Pamplona. Oh how you are living up to your reputation.
Quickly, for those of you who don’t know much about this festival, apart from the 30-second clip you see on the news each year of people in city streets getting gored by bulls (please note I am stealing most of this information from the internet- so some of it might be wrong):
The Bull Run has medieval roots, and the bulls would be brought into the city walls the night prior and then into the public square (which served as the bullring) the following morning. Young men would run in front of the bulls- a stupid endeavor that was outlawed by the city. Their persistence apparently paid off because the city finally sanctioning this activity as a part of the festival of San Fermin, the patron saint of the region of Navarre.
Okay, let’s move on.
I can’t tell you how many times I have read The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemingway (it was originally published under the title Fiesta). It’s my favorite book, and for the uninitiated (shame on you), it was the first time I had ever heard about the San Fermin Festival, also known as the Running of the Bulls. This was Hemingway’s first major novel, and its 1926 publication brought much acclaim to the author, and also helped to transform the sleepy town of Pamplona into something entirely otherworldly for about two weeks every year.
Being in the Spain for the World Cup Final may have been a pure fluke, but I knew that I was going to be in Spain at the time of this festival. Leaving the south of Spain behind (Gracias, Emily!), I flew north and hopped a train to Pamplona. After a very serene four hour transit, I was suddenly spat out onto a platform and was surrounded by a sea of dazed revelers clad in white and red….and pink (think sangria tie dye). Looking at my own clothing choice (black and green), I knew I’d need to hit a store before I was in this city for too long.
No San Fermin gear? No problem, just about every other store in Pamplona during the festival looks like this. Some random Spanish dude working at the shop literally sized me up, gave me some shorts and a shirt and had me in proper uniform within five minutes and 25 euros.
Ahh the Pyrenees. Last time I was here, I was sixteen years old; after this trip, I really don’t think I’m any wiser.
The holding pen at the start of the morning bull run. They are released at 8am every day during the festival.
No, I did not run with the bulls- let’s get that out of the way first and foremost. Only men would come up with the genius idea to station themselves ahead of a pack of irate 1200 pound bulls, armed only with a rolled up newspaper as protection from those menacing horns.
It’s hilarious to see people “limbering up for the .5 mile (not even) run for their lives.
Mostly dudes line the route for each morning’s encierro – although I did manage to note that there were a fair number of women poised to run as well- one even with a rolled up copy of Glamour magazine (I’m not kidding).
There is so much more to this festival than just the bulls and the morning runs and afternoon bull fights- like the gigantes pictured here (yes, I know he looks likes the Burger King). Alas, I’m a little too hung over at the moment to look up most of it and tell you more.
I guarantee these two fools have peed in the streets at least once during their time in Pamplona.
Okay, so there is much debauchery at this festival. It’s kind of unreal to see watch the city steam 24 hours a day with guiris (foreigners) drinking, peeing, and refilling themselves throughout the old city streets. Disgusting, right? You bet. I bought close-toed shoes yesterday after an hour of walking the city streets. Astonishingly, for the amount of very drunk people, the locals are still incredibly nice, and the inebriated are overwhelmingly benevolent.
Apparently, in years past, people would climb to the top of this structure and jump off, hoping to be caught by the revelers below. No, it’s not that far up, but again, it’s incredibly stupid.
You would never see any of this activity in the States.