For the sake of brevity, these next few posts are just going to be pictures. I would love to include the stories behind these shots, but unfortunately I have run out of my time to be a carefree traveler and have made the conversion back into student life. Thank you to all who have followed my journeys so far!
Growing up, I had always heard about this insane festival in Spain where massive bulls were run through city streets admist crowds of people clad in red and white. I use to look at pictures of the affair in awe, amazed that something so barbaric as still allowed to take place in the modern age. People had died running with the bulls— a quick googling of the phrase yields some truly gruesome images complete with blood, gore and horns. When I discovered the festival was taking place in July just two countries away from Belgium, I knew I had to see it for myself. Even more so, I knew I too had to run with the bulls. THE ROAD TRIP The adventure began Friday morning when I picked up my fiancé, Paul, from the airport. We rented a car, downed some espresso, and began the 12-hour drive from Brussels to Pamplona. One of Paul’s favorite books is The Sun Also Rises, a classic Hemmingway novel about identity, war, and purpose, all centering around the running of the bulls festival in 1945. He has read the book three times. We started our journey in high spirits, still in disbelief we were making our childhood fantasies a reality. I don’t think there are many other modes of travel I enjoy more than a good old-fashioned road trip. Give me good company, a riveting playlist and the open road and I’ll be set. However, Paul and I were not prepared for the extreme monotony of the French countryside. Both of us are used to the states where roughly every hour of a road trip provides a different scene. Back home, you can travel through cities, forests, farmland, mountains, and the coast, all in under three hours. However, France does not offer such a luxury. After about 6 hours of watching the same rolling fields and quiet farmhouses pass by, one starts to go a bit loopy. Another downside about France is the incessant tolls and speed monitors. There are tolls everywhere and they're not cheap. The speed monitors are also a sneaky way of making sure you go the speed limit, which really isn’t fair if you’re an American conditioned to look for cop cars instead of weird metal racks hanging by the side of the road. We definitely accrued a few speeding tickets by the end of our trip. Regardless, we were having the time of our lives. We had snacks, music, an adventure ahead and each other. You don’t need much more in life to be happy. PAMPLONA Due to truly outrageous traffic jams around Paris (And this is coming from a New Yorker…) and a few extended pit-stops to regain our sanity, we arrived in Pamplona around 01:30 Saturday morning. The last few hours of the trip were dicey. The windy mountain roads of Spain knock driving into hard mode when you’ve been driving over 10 hours. Somehow we made it to our Air BnB where our host was kind enough to wait up and assist us in finding parking which took another 40 minutes due to the massive turn out for the festival. Exhausted, we retired to bed. Since we arrived so late, we slept in and missed the first bull run of the week starting at 8 am, but since the bulls are run every day we weren’t upset. Our Air BnB was located about a mile outside the city center, so we began the trek up the musty mountain paths to the old city unsure of what to expect. At first, we were walking among a decent crowd, all decked out in white with the classic red bandanas tied around the neck. The number of people was impressive, but nothing different than an average day of traffic on 42nd street. Then suddenly, as we turned a corner and entered the city center, it was as if it was new years eve in times square. People were flooding the winding streets, handing out of windows and balconies, shuffling through stores were crowds of people, all with drinks in hand and a smile on their face. Never before had I felt an energy like this. It was only 09:00 and there was already the smell of sangria and beer in the air. But this was not like festivals I had seen in the states. These people were not here to get plastered. Alcohol was being heavily consumed of course, but its purpose was to add to the high spirits of the festivities, not to be the singular point of interest. This is something peculiar I’ve noticed throughout Europe which is so odd compared to America. Alcohol is more accessible here as well as being legal at a much younger age, yet the count of belligerent drunks you’ll see on a Friday night is virtually zero. Back in Hoboken, the whole city seems to be hung over every Saturday morning, while here alcohol just isn’t given so much power. Instead of grinding through the work week and letting loose every weekend, people regularly enjoy a beer or two any day of the week. But I digress. We got breakfast at this small bakery and bought ‘tortillas', basically scrambled eggs, cheese and ham grilled on a baguette. We also got our first round of sangria. The streets seemed to be endlessness filled with a sea of red and white. We felt as though we were in a different time. Traditional Spanish music floated up from street corner musicians, the smell of freshly baked bread wafted out of bakeries where shop owners were rushing about to serve the invading masses, circles of young friends stood about passing around a bottle of homemade sangria, older folks watched from balconies glass of wine in hand, perhaps a grandchild or two on their knee…It was a magical sight. Every man woman and child in the town was wearing white evoking a feeling of unity throughout the city. It sounds odd, but it truly felt as if we knew everyone around us. Even though there were a hundred different cultures and languages represented in the crowds around us, we found ourselves deeply connected by one common interest: the bulls. For lunch, we found this amazing market with an endless selection of Spanish cuisine. I was pleased that my Spanish was adequate enough to not only order some ribs and paella but even have a small conversation with a waitress. My high school Spanish teacher would be proud. We decided it was a good idea to finish off a huge bottle of sangria we accidentally picked earlier when we asked for a glass and were handed a liter instead. I think we must have spent over 3 hours just sitting under a tree near the market, drinking sangria, watching people, and talking about life. Pamplona tends to evoke these types of moments--Hemmingway's book is filled with them. There is something about the dichotomy between the festivities and the old city…There is so much history in this beautiful ancient place. So many lives have passed through this city, growing and transforming and living…yet the festival goes on, year after year, never changing even as the streets age and the buildings decay. There is an eerie somberness underlying it all. Not in a bad way, just in a contemplative one. After this existential crisis, we made our way back to the center as it started to rain. Far from dampening the festivities, the people of Pamplona treated the storm as an excuse to party even harder. Suddenly there were impromptu salsa rings appearing in the streets, people dancing under the sheets of rain with drinks in hand, smiles on their face. Everyone looked even more vibrant against the grey sky. People crowded together under bar awnings, climbed into windows, huddled in doorways, no one minding the closeness. As we got closer to the arena where a bullfight was taking place that evening, the crows became thicker and even more exuberant. Full bands were marching down the streets here, carrying banners with bursts of color. There were also a group of bullfight protesters who were the only ones here in a somber mood looking quite out of place. I had no desire to see a fight where the winner is pretty much guaranteed so we avoided the ticket salesmen shouting over each other offering deals. We bought pizza for dinner at a fancy restaurant which was almost as good as the one I had in Mallorca, then wandered around the city center until dark. I’m not really sure what we did after dinner, it was mostly a blur of red and white and music and drinking. THE BULLS The next morning, we woke up at the crack of dawn. This was it. The moment we were all waiting for. We rushed through the winding streets, now mostly empty and covered in the party littler from the night before. It was raining even harder than yesterday, but our spirits were high due to the anticipated adventure ahead. Since we were a bit late, we decided to join the route just after the ring where the bulls are released to save time. Anxiously, we pushed our way through the crowds of observers lining the streets. The first shot rang out. The first pack of bulls had been released. Our adrenaline spiked. We had made it to the road. This was is. There were about eight other runners around us, clearly more seasoned than ourselves. I was wearing white Everlane flats with ripped jeans and a white t-shirt, all completely soaked already, hardly adequate equipment for racing bulls. I looked at Paul. His eyes said, “so we're really doing this, huh?”. We couldn’t hear anything over the noise of the crowd. Then. I saw them. Huge, monstrous beasts, practically as tall as me and three times as thick. They had just turned the corner 100m away. The smell of leather and manure filled the street, the thunderous sound of 64 hooves striking wet cobblestones filled my ears. Ivory horns, sharp and menacing gleamed in the pouring rain, the breath from each snort appearing like dragon’s smoke in the cold mountain air. Time slowed. I was on the side of the street, hand against the wall as a guide once the hoard passed and the chaos broke. These were no ordinary bulls. They were demons bred and selected for this one purpose: to run through the streets of Pamplona with the stupid few thrill seekers who thought it would be a good idea. Suddenly, the slow motion broke. They were here. I was running. Sprinting for my life. I could feel the horns behind my back as if some electric field was permitting from their tips directly into my spine. The adrenaline made it feel like a dream—I felt no pain when I slipped and twisted my ankle, I barely heard the screaming crowd, I didn’t care who I stepped over…Then suddenly the horns were in front of me. It was over in a matter of seconds. We stopped running and rushed to a side as the next pack of bulls clamored past. And then it was over. We ran with the bulls. And that was the end. We bought some amazing breakfast for 4 euros, walked back to our car and started the long drive home. That was the amazing thing…the main event of the adventure was actually the most fleeting. Exciting, adventurous, a memory of a lifetime for sure, but also incredibly transient. The experience of the city, the conversations, the hours spent with my best friend on the road in silence--that was the real backbone of this adventure. It’s funny how we as humans always assume we have to accomplish some grandiose feat to make our time here on earth worthwhile. Yet I argue it is not our most flashy moments that are the most important. It is in the quiet days, the ordinary activities, the trips to the grocery and walks through the park which makes us who we are. Running with the bulls was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever done in my life. But if you want the true experience of Pamplona, I really don’t think you need more than good company and a bottle of low tier sangria.
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AuthorAmy Renne Archives
September 2018
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