Running of the Bulls

Pamplona, Spain

I didn't think anything could rival last year’s Carnival festival in Galicia, Spain, where Saturday night's drag-themed dance party lasted from midnight until 9am, followed by a parade in which ants dosed in vinegar are hurled at the crowds as masked men in white dresses chase you with wooden sticks (just reading that exhausts me). But after celebrating San Fermin in Pamplona this past weekend, I think Mardi Gras has finally met its match.

San Fermin, oh San Fermin. Sounds like a Texan ballad. It's actually the festival of the corrida (bull fights) and the encierro (the running of the bulls, which I’ll get to in a moment), and the Spanish celebrate by indulging in wine until the wee hours of the morning. I’ve wanted to go ever since reading Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises, the plot of which revolves around a group of Americans who travel down from Paris to get drunk with locals for a week straight. And we pretty much did exactly that. 

A friend and I arrived to Pamplona around midnight, after an 11-hour car trip to San Sebastian followed by a bus ride full of horny teenagers (the biggest downfall of the festival is that Pamplona is a major pain to get to). Tired but motivated we got out of the bus terminal and in front of us… pure madness. Masses of drunk, happy, dancing, chanting people rushed by in all directions. I’m not exaggerating; the energy of this place was an instant sensory overload. Marching bands and folk artists contested with the main stage rockers, convenient stores competed for the cheapest liters of sangria (we got 3 for 5euros) and the entire city reeked of sandwiches and urine. Everyone, literally anyone between the ages of 6 to 66, ran around sporting matching ensembles of white tee’s, white pants, red neckerchiefs and a cup of wine in their hands (maybe the kids had grape juice… maybe). We checked our bags, bought our vino, and dove right in.

The next day was rough. But we made sure to fit in all my Spanish favorites, including bocadillos de jamon iberico (the best ham you’ll ever eat), tortillas españolas (thick omelets filled with potatoes) and some mean croquetas (cheese-filled fritters). Most of the rowdy voices on the streets belonged to the French and Spaniards and surprisingly not Americans and Australians who typically earn the award for “Most Boisterous.” I’d eventually see my fellow Yankees the following morning, the wackos actually running with the bulls. When speaking with a few locals, the conversations went as such:

Local Spanish chick: are you going to run tomorrow?

Us: Hell yeah!!

Local Spanish chick: Where are you from?

Us: America!!!!

Local Spanish chick: Ah, okay. Of course.

Us: What do you mean, of course?

Local Spanish chick: The Americans are the ones locos enough to run.

Us: But it’s so cool!!!!

Local Spanish chick: Yes… if you survive.

All weekend I kept going back and forth as to whether I would actually do it. After watching highlight videos of participants getting gored and trampled on earlier in the week, plus the constant reminders that people actually die in this thing, I felt myself swaying towards spectating instead. That phone call asking mom to wire money to a tiny Spanish hospital because I have a bull’s horn through my thigh didn’t seem worth it.

red, white and wine!

It was finally a 48-year-old mom who convinced me to suck it up and do it. My friends and I arrived at 6am, two hours early to scope out a solid starting point with the least likelihood of getting joust. Just our luck, it started to rain to make the course nice and slippery for extra suspense. I saw no other girls on the track except this tiny American woman, smaller than me, standing with her son next to one of the few fences along the path (most of the run consisted of just walls with no place to climb if you got a bull coming at you). She said of course she would run, that we could just start up on the fence, make sure the bulls go by, then chase after. If the bulls came in our direction, we could simply hop over and they’d run by, no problemo. Sounded innocent enough.

Then the police troops came in, 10 minutes before the run, and told us we couldn’t stand along the fence. Errr… what? My two guy friends appeared fairly unfazed, but the thought of a 1600lb bull going for my 125lbs with nowhere to escape… man did I have the hot flashes. Even reporters asked to interview us ladies, asking if we knew how big these wild animals actually were. Oh boy oh boy was I scared!

Thankfully as a tiny girl I managed to find two fine gentlemen behind the fence who let me stand right at the corner where I could still hop over (the police kindly pretended not to see me). When the gunshot went off, signaling the bulls’ release, they each grabbed my legs from behind the fence, ready to toss me up and over if necessary. We couldn’t see the bulls yet around the corner, but heard the approaching jangle of the bells around the beasts’ necks. It was terrifying.

Then the bulls came charging down the path, ten of them followed by four steers. My two friends ran up ahead, daring the chase, but I backed up against the fence and waited for them to pass. A breeze ran through me as they shot past, then a moment of relief and I chased after them. The crowds already started to close in and it became impossible anyway to keep up with the speed of the animals. By the time I reached the Dead Man’s Turn (where the bulls often collide and lose track of their herd, causing them to go ape shit and start attacking people), the road had been closed off. Apparently one of the bulls got off on its own and wounded three runners pretty bad, so they prevented anyone else from reaching the arena. We watched the gorings afterwards on the jumbo tron and felt simultaneously sick to the stomach and relieved that it wasn’t any of us at the end of the bull’s horns. You can watch the run we did here (we’re not in the video sadly).

fireworks on July 14th, Bastille Day

It’s not like any of us actually write down a bucket list of things to do before we die, but running with the bulls certainly felt like a big fat checkmark in my book. After another long route back (bus, train, two planes), I arrived to Paris in time to see the Bastille Day fireworks over the Eiffel Tower from my company’s rooftop terrace… which in itself is another do-before-you-die kinda thing. All in all, a pretty freakin’ cool epic weekend.

San Fermin, oh San Fermin. Until we meet again.