My Credit Card, My Apartment, the Running of the Bulls

The freakiest coincidence of all time that happened to me took place about 5 years ago, at the Running of the Bulls, in Pamplona, Spain.

A bunch of us who were studying in Barcelona that summer were STRONGLY advised to go see the Running of the Bulls, about a 9-hour bus ride to Pamplona, Spain.

"It's a non-stop party," they said.
"No one gets a hotel room, people just party all night and take naps in the park," they said.

Bullocks.

The Running of the Bulls actually happens once a day, about 8 in the morning, every day, for a week. We get there on maybe the 2nd day, early, but not early enough to see the encierro.

So, what they DON'T tell you, is that the town smells like human excrement, day-old alcohol, and vomit. It's a podunk little town, and hordes of people converge upon the town to see, well, some dumb American or Australian get gored by the bull. And they just don't have the facilities to let people cast off their waste products, or to clean the stuff up.

Not to mention that for some reason, in the middle of summer, in SPAIN, it was cold as fuck. Record low temperature that weekend. So I buy my requisite white top and pants (it's another tradition we didn't know about) and try not to freeze.

There's nothing to do all day but drink. And I usually do not. At that time I really didn't. So I'm bored, sober, in complete possession of all my faculties and senses to be revolted by the smells of Pamplona, and freezing.

Fast forward another 14 hours, and I can't take it anymore. I have no hotel. I have no coat. I seek refuge in the only ATM vestibule that was not permanently locked that weekend. I don't remember how. My companions refused to leave me (although I could not give a shit at that point if they left me there to die alone). I would not have been alone long.

About 10 Americans beg me to let them in. So do 3 Spaniards. The americans are drunk, getting drunker. The Spaniards are doing coke, and one is cutting a line of coke on a... that's right... PHOTO OF HIS SON. Nice. I am resigned to the fact that they are going to kill me.

Then, one particularly loud and very inebriated American starts boasting about how he's going to run with the bulls. Blah, blah, blah. I roll my eyes, and turn to the Spaniards. "It's always some stupid American who gets killed," I say in my broken Spanish. He laughs, and offers me some coke.

I have made a friend.

So I ask the dumbass where he's from.
"New York City," he says.
"Where?"
"East side!"
"Where?"
"27th street."
"WHERE?"

That's right. The drunk blowhard lives in my building. He is so drunk, he thinks I am fucking with him.

"Dude, you have a doorman named Diego."
"YOU'RE FUCKING WITH ME!"

So I get home, and ask my doorman, Diego, if he knew someone in the building who was just in Spain.

"Oh yes, he says, Jason*. Jason PHILLIPS."

The guy has the same last name.

Craziness.

***
Anyway, fast forward 5 years later. As you may already know, I am in a now-5-month long battle with my credit card company trying to prove that I paid a $1777.89 bill back in September.

Today, I FINALLY get a phone call from card services.

She says, "Well, we did receive a check for that amount, but it wasn't applied to the card # you provided. It was paid towards JASON PHILLIPS' account."

Same last name, same address. They thought we were related.

Unbelievable.


*First name changed to protect the drunk asshole.