Awake at 6AM in Pamplona, first day of the Running of the Bulls, San Fermin Fiesta; breakfast buffet: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, Swiss, croissant, tepid whole milk, hot coffee, juice. College girl shooting curious glances a few tables over. Shapely, glasses, wavy brown hair. I consider a bold move. Nope. Melons, peaches at the buffet taunting me. Decide to go. Steal a banana and yogurt. Back to room, try to sleep. Fantasize about lusty college girl. Can’t sleep. CNN, shower? No—don my wine-stained shirt, white pants, red sash and kerchief, out in the street.
“Agua! Agua!” Water crashes down from balcony buckets, corks pop and spray rooster tails of champagne into the crowd, sangria wine squirts from leather flasks, staining the delirious revelers. Dancing, music, food, beer and wine, the crowd is feverishly drunk by noon. Spend the day sipping beer and grabbing tapas between happenstance conversations and toasts with near strangers. Head back early since the bull run is in the morning.
6AM, phone rings, “This is your wake up call, sir.” I roll over to catch a few winks, then out of bed. Shower? Shave? No need to, really. Gonna get all soaked in spraying booze anyway. Throw on my San Fermin wine-stained shirt and rest of the white and red garb, tie my shoes and out the door. Coffee? No time.
Following the swelling throngs I make my way, pushing and shoving through the thickening crowd to the central plaza. Fence in front for spectators. No, gotta get closer. Loop around and jump the fence, melting into the crowd of mostly athletic young men, all wearing white with red neckerchiefs.
We mill nervously like animals being readied for slaughter. Some fear, a lot of nervousness, but mostly anticipation and chatter. A few teenage boys guzzle down liters of beer and hand the bottles to a policeman on the safe side of the fence. I'm thinking I’m glad I didn’t have coffee, don’t have to pee, this crowd is stuck tight and I'm penned in. No turning back.
Clang, clang, clang…the church bells ring eight as the crowd silently counts, then BOOOM!! A cannon blast announces the bulls are out, on the loose, starting their charge.
I look over a sea of white and red and bobbing heads. No bulls. Some men jump up and crane their necks for a better look. Some bend and stretch. The crowd mills forward, a little, then faster, like minnows after a bug...
A quick thunder and, “THEY’RE HERE!” The masculine mass breaks and scrambles and scatters and a crooked horn bounces near, I start to run and fumble for my camera but 15 tons of animal muscle and sharp horns rumbles up, frenetic and wild, panting, hooves pounding the street, scraping and slipping as they round the bend, I run, pumping knees and elbows, cut, push, elbow, shove through the chaos and screams; leap onto the wood fence and hang on with hope, the herd tramples and pounds by, surrounded by a blur of white and red.
Laughter, relief, shouting, …they’ve passed.
Suddenly a charging pack of steers roar upon us and another scatter-scramble, and then wild laughter, giggling and giddy; we collapse to the ground in joy.
I stagger to my feet, giddy, goofy, laughing, laugh-crying, my insides electrified. Felt like I’d just jumped out of a plane.
“Are there any more?! Is that it?”
“I don’t know!”
“I don’t see any!
“That was a riot, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah, that was something!”
Ambling deliriously through the crowd, a man in a neck brace is carried on a stretcher, blood trickling from his ear; I search for a beer stand and guzzle one to calm my nerves.
Wow. That was a lot of fun!
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