It’s bittersweet when you see simultaneously entertaining and draining moments in your life coming towards an end. Your brain may register that you are having an unbelievable time, but your body recognizes that it cannot sustain itself without causing a depreciation in the event’s overall value.
That’s my long-winded way of saying that I was happy and sad that the San Fermin Festival was coming to a close.
The last night of Sanfermin saw the closing ceremonies wrapping up another successful year of uniquely Pamplonan celebrations. Over the eight days, you could kind of watch the energy level alternate between peaks and valleys- but by the time midnight on the 14th rolled around, people were out in fighting form for one last hurrah.
My exit strategy out of Pamplona started with me attending the ceremony, and then hopping an early train back to Barcelona so that I could fly to Paris. While that sounds like a pretty grueling travel day, the solid hours on the train finally held some promise of my brain operating in quality Standby Mode. Unlike the ride into town, there was no prayer of me getting sucked into an obscure Robert DeNiro movie that was dubbed in Spanish.
For the ceremony we found ourselves on a balcony overlooking the mayor’s house- a fantastic vantage point to watch the crowd pulsate below. Swarms of festival faithful packed the square, all holding candles and singing to the brass band that held center stage.
Up on the balcony, I was reunited with most of the friendly faces that I had met during my short time in Pamplona: the shirtless cop who we woke up one morning (he was taking a
encierro nap)- he had graciously offered us refreshments from his fridge that included melon, cake, beer and wine…all at 9am. Then there was the couple who initially hooked us up with our balconies and accommodations, using this service to raise money for their
non-profit organization. Children and adults both local and otherwise stood around on this last balcony with candles and cava. Together we all watched the fireworks and enjoyed the remaining moments of the festival.
The close of the festival was signalled as everyone removed their red kerchiefs and held them in the air. Then it was time to sing “Pobre de Mí”. Here are the lyrics:
“Pobre de Mí, Pobre de Mí,
que se han acabado las fiestas,
de San Fermín.”
(Poor me, poor me,
for the fiesta of San Fermín
has come to a close)
Here’s a bit of it being sung at the end of this clip:
The best part of this song? In between a near constant loop that seemed to last forever was the following lyric:
“Ya falta menos”
(There is not long to go)
These people, the Pamplonans, are actually incredibly excited about the 2011 Festival! They are already counting down to its start! The puke hasn’t even dried on the cobblestones and they are already saying that there is not a long way to before next year’s devotional practices.
I must say, I now understand why they feel this way.
I got about two hours of sleep between the time the ceremony ended and the time we all hit the road for our respective next destinations.
Finally, I escaped the sangria-stained clutches of Pamplona, and found myself staring into the blinding sun on the train platform.
Some hours later, somehow, I woke up and congratulated myself on making my way onto a plane and another train, in another city.
“Madame, est-ce que je peux vous aider?” A surprisingly nice guy asked me as I am lugging my suitcase from the depths of the metro to the surface of the Paris city center.
“Ça va, merci.” I give him my most-often used French phrase with a smile. Actually, Mr. Nice French man, I would love for you to help me with my evil suitcase, but I was the one who chose to pack this much stuff, not you.
Anyways, I am very happy to be back in a place where I can communicate with ease. I am also happy to see that the good samaritan vibe that I experienced in Pamplona has transferred itself to Paris.
Was this all a dream? Nope. But just in case, I took some photographic proof before passing out in my train seat.
I have to tell you, I still love living in Dakar. Okay scratch that- I like living in Dakar – but I don’t think that I could ever love it like I love living in western Europe. I refuse to apologize for enjoying this speed of life, even if this proclivity puts me on many white people lists. I can talk all day about how I enjoy the challenge of living in Senegal, where I have to deftly ward off advances from unrealistically hopeful men, but I certainly could never live there forever. Here in Europe, it’s a different scene- and sans doute, I could retire here.
Hmmm….
So to finally leave Spain behind (I kind of feel like I can’t fully recover until I have finished these blog entries), I have to tell you again the energy was great. The San Fermin Festival is something that you should all place on your bucket list- whether you travel there like I did for Hemingway, or you want to poke death in the hindquarters with a rolled up newspaper, or simply because you want to experience more than your fair share of Sangria- you will never regret a trip to Pamplona.
