Spain Auction

need email address for mclaren/fernando alonso. require merchandise for charity auction in spain.?

My best friend died of lung cancer in March and we want to start a charity in her name. July 14 2007 will be the first annual charity night and we are looking for items for a silient auction and living in Spain as we do we thought we could get some merchandise from Mclaren and even better would be to have it signed by Fernando Alonso. We would be greatful for an email address to contact or any information that might help us.

Email: media@mclaren.com
Tel: +44 (0)1483 261900
Fax: +44 (0)1483 261963

these are the numbers and email address from the mclaren sight. i have never contacted mclaren, but years ago my nephew was involved in a serious accident. he was a mansel fan so we contacted williams. they sent us quite a lot of merchandise, although none of it signed.

i am sorry for your loss and i wish you good luck for your auction.

Spain Pamplona Bull Run of the Bulls

I was 18 when I decided to take the summer before entering what I imagined four years imprisonment in college, and thus looking for an adventure so compelling, that I hold through the tedious and interminable life of a student. My inspiration for the trip came from my father, who as a poet, writer and avid traveler, had instilled in me a burning desire to explore the world vagarious, exotic vehicles. Countless nights listening to the fervor of his tales of Spain, and the splendor and pageantry of bullfighting that his hero, Ernest Hemingway, was immortalized through his prose. I knew intuitively that my first (and possibly final) quixotic quest before entering the realm of academia, would run with the bulls in the famous summer festival in Pamplona, Spain.

The party known as San Fermin, a seven-day celebration deeply rooted in tradition, is celebrated annually the first week of July in northern Spain. It is the most characteristic event, the "lock", or run the confinement, is a rare display of machismo and bravado. The show started promptly each morning by fireworks announcing the bulls have been released from their pens to run freely through the barricaded streets of the village to the nearby sand. Audacious thrill seekers test their courage by running ahead stampede the herd, often with disastrous results. Since its inception in the 13th century (when the butchers rushed a little ahead of the bulls to be placed at auction to ensure themselves a privileged place in the tender), several people have been killed and hundreds injured. It was disconcerting to this thread historical data to weave through my weary head on the road, they wisely got out of the bus a perfect night, in the picturesque and sleepy village called Pamplona.

Arriving a day before the official start of the party, I was hard pressed to find a room anywhere, and finally with Luckily, he came upon a tour of hotel on the outskirts of the city, where he had gathered a variety of related adventure together in partnership born of necessity. I found myself sharing a room with three sleep-deprived revelers who, having arrived a day earlier, I eagerly reported on activity nights earlier consisting mainly of inhalation of large quantities of wine from a goatskin bag, the liquid cascade invariably erubescent profusely for their shirts white linen. Looking back fondly at that time, I remember a sea of scarlet-clad men careen through the streets in a state of excitement, no doubt a result of the generous amount of drink consumed, but more importantly, because they were young and carefree, passionate embraces the ephemeral joy, bittersweet of his youth.

The next morning I and my colleagues started the day in a way that anyone facing almost certain death, serious …. drank the wine as much as possible. With a sense of fear and joy in equal measure, we headed toward the makeshift corral threshold of the village, where safe behind a door massive timber had a legion of ominous looking bulls. Acted as apprehensive and fear as well as ourselves, and secretly hoped that through some means of transfer inexplicable brain, would establish a telepathic agreement to stay as far away from each other during the upcoming test. I was surprised by its super size and obvious strength, and realized that as my sister had so adamantly informed me the day I left, I really must be crazy to watch this company. With a long shot of the last bag of wine, I decided to mock in the face of danger, and as a fearless matador about to enter the arena, I cast my fate to the Mediterranean wind.

What followed in the next few seconds, is known by the ancient Zen masters as … satori. A moment so firmly rooted in the present, that all concerns mundane past and future grant-wide now. Following the launch of formidable creatures, I remember running blindly down the road antediluvian it consumes my thoughts to reach the ring away, where those who successfully finished the course would be granted a seat for the bullfights in the afternoon. Propelled forward by a washing adrenaline-induced panic, I suddenly found myself not running from the beasts, but between them. A conglomerate of beating the legs, arms and bull meat glistening sweat Laden had somehow intertwined, creating a vibrant crowd that roared jerky along narrow cobblestone pathways in a frenzied state of terror, added with an emotion that can only be described as euphoric ….

Operation surreal amid the advancing horde, instinctively strives to stand, and as far as possible from the large number of horns I encirled. Peripherally, I saw one of the participants to overcome terror by fear, frantically trying to make his way over the spectator-lined barricade, only to be pushed back by the crowd forebodingly, left to forsakenly confront his precarious fate.

With a deep sense of relief, I saw the wooden doors, strips of the field, when without warning, threw me violently the ground from behind, overtaken by the avalanche of chaos vortex strongly intend to blow through the small gap that has stalled the entry set. With a click hooves resounding constant inches from my ears, I jumped to their feet in a desperate attempt to reach the sanctuary of the sand. Realizing a momentary violation in the flood, which quickly passes through the narrow opening in the relative safety of the track. Permanent dimly inert scattering the crowd, seized me the idea that I was still physically intact, still breathing the air in the morning … crisp. the life affirming touch of soothing light rays from the sun wraps around my trembling shoulders. Like many before me crazy, had run with the bulls in Pamplona, and survived to tell the tale … ….

About the Author

Jim Sherard is a freelance writer, traveler, and owner of http://www.jackaroohome.com which features Australian outback clothing.