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Pamplona Spain – Running of the Bulls

I was 18 years old when I made the decision to leave the summer before I entered what I thought was a four-year prison sentence at university, and so I began to look for a serious adventure, one that would support me through a difficult and endless period. student life. My inspiration to make this trip came from my father, who as a poet, writer, and avid traveler, gave me the desire to explore the strange, strange world of the rover. Countless nights I listened with interest to his stories about Spain, and about the beauty and spectacle of the bullfights that his hero, Ernest Hemingway, immortalized through his writings. I knew intuitively that my first (and probably last) quest before entering the academic world, would be running with the bulls at the famous summer festival of Pamplona, ​​Spain.

San Fermin, a seven-day celebration based on tradition, takes place every year in the first week of July in northern Spain. The most famous event, the “encierro”, or bull run, is a spectacular and spectacular display of machismo bravado. The parade begins each morning with fireworks, announcing that the cows have been released from their pens to run freely through the village’s barricaded streets to the nearby paddock. Fun-loving people test their mettle by running ahead of the trampling crowd, and it often has disastrous results. Since its inception in the 13th century, (when the meat market was a bit rushed in front of the bulls led to the market to ensure that it was a good place for the trade), several people have been killed, and hundreds of others have been seriously injured. It had a disturbing thread of history running through my weary street, as I stepped off the bus one normal night, into the strange and sleepy village of Pamplona.

Arriving just a day before the festival, I was struggling to find a room anywhere, and luckily I stumbled upon a hotel on the outskirts of town, where many lovers had gathered together. important birth. I found myself sharing a room with three sleep-deprived people, who, having arrived the day before, eagerly told me about the events of the previous night, which mainly consisted of drinking a lot of wine from a goat’s bag, the erubescent water running down. white linen shirt. When I look back at that time, I remember a sea of ​​men dressed in red roaming the streets of the village happily, no doubt because of the amount of alcohol they consumed, but more importantly, because they were young and carefree, passionate. embracing the fleeting, bittersweet joys of their youth.

In the morning my friends and I started the day the way any dying person should….we drank as much wine as we could. With fear and excitement in equal measure, we arrived at the entrance to the village barn, which had a large wooden gate housing a herd of terrifying looking cows. They seemed as scared and nervous as we are, and I secretly hope that through some mysterious method of brain transfer, we will establish a telepathic bond to stay as far away from each other as possible during the coming tribulation. I was astonished at their extraordinary size and their apparent strength, and I realized, as my sister had assured me of the day of my departure, that I must be mad to think of it. With one last draw from the wine-bag, I resolved to sneer in the face of danger, and like a fearless matador about to enter the arena, I threw my fate to the Mediterranean wind.

What happened in the next few seconds, is referred to by the old zen masters as kensho. A moment firmly rooted in the present, that all the worries of the past and the future are connected to all that is happening now. At the release of the monstrous creatures, I remember running blindly forward in the flooded street, my only thought of reaching the distant ring, where the best graduates would be given a seat in the evening’s bullfights. Fueled by adrenalin-induced fear, I suddenly found myself running not toward monsters, but among them. The movement of the legs, arms, and the shiny sweat filling the cow’s body were connected in some way, resulting in a strong pulse that hit the narrow stone paths fearlessly, combined with a feeling that could be described as. .. happily.

Rushing suddenly into the midst of the advancing crowd, I instinctively tried to keep upright, and far away from the multitude of horns that surrounded me. Glancing aside, I saw one of the panicked participants, desperately trying to get through the barricade of spectators, but was pushed back by the crowd, and left to meet his doom.

With great relief, I saw the cracked wooden doors of the arena, when I was unconsciously thrown down hard from behind, caught in a storm of pandemonium trying to get out through the narrow opening that made the entrance. . With the constant sound of hooves sounding inches from my ears, I got up and tried to reach the sanctuary of the arena. After seeing the flood break for a moment, I slowly made my way through the small opening and into the safety of the ring. Standing casually in the middle of the scattered crowd, I was struck by the realization that I was still a body, still breathing the fresh air of the morning….the sure life of sunlight covering my trembling shoulders. Like many madmen before me, I ran with the bulls of Pamplona, ​​and survived to tell the tale…….

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