I think
everyone who knows me knows I am unabashedly obsessed with Ernest Hemingway. So
when I realized that we would be in Spain during La Fiesta de San Fermin it
became priority number 1 to get there in time for the first two days of the
festival. And some minor glitches aside, we got there!
On our first day in Pamplona I left my camera at the hotel (30 km outside of the city). But as it happens this was for the best since the festival opens with the ceremonious pouring, squirting, and sprinkling of hundreds of liters of Sangria onto the white clothed masses gathered in the streets (definitely not an ideal atmosphere for an expensive camera). But not to worry! I documented the events of the following day quiet extensively.
We
began the day early. The encierro (running of the bulls) begins at 8. So we
arrived at El Plaza del Torros at 7. This is where the runners and the bulls
end their dash of terror. In the arena you watch the run itself on large
screens but the final sprint of the race takes place right before your eyes as
10 bulls and thousands of adrenaline junky tourists and Spaniards funnel in.
I didn’t know what to expect, but I figured that bulls and half-drunk runners would enter the arena and that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. Red and white clad men continued to fill the arena until you could hardly see the brown sand of the floor and one by one baby bulls were released into the crowd. There seemed to be only one rule; do not pull its tail, and of course this was broken. Everyone wanted to touch the bull. And it’s funny because for the rest of the day no matter where you went there was always a conversation full of encierro bragging to be overheard. My mom and I thought it was hilarious that the event is so distinctly male. Just the idea “let’s stuff an arena with people and then release bulls into it while people watch us” seems like something only boys would think of. So for close to an hour we watched men get thrown around by bulls, and then it was time to find some breakfast.
After walking
a few blocks into the labyrinth of narrow streets that comprise the old part of
Pamplona we found a Churreria with a line down the block and around the corner.
We took the massive queue along with the Churro San Fermine above the doorway
as a sign that the churros were good and decided to wait our turn. While we
waited we joked that there are two things that cause lines like this to form in
Pamplona—churros, and sangria. These are a people with their priorities in
line (especially when it comes to lines ;))!
After
churros we had the extraordinary good fortune of being in the right place at
the right time. We found ourselves on a street that seemed to be the main route
of a parade. We later learned that the second day of the festival of San Fermin
is the Day of San Fermine and this parade was in honor of that. But at the time
we counted ourselves lucky to have the parade equivalent of front row seats for
the passing bands, dancers, religious figures, and jester like creatures with
javelins for bopping people (yes, I got bopped).
When the
parade passed the streets became so jammed with people and brass bands that we
decided to venture out to the city gates to seek some fresh air and free space.
The gate is truly impressive and surprisingly, still functional! Though white
pants are less than ideal for tree posing, I did manage to strike something
that vaguely resembles a tree pose under the giant gate. I guess it’s also a
kind of funny thing to mention that I stepped in dog poop! So after handling
this little mess we ate, somehow lost my phone, and found our way to the police
station to report it missing. I must say the Spanish police are the nicest
people ever! In the course of an hour, we discussed the bullfights, filled out
the necessary paperwork, and were invited to stay for coffee. Overall, it was an
extremely pleasant experience.
The Corridas de Toros (bullfights) on the other hand, were a little less solely enjoyable. At first my mom and I were pretty horrified by the whole thing. The way that they are set up pits twelve men against one bull, which struck us as completely unfair. At one point sometime after the first bull, we even discussed leaving. That was when the woman sitting next to me started explaining what was going on, albeit in Spanish, so I didn’t get everything. But her explanations really helped me to focus on the art of the Matador rather than the suffering of the bull. I’m not sure if I’d use the word enjoyment to describe my experience of the bullfights from this point forward but I came to understand them—to understand the history behind them, and their richness as a cultural tradition.
Later we made our way to the main square for open air dancing in the Basque tradition. I went with the intention of watching but it was only a matter of minutes before I found a dancing partner and master instructor in the form of an older Basque woman with a blue stripe in her hair, and joined the dancing masses. Both my mom and I were impressed by how well the people of Pamplona, young and old, know their traditional dances. The square was literally packed with dancers. I went home very happy that evening. It was the perfect end to an enjoyable San Fermines experience.
