A great number of stories have formed behind the parapet of Pamplona’s fortress walls. The city’s fiesta of San Fermin, which takes place every summer from July 6th, to July 14th, spins its intoxicating affect on those who attend and return again and again.
Many are familiar with Jake Barnes’ story in Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, fewer perhaps of the six, wandering soul-searchers in James Michener’s The Drifters. My parents have played the role — adorned in the fiesta’s native costume of white and red — and I look forward to hearing chapters from my Uncle Charlie’s annual stories after he returns home, still glowing from the nine days spent in abandon.
If I were to tell you the story of my San Fermin, it would not include early-morning encierros, gritty red wine, or death in the afternoon. Having attended my first fiesta at eleven months old and having experienced a total of nine fiestas before the age of fifteen, my story would be of rides on the ferris wheel, paper cones stuffed with greasy churros, skies dripping with colorful explosions, and Giants whirling over cobblestone streets.
Each time I returned anticipating these novelties, but really, I was brought back by the resolve of my parents and my uncle who had their own, personal reasons for returning every 6th of July — at my age, reasons I couldn’t quite understand but they wanted exposed to me all the same.
In August, I will be nineteen. Although my parents have not recently found the time to return to Pamplona, this year I have chosen to attend fiesta in hopes of writing a new chapter in my own story, or perhaps of discovering new meaning to stories I already know exist.
What makes San Fermin so exceptional is its ability to be both intensely personal and gratifyingly communal. The distinctly unique experiences of every individual make each fiesta different and it is the ability of the individuals to together make it so that it unites them all. If the person has truly immersed himself in the celebration—i.e. relinquished himself to jubilance—he will become an appendage of the San Fermin machine—unique in his role, but a contributing member of something much greater than he.
Although the fiesta has gained fame because of the dramatic running of the bulls down the old town’s narrow streets. It is easy to miss them. Sleep in late, or don’t purchase the often-pricey corrida tickets, and the only place you will see a bull during fiesta is splashed across T-Shirts and posters or stirred into a thick stew.
But for many, seeing the bulls thunder up Santo Domingo and down Calle Estefeta every morning at eight a.m. is a sacred and essential part of their fiesta. Spectators line the barricades, fill balconies, duck into windowsills, stand on street lights, on boxes, on shoulders, insert themselves into any empty space and assume any necessary posture in order to see the six massive fighting bulls and their accompanying steers make their way through the hundreds of frenetic men who would rather play the game than watch from the sidelines. Even the flowers, nestled in their window beds, seem to lean their multicolored heads down to watch the run.
Each new day erupts with the shot of a gun, the slam of corral gates and the unequivocal battering of scores of hooves against Pamplona’s cobblestones streets. The unyielding sound of those hooves echo long after the bulls have made their way into the ring, penetrating your gut and boosting the tempo of your heart. Death’s palpability during the encierro reminds fiesta-goers of life’s transience, laying the foundation for San Fermin’s mainfesto: to live life to the fullest. Although this is not the party’s official mission statement it is something each and every person holds in their heart and carries out in their actions during those nine radiant days.
Stepping into San Fermin is like stepping off of the universe. It is leisure without lethargy. It is a dream without illusion. And yet, San Fermin is something you will only understand if you go, and experience it for yourself.
{ 8 comments… read them below or add one }
I have been trying to do this for the last 5 years. I’m jealous!
As Anna’s former Junior English teacher, I am immensely proud. This is a wonderful piece, full of pasion, life and death.
Sorry, but the running of the bulls is very cruel. It’s a pointless, abusive spectacle during which confused bulls are forced to run through the streets while rowdy, drunken revelers run alongside and poke them with sticks. The poor animals are prodded and beaten to panic them and force them to run. After this exhausting and barbarian torture, the animals are not returned to pasture, but herded to a stadium and then killed.
How is this a nice leisure activity??? I am so sad that a young person would find this antiquated, cruel tradition to be worthy of experiencing….there are still slave auctions in some parts of the world. Would that be a fund activity to participate in???
For more information about the cruely of the bull run, visit http://www.prijatelji-zivotinja.hr/index.en.php?id=769
I agree with Mike Carter above. Running with the bulls seems so savage and cruel. I am disappointed that Tripso is endorsing animal cruelty as a tourist attraction. Having lived in Spain for a couple of years, I can easily say that the overwhelming majority of Spaniards are against bull fighting and look at the running of the bulls in Pamplona with disdain and not with nostalgia.
I am also not impressed with the running of the bulls. There is no magic (as your headline says) in watching the torture of animals.
Why are you promoting animal torture? Aren’t there better touristic things to do? Shame on whoever approved this article and thus is promoting this antiquated, cruel and stupid activity. I hope the girl who wrote the article does some research and realizes how appalling the running of the bulls really is.
A very well written piece. I am looking forward to reading more articles from a fresh perspective.
I have known you since your first fiesta. At the beginning of the fiesta you were just crawling on the floor and by the end you were dancing to the music without assistance. I am glad to see that you have returned once again. It is good to know that there are young Americans that will continue the tradition.
Tio Douglas
Disgusting. Slavery was a tradition in my country. And you know what? We outlawed it. Dogfighting was a cultural tradition. So was cockfighting. Both were finally completely outlawed. Misery is NOT entertaining EVER. Let’s terrorize you-race you through the streets with thousands of people chasing you to your death. THEN you can write again about how “magical” this archaic, sick, tradition is.
Next!