Pamplona, Spain & the Festival of San Fermin

Let's flashback and pretend its July and we are in Pamplona, Spain dressed head to toe in traditional white clothing with a simple red accents, about to witness The Festival of San Fermin, also known as the Running of the Bulls.

It’s six a.m. in Pamplona, the sky is turning from navy to pale blue with the approaching dawn, and the streets are already packed. In reality, many of the people who line the cobbled lanes of the old town have not been to bed yet (including myself).

Every year, roughly a million people flock to Iruña, as Pamplona is called in the native Basque language, for the festival of San Fermín. They join the native Navarros in an epic bacchanal that has taken place annually since 1591. The party kicked off with the echoing explosion of a rocket and will continue, uninterrupted, for eight days and nights.

Almost.

Around seven o’clock every morning, a calm (or utter exhaustion from the parties the night before) sweeps through the city as municipal workers set up thick wooden fences along a well trodden path that runs a half mile from holding pends in the northern part of the old town to the bull ring. Over the next hour, young men dressed like 99 percent of the people in the city this week--white pants, white shirt, red neckerchief, and red sash around the waist--gather in the street where, at eight o’clock sharp, they will run for their lives in front of six angry bulls. This is the encierro, the running of the bulls, which has been taking place since the 17th century, and remains one of the most thrilling spectacles in modern sport.

“Why do they run?” I ask the Italian man, holding a 40 ounce bottle of beer sitting next to me on the fence.

He simply replys “I don’t know."

At the time, I agree.

[Looking back, however, I realize just how built up the whole event gets. In reality, eighty percent of the guys on the street are irrelevant. They don’t feel it, they don’t live it. The hide behind more seasoned runner then go home and brag about how they "ran with the bulls." Mostly, they don’t even run in front of the bulls, they just stand to the side and watch the bulls pass. ]

The bulls pass us in a matter of seconds, rush through the streets and hang a hard right at the Curve of Estafeta ("Dead Man's Curve"). From there, it’s an all out sprint up Estafeta Street down into the bull ring. Among the hundreds of people in the street, maybe 30 actually put themselves in front of the bulls.

But what do I know about relevancy. Like a cowboy at a rodeo, I sat atop my spot on the fence. Safe. Protected. Too scared to even hop in the race. Sitting on the top timber of the inner of two fences I wait for the 8 a.m. rocket in front of the mob scene cranking their necks to get even the slightest view and think about just how lucky I am and just how cool of an experience witnessing the Festival of San Fermin actually is. The energy surges as the clock gets closer to 8. The street is so full, if everyone suddenly ran, you’d think they’d simply trip over each other and all stack up, waiting to be minced by angry bulls. The energy continues to build. Then it’s 8, and the sound of the rocket indicates that the bulls are running. The entire scramble takes about two and a half minutes. The adrenaline surges in the crowded street.

Though I was simply a bystander sharing those moments of sheer amazement as the bulls past, and the sheer exhaustion that accompanied staying up all night, I will never forget my 24hours in the city of Pamplona, Spain with my favorite person.