this unnerving is to understate heroically.

When I finally arrive in Pamplona it is at in the height of what seems to be a Rio Carnival-style street party, although, strikingly, everyone is in the same uniform – white shirt, white trousers, red neckerchief and red sash.

I walk out the ground of the run. It is a half mile of streets with three corners, all of which are now packed with revellers. I try to see how I am going to deal with it, looking at the height of bars on the windows and the height of the heavy wooden barriers for the possibility of climbing or vaulting at speed. I see some likely spots, but I have no idea as yet how the crowds will be in the morning. I speak to my father and mother, neither of whom are willing to talk me out of it although they indicate they might prefer that, especially since Padilla has told me he won’t be running with me. The bravest of toreros has telephoned me on the train to say that an injury he received to his shoulder in France means that he won’t risk running in the morning when he has to fight in the evening.

I meet up with the American aficionado Robert Weldon – a young man of imposing height and knowledge about this taurine world – who has been running for the past four days. He takes me to a place on the slope of the Calle San Domingo he has run from each time and then tells me I can have it; he says he has no intention of running with the Miuras, the most dangerous and largest breed of fighting bull, on the Sunday of the Feria when numbers of people in the streets have doubled to over four thousand and many have been up since the night before in the bars.

I get home at about half past twelve – the run is at eight a.m. – but I do not sleep. Instead, I sit down and write out my last will and testament. Ridiculous I know, but that was how I was thinking. Not that it would be legally binding, but I’m sure my parents would follow it to the letter. The cash in the bank and my few shares to my surviving brother, my library of books – especially the science and philosophy – to be offered to my old College, everything else to be offered to my friends as keepsakes, my love to all, especially my girlfriend. I save it as a draft on the website of my blog and leave the password to a trusted, internet-savvy friend in an envelope marked in case of emergency on the desk of the hotel room. I name my friend the writer George Pendle a literary executor in case anything publishable can be salvaged from the blog. Then I finally fall asleep close to three in the morning. This is not to say I was in some form of panic, just trying to size up my chances in an entirely unquanitifiable situation and acting accordingly.

Three hours later I wake up before my alarm. I shower and slowly dress in a thick white shirt and a flexible white denim trouser – nothing that inhibits movement, but tight enough not to be caught on a horn unless I am, and thick enough that protection against minor slashes is given. I tie the red bandana around my neck in reverse, so it appears like a cravat and thus mimics the blood of San Fermin in whose honour this festival is and who had his throat cut, and tie the red sash around my waist, wrapping it twice so there is no slack to catch. I am aware it is not advisable to wear belts with bulls as people are often caught by that first, and then when they don’t fly off the horn, the bull goes to work on them. However, I figure the nod to tradition outweighs the risk. I decide against wearing something different to the mob so I’ll stand out in photos. That’s not why I’m here. Then I walk out into the streets of Pamplona.

At the entrance to Town Hall square section of the run there are hundreds upon hundreds of people milling, moving, edging from foot to foot and emitting a combined stench of urine, alcohol and vomit that is nearly overwhelming. The one thing they do not stink of is fear – it doesn’t have a smell, despite what the novelists say. Fear in humans, as it is in animals, is a movement not an emission of odour – unless the perceiver is a dog.

I find my spot in the street with an hour to go and overhear a Australian man say to his sylph-like girlfriend,

“I’ll look after you.”

The astonishing naïvete of the remark makes me laugh. What is he going to do? Pick her up and throw her over the six foot fence which has people four deep on the bull-side? Whilst running? Because anything else he tries with a 650kg Miura (1,430lbs or 102 stone plus change) – for that is the average weight of these bulls – running at 30mph won’t even nudge it a degree off course. If he wants to save his girlfriend, he should get her out now, and if he’s that stupid he should follow suit himself.

I decide to take a little detour and head off the otherside of the course to a small church where the hardened runners gather – some Spanish, some Americans who have been doing it for as much as thirty years. I see them greet each other briefly, confident but focused like actors backstage, but instead of “break a leg” they say “suerte” as they part – “luck.” I run a little, testing the torn meniscus in the cartilage in my knee (which I can’t have operated on until I finish this book and which runs the risk of locking), stretch, then start slaloming between traffic bollards at a half sprint. By half past I’m dripping with sweat and adrenaline and as ready as I will ever be. Am I nervous? No. Not now. It is beyond the time for that. There had been moments the night before when I thought that, since no one knows me here, I could merely say I had done it. Or I could cry off and no one would judge. At least not in any way I would care about. But in that odd way the mind has – or at least my mind - having committed to an action of this type, I will go through unless I can find a way out. And for this one I can’t: even though they’re Miuras, even though it’s the weekend crowd, even though everyone else has bailed on me. I walk down the hill and take my place and wait.

As the time approaches the streets first thicken with people, then seem to clear. I later discover that this is an artificial density as the final section of the run is closed until ten minutes to eight. I find myself alone in a section of street which has a crowd on steps behind the barrier watching and I find it very odd to be walking once more on a stage at a time like this. However, with five minutes to go that feeling fades. That is when the false breaks begin: all of a sudden a group of people will get the jitters and run up the hill, convincing other people (with dodgy watches or dodgy brains) that the bulls have been released early, and they will run off up the hill. I have no idea if they then leave or decide to stay where they are, but they don’t return.

The minutes pass slowly. Incredibly slowly. In fact, I can safely say that no period of time in my life has ever passed that slowly. This is firing squad stuff. The background noise and movement of the runners escalates, so that when the clock tower bells chime the hour I do not hear them. However, I know my watch is good so I am not exactly surprised when a rocket explodes in the air, I am certainly ennervated though. Then come the joggers, people laughing off their fear and embarrassment, but having made the very clear decision that they want to be further away from whatever is about to happen. When the second rocket goes off a few seconds later, they accelerate and I have to turn sideways to let the rush past. Then I bend my knees a little and lean my shoulder downhill, forcing them to part round me because this is becoming a stampede. And then the bulls turn the corner at the bottom of the hill and the thin blue line of police holding the people and the bulls apart break off to the sides and the mass of people shatter and flee like a medieval rabble under a heavy cavalry charge.

Of the many things I have seen researching this book, again and again the phrase ‘never seen before’ springs to my lips, but this really was a sight that very few people in the modern era will see: a city put to flight through its own streets. As the bulls cleared their path up the hill and I attempted to hold my ground, people were running past screaming, grabbing at me, diving against the wall which was now thick with people trying to make sure they were not the front line. As the bulls got closer – it seemed like ten feet away, I would calculate from the images I have seen it was twenty – a clearer space in front of them enveloped me and I turned and started to run.

When I was a 400m runner at high school, I was very aware that you can think you are sprinting flat out, but then you look inside yourself and find an extra reserve of speed. However, this was not the case, I had enough adrenaline in me that I don’t doubt for a second I have never run faster and that if I hadn’t warmed up I would have done alot more than ended up with a twinge in my Achilles tendon as I did. However, the bulls were much, much faster. By the top of the hill – maybe fifteen yards away – the front ones passing me (the relatively harmless but massive steers), but one fighting bull to the rear was starting to chew through the people immediately behind me as can just be made out in the photo above. As it neared me, and the mass of people in the square began to push me and themselves towards its horns, I decided enough was enough and pushed myself back into the crowd on the side,  arms out to hold the people who were starting to fall upright (on the YouTube video below, you can see me from 35-37 seconds in, ending up in the top right of frame). The Miuras had passed, or so I thought.

I now jumped back into the middle of the street and went back to sprinting in a vain attempt to follow them, out of the town square, along Calle Mercaderes and into one of the most dangerous parts of the course, the corner of Calle Estafeta. As I reached it I was confronted with the sight of a fallen grey and white Miura, a suelto, getting onto his feet facing in the opposite direction to the now vanished herd: facing me. At his most dangerous – fresh, massively strong, and with no idea where he was or what to do – he was swinging his great horns back and forth looking for prey and I slammed on the breaks on the cobbled street (thank God for a decent pair of trainers), and went into speedy reverse. Soon there were people between the bull and me and I knew I was safe. Then he moved in the right direction and, unusually, a gate was closed behind him to keep the crowd safe. As I walked over to the railings to catch my breath a man was pulled out by paramedics from behind the barrier, blood pumping from his neck, some of it onto the right sleeve of my shirt as I later discovered. The wound was evidently bad, but he was holding the bandages to his own throat despite being on a stretcher, so I assumed he was relatively okay. And after a four day spell in intensive care he was.

Walking back from the corner, a sudden scream went up through the crowd, mainly in English, saying “more bulls.” This one I was ready for, having been forwarned. It was the giant steers, three of them in a row, charging through the street to clean up any sueltos, turned bulls, that may be remaining. So as people lept to either side, I continued near the middle of the road and applauded them as they passed. I may have been awash with fear and confusion a few moments before, but I was damned if I wasn’t going to have a little flourish.

I walked back to the hotel and called my parents and girlfriend to say I was alive, before I headed to a bar where I was told the American runners all met up to confirm the number left standing. It had been a bloody day: two in intensive care, two other serious gorings, a dozen minor injuries from human or bovine feet. However, as I introduced myself, I discovered these guys had all made it. One of them, a man called only Beef, said something telling to me when I said I didn’t know anyone there.

“Welcome. These guy’s are your friends for life.”

Despite that welcome, I decided to abandon them for some English and American first-time runners who were as hopped up on survival as I was and we drank from 8.30am until I fell onto my bed at 4pm. I had had enough of embellishing stories and drinking odd Navarese cocktails for one day. I even slept through Padilla´s bullfight, but to be fair, he hadn´t turned up for mine.

Alexander Fiske-Harrison – 3,220 words

Padilla Miami

Ring Gauge: 5 x 50 (Robusto)

Tobacco: Cuban Seed Nicaraguan Filler with Corojo wrapper

Bought: November 20th

Smoked November 20th 2009

Price: about $9.00 a stick Round Rock Texas, Pipeworld

Beverage: None

Smoke Time: 1 hour 00 minutes (+ or -)

Initial Thoughts:

I have heard a lot about this cigar. My one and only experience with Padilla was, lets say, disappointing. However, I understand that any brand, even great brands, sometimes have duds. So, with an open mind I decided to try this cigar out.  When I selected this cigar I noticed the nice, slightly oily, dark brown wrapper. It was smooth without defects. The cap was constructed well and the cigar felt nice and firm.  The band around this cigar, to me, is very beautiful.

The Smoke…

The cap cut off fine and a nice cold draw produced very smooth flavors. The draw was medium.  The cigar took a nice even easy light. The first hot draw was medium, sweet, and very smooth. No one flavor dominated the over. I am trying to think of how to describe the flavor, delicious, smooth, with some cinnamon. The ash was fairly firm and blackish gray. At rest the cigar continues to burn though it will go out on you pretty quickly if not watched.  At about 50% the cigar continues to burn even and the flavor is still very smooth and sweet.

I have to admit that this cigar is a lot better Padilla Cazadores Toro that I reviewed awhile ago. I am pleased that I did not give up on this cigar maker.  The Miami is a very competent smoke and is well priced. During the smoked no flaws occurred.  Furthermore, no harshness or bitterness became apparent. This cigar was easily smoked to the nub.

The Results are in!

A true pleasure to smoke!

Rating: Excellent!