A loaded car...Well, like most of our (Rob and I) endeavors, minimal planning was put into the trip. The idea the night or so before we left was that we’d simply get to Pamplona, spend a few days there, not get killed by bulls, and then go chill at the Atlantic coast of Spain and try to surf. Looking back, we had no clue what we were getting into. My initial thought was that the running of the bulls was an event that took place in a little Spanish town and drew only a small number of American and foreign thrill-seekers and a few drunk locals trying to show how “macho” they were. False and False and False. Upon arrival into the Basque region of Spain, we found that this was a “feria” - a weeklong party of epic proportions – and the third largest party in the World.
An accordion? Me?!We arrived Saturday night to find over a million people dressed in white ensembles and red scarves. Well, they initially started as white. Sangria, the local “red” beverage of choice, flows a bit like water during the event. And after walking over many red stained, inebriated party-goers, we realized that our Grove City College, dry campus backgrounds had not quite prepared us for the scene to follow. The amazingly beautiful city of Pamplona had turned into a mass of unceasing noise, warm-sweaty bodies pushing you from all sides, the stench of alcohol and urine everywhere, and trash covering all ground not occupied by intoxicated human bodies. Rob and I quickly purchased the required red scarves and set out to explore the city, wide-eyed, trying to take in the scene. My high school Spanish slowly came out of hibernation as we began to meet all types of people from around the world. The bands played, the party flowed, and we wondered how we got there and where the bulls came into play.
We caught an early night that first night, 2 am. That may seem pretty substantial to those forgetting what college was like, but all things being relative, we left when the party just got going. We learned that the partying is capped off at 8:00 the next morning when they “unleash the hounds” - 620 kg (1350 lbs) of hounds - wielding two razor-sharp horns each. This was day 7 of the event, and already an American tourist had died earlier that week (the 14th in the history of the Feria St. Fermin) by goring. We decided to check out the 800 meter course and get some insight into survival before deciding if it was something we were really going to undertake. In true feria festival fashion, we awoke from our sleeping bags conveniently placed on the asphalt sidewalk to go witness “the running”. It was already packed by the time we reached it, and with the high walls protecting the many inebriated viewers, we didn’t see much action after the famous warning firecrackers were shot off. But by the horrified looks of the women on the balconies above and the rushing paramedics, it was an exciting run. Being off-schedule for the day (a.k.a. being alert, awake, and sober in the morning) Rob and I used this as a chance to explore the city and watch the busy workers cleaning of the mounds of party waste. We took the chance to talk with a few “survivors” who knew the 800 meter course and the “safest” places to run. Everyone we talked to seemed to agree that the course was very safe, only the dumb and drunk ones who try to run along the dangerous beasts and hit them with newspapers get in trouble. Duly-noted (as if it were a temptation!). But the thought of running still made me nervous. We took the rest of the day easy, sunbathing until the bullfight that evening – something Rob and I were both quite curious to see – which commences the party for the following evening.
With our tickets to the fight later that eveningHow do you describe a bullfight? I watched as the matadors tightroped the wire of death and 6 bulls reach their vicious, bloody end. And even now I struggle with choosing the right words and adjectives to summarize the experience. I found it to be completely eye-opening being a mid-western country boy from the States. I ran the gamete of emotions during the fight: queasiness, bewilderment, excitement, confusion, enthrallment – in short: my world got a little bigger after that 3 hour period.
Continuing the trend of eye-opening experiences, Rob and I returned to our car in the early morning hours to find that one of the windows was smashed in and our personal effects sorted through. Most of our camping items that were removed were stashed under the car and three of our personal bags were lifted. In the frustration and anger of the moment, I managed to cut me head on the broken glass of the window. With blood streaming and police on their way, I did my best to rectify the cut so that the police wouldn’t become too suspicious. In a mixture of broken Spanish, English and French, we communicated the situation and spent the next 3 hours in the police station. All told, the thief made off with over 1400 dollars worth in clothing, cash, electronics and unfortunately passports and other documents - including my camera (sorry faithful blog viewers). Needless to say we didn’t get much sleep that night. Without a phone, I spent another 3 hours the next day at the police station trying to convince French insurance agencies to get my window fixed. Without much help on the phones and no window in the car, Rob and I decided the best option was to just head back to Paris and cut our losses. It was a very angry and frustrating ride home – no beach, no surfing, no running with the bulls…and a heck of a lot of bills and headaches to sort out when we got back.
But all in all, I think we will look back on this in a positive light. We got to see a ton of new things and made quite a few great memories in the three days. We’re just a little older and a little wiser.
