T A B L E_T A L K Mama mia! Italian men: Culturally condoned harassers or charming studs? Join the discussion in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Road Warrior By Brent Gregston Frankfurt: Where to eat, stay and play (04/17/98) Mondo Weirdo An unforgettable introduction to Beijing (04/16/98) On Guatemala's Gringo Circuit By Doug Fine Volcanoes, videos and voluptuous backpackers (04/15/98) The best little pizzerias in Naples By David Downie Where to savor Italy's best pizza (04/14/98) Silver linings in the Asian cloud By Don George Travel execs pump each other up at annual confab (04/13/98) Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Feature archives - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -		BY ANDREW TABER | In the sweltering heat of a summer in southern France, sangria flows, the gypsy kings sing and bulls rule the streets. Every town sponsors its own annual "fête," and big bulls are the guests of honor. In Nîmes and Arles they are paraded and taunted in Roman arenas, until either the bull or the toreador is put down. And in neighboring villages they jam around the streets in "controlled" situations as the young and often inebriated try to catch them by the horns. My French host brother pulled me into this dubious sporting affair when I was lodged at his home during a semester-abroad program in Nîmes. Our group of globe-trotters, all from the University of California at Santa Cruz, was made up of people with names like Rain and Hope. Several held vigils for the victims of pâté, and we all played hacky-sack during our breaks from French class, our Tevas slapping at the little air-borne ball. The program both ended and culminated with the Feria, a week of revelry that erupts in Nîmes in early June and draws hoards from Paris and the Spanish border. At night the bars spew onto the sidewalks to accommodate bands and raucous crowds, and during the day games involving bulls fill the streets. My French brother was a bull fanatic. Like most of his modern-day brethren, he despised the "artful" killing condoned by the corrida, but would eagerly chase a bull through the streets, smack it on the ass and then try to avoid getting skewered by its horns. The non-corrida-bound bovines lead a tranquil life, he explained to me. They spend their days dinking around the wetlands of the nearby Camargue and are hustled in for a week of good-natured torment before being returned to pasture. According to him, my French experience would be for naught if I didn't run with (or from) a bull. Naturally, I agreed, and on day No. 3 of the Feria, we were ready to play. N E X T+P A G E | One bull at a time