Pamplona Spain – Bullfight
I was 18 when I made the decision to take the summer off before entering what I imagined would be four years of college imprisonment, and so I set out in search of an adventure so compelling that it would sustain me through the tedious and endless life of a student My inspiration for the trip came from my father, who as a poet, writer, and avid traveler, had instilled in me a burning desire to explore the wacky and exotic world of a rover. Countless nights I fervently listened to his tales of Spain, and of the splendor and pomp of bullfighting that his hero, Ernest Hemingway, had immortalized through his prose. I intuitively knew that my first (and possibly last) quixotic quest before entering academia would be to run with the bulls at the famous summer festival in Pamplona, Spain.
The festival known as San Fermín, a seven-day celebration deeply rooted in tradition, is held annually in the first week of July in northern Spain. Its most characteristic event, the “encierro,” or bullfight, is a bizarre and ostentatious display of macho bravado. The spectacle gets off to a quick start each morning with fireworks, proclaiming that the bulls have been released from their pens to run free through the barricaded streets of the town to the nearby arena. Bold thrill seekers test their mettle by running ahead of the stampeding herd, often with disastrous results. Since its beginnings in the 13th century (when butchers did a little rushing past the bulls being brought to auction to ensure a place of choice at the auction), several people have been killed and hundreds seriously injured. It was with this bewildering thread of historical data weaving through my road-weary head, that I cautiously stepped off the bus one pristine night, to the quaint and sleepy town known as Pamplona.
Arriving a day before the official start of the festival, I had a hard time finding a room anywhere, eventually stumbled upon a dilapidated hotel on the outskirts of town, where a variety of like-minded adventurers had settled. gathered in camaraderie. born of necessity I found myself sharing a room with three sleep-deprived revelers, who, having arrived a day early, enthusiastically filled me in on the previous night’s activity, which consisted mainly of inhaling massive amounts of wine from a goatskin bag, the erubescent liquid invariably cascading profusely down their white linen shirts. Looking back fondly on that time, I remember a sea of scarlet-clad men running through the village streets in a state of jubilation, no doubt as a result of the generous amount of libation consumed, but more importantly, because they were young and carefree , passionately embracing the ephemeral and bittersweet joy of his youth.
The next morning my comrades and I started our day the way anyone facing near certain death would…we drank as much wine as we could. With a sense of fear and exhilaration in equal measure, we made our way to the threshold of the village’s makeshift corral, where, sheltered behind a massive wooden gate, stood a legion of sinister-looking bulls. They seemed as apprehensive and fearful as we were, and I secretly hoped that through some inexplicable means of brain transfer, we would make a telepathic agreement to stay as far away from each other as possible during the impending trial. I was stunned by its stupendous size and obvious strength, realizing that since my sister had so flatly informed me about the day I left, I really must be crazy to contemplate such an effort. With a long, last gulp from the bag of wine, I resolved to taunt the danger, and like an intrepid bullfighter about to enter the arena, I threw my fate into the Mediterranean wind.
The ancient Zen masters refer to what followed in the next few seconds as kensho. A moment so firmly rooted in the present, that all world concerns of the past and future give way to the all-encompassing now. Upon the release of the formidable creatures, I remember running blindly down the antediluvian road, the only consuming thought of reaching the distant ring, where those who successfully completed the course would have a seat for the afternoon bullfights. Fueled by a panic-induced rush of adrenaline, I suddenly found myself running not from the beasts, but between them. A conglomeration of sweaty, glistening legs, arms, and bull meat had somehow intertwined, generating a throbbing crowd of jerky movement that rumbled along the narrow cobblestone corridors in a frenzied state of terror, laced with an emotion that was beyond compelling. can only be described as. .. elated.
Surreally running through the advancing horde, I instinctively strove to stay upright and as far away as possible from the myriad horns that surrounded me. On the periphery, I saw a terrified and fear-stricken contestant frantically trying to climb over the barricade full of spectators, only to be pushed back by the crowd, left desperately to face his precarious fate.
With a profound sense of relief, I watched the tattered wooden gates of the stadium, when without warning I was thrown violently to the ground from behind, struck by the vortex of pandemonium rushing vehemently, intent on bursting through the small barred opening that formed the entrance. . With a steady click of hooves echoing inches from my ears, I scrambled to my feet in a desperate attempt to reach the sanctuary of the arena. Sensing a momentary gap in the deluge, I hurried through the insignificant opening into the relative safety of the ring. Standing hazily inert in the dispersing crowd, I was startled to realize that I was still physically intact, still breathing the fresh morning air… the life-affirming touch of the sun’s luminous rays enveloping me in reassuringly my trembling shoulders. Like the crowd of madmen before me, I had run with the bulls of Pamplona, and lived to tell the tale…….