The place looked like an image straight out of a Where's Waldo book only everyone is dressed like Waldo and you're just trying to find your friend. We'd lost Lauren the night before, the morning before really, and now we looked for her in a sea of white with hints of red here and there. What a sight, everyone dressed the same like that. Every bus, park, street, restuarant and bar filled to the brim with those outfits. Little red sashes and bandanas floated in a sea of otherwise all white. A red balloon drifting towards an overcast sky. A drop of paint on a clean canvas.
We'd arrived on an over-crowded bus, carrying eager tourists to a weekend of party and drink with the undertone of a religious spanish festival. A very deeply rooted and loved tradition. We arrived in time for the firework show, watched it and the people around us, took a deep breath, and dove in. We had nowhere to sleep, it was sometime around midnight, and we took off walking. Down every road we could find, keeping ourselves awake, we devised a plan. Three dances in every bar, and we would leave when they asked us to buy a drink. We carried on and on up and down merging into the crowd and the movement, surrendering to the festival as it is, an opportunity to party, dance, meet, drink, and not as it once was.
Already we had made the decision not to run. I couldn't justify myself running. I had no place as a tourist to take part in such an old tradition, nor did I have an understanding of the festival deep enough to find a reason to run. It wasn't right. However, The List clearly says "run with the bulls", not "go to pamplona and maybe run or probably just watch". So I struggled with that. To go against my initial gut instinct and run, or to not follow the diction and only half achieve the goal. I sat with those thoughts and waited for some clarity.
The night moved ahead, quickly. Friends made through dancing, drinks, street side mayhem. Our white outfits slowly became a blur of red and brown, too much of everything staining any purity a mess of color. Morning peeked slowly across the town and we staked our spots for the running. Waiting patiently as workers placed wooden barriers along the course, one to keep out spectators and another to provide a safe haven for runners needing a break, be it because of injury, exhaustion or just plain fear. As soon as our barrier entered the concrete we clambered to the top, fighting for space with anyone around us. And we made it, Dave and I, sitting together on the topmost plank of those old fences, near to the bullpen and with a wonderful view of the street and surrounding old buildings. Every way I turned was a perfect line of excited faces, identical outfit after identical outfit, one by one down the row. Those who didn't make it to the barriers climbed on anything - stop signs, street lights or the few trees near enough to provide the view. Together we climbed, and together we waited. Sitting 2 hours on a piece of wood two inches wide as the sun grew brighter and anticipation reached a maximum level.
The actual running was faster than I thought it would be. As soon as it started it seemed to be over. The first alarm sounded and the crowd grew tense. Here it was - mob of people coming up the road, looking absolutely terrified and stumbling all over one another, causing falls and all levels of confusion. Eventually the bulls came, one after the other. Huge, silent and focused. Running towards the pen and the inevitable, paying hardly any attention to the frantic running around them. I thought to myself how easy it would have been to run, how I should probably have just maned up and done it right the first time.
After 2 hours of waiting around those barriers, the run was over in hardly 15 minutes. We climbed down, spent a rough morning wading through trash filled streets, stepping over the little flowing rivers of who-knows-what dripping down every street, and searching high and low for Lo. We talked of plans. We wanted sleep. Needed sleep. 3 nights on boats, 1 night of camping, and now we found ourselves at the biggest party in Spain and we were losing momentum. We'd seen the festival, and that was that. We'd embraced it, but one day and one long night was more than enough, so we brainstormed on what would be next. Camping in the mountains, Barcelona or mobbing it up to France. We simmered on our ideas...
But then there remained the problem of the diction. Would I be able to really say I ran with the bulls? Could I cross it off when really I just watched? Would it be worth it to man up and spend another wild night to make sure I had done the job right? I was torn. In the end I settled on the thought that nowhere on the list does it say he ever would have wanted his daughter running, and in fact I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have. That combined with the fact that I didn't feel comfertable with it made me okay with my decision.
We settled on a train ticket to southern France, just over the border, to get ourselves out of Spain and on to our next destination. We had about 2 hours before our train, so we gathered our luggage and set out on the next task: the ashes. The whole time I had been at San Fermin I thought constantly about where to put the ashes, and I still hadn't come up with anything. Where could I leave him amongst the chaos of the city? It was too filthy, too crowded, and with too much concrete. I wanted nature and peace. When I finally placed the little container of ashes in my hand, familiar feeling now on the third go, I walked without a destination in mind, following Dave to somewhere he remembered, somewhere that maybe would be nice enough for me to feel okay leaving him there. Right near to the corral, where they keep the bulls before the running, there is a church, and behind the church a grassy hill leading out of town. I stood awhile admiring the location, feeling beyond thankful for Dave, and making a plan to climb over the little fence and put him somewhere in the grass, near to where the bulls are released, where he could watch all the action. I turned to look at the corral, empty now after the running. Some tourists were poking around taking pictures, and there was even a space between two fences big enough to crawl through and I noticed impacts in the dirt left from the hoofs of eager bulls and I thought how they would change when new bulls came in for the next days running, and wondered how it was that so many big animals fit into such a seemingly small space and no wonder they were angry and I thought again of the hoof prints and it hit me.
Run with the bulls. He didn't want me to run with the bulls, he wanted to run with the bulls. I could have done it for him but I didn't and that was that. But it didn't matter anymore, because it was him that wanted to run, and it was going to happen.
I crept in past the picture taking tourists, through a slit in the fence, and stood there in the empty corral, my footprints mixing with those big circular indentations and I felt a little small but happy. I hurried more than I would have liked to; I wasn't supposed to be in there and I wasn't about to get kicked out before I could manifest this idea into reality. Little black container of ashes, lid popped open, turned upside down and thats where I left him, in a neat little row, waiting waiting like I did for the bulls. And there they would be, those big creatures, confined, frustrated, ready to run, with little bits of him on them. There he would be running with the bulls the next morning, and the morning after, on and on. The idea filled me with happiness until I thought I might burst, and it was all I could do to just stand with the widest grin on my face staring down at the little line of grey mixing slowly into the light brown dusty dirt. It was perfect. In the midst of the biggest party in Spain I heard nothing, time stopped a bit and peace prevailed to make space for all the perfection of that moment. And then I remembered the tourists and the cameras and I felt more than I little goofy so I turned, making my way giddily with hops and skips to Dave and together we left Pamplona, and all its madness, on a slow bus to southern France.
We'd arrived on an over-crowded bus, carrying eager tourists to a weekend of party and drink with the undertone of a religious spanish festival. A very deeply rooted and loved tradition. We arrived in time for the firework show, watched it and the people around us, took a deep breath, and dove in. We had nowhere to sleep, it was sometime around midnight, and we took off walking. Down every road we could find, keeping ourselves awake, we devised a plan. Three dances in every bar, and we would leave when they asked us to buy a drink. We carried on and on up and down merging into the crowd and the movement, surrendering to the festival as it is, an opportunity to party, dance, meet, drink, and not as it once was.
Already we had made the decision not to run. I couldn't justify myself running. I had no place as a tourist to take part in such an old tradition, nor did I have an understanding of the festival deep enough to find a reason to run. It wasn't right. However, The List clearly says "run with the bulls", not "go to pamplona and maybe run or probably just watch". So I struggled with that. To go against my initial gut instinct and run, or to not follow the diction and only half achieve the goal. I sat with those thoughts and waited for some clarity.
The night moved ahead, quickly. Friends made through dancing, drinks, street side mayhem. Our white outfits slowly became a blur of red and brown, too much of everything staining any purity a mess of color. Morning peeked slowly across the town and we staked our spots for the running. Waiting patiently as workers placed wooden barriers along the course, one to keep out spectators and another to provide a safe haven for runners needing a break, be it because of injury, exhaustion or just plain fear. As soon as our barrier entered the concrete we clambered to the top, fighting for space with anyone around us. And we made it, Dave and I, sitting together on the topmost plank of those old fences, near to the bullpen and with a wonderful view of the street and surrounding old buildings. Every way I turned was a perfect line of excited faces, identical outfit after identical outfit, one by one down the row. Those who didn't make it to the barriers climbed on anything - stop signs, street lights or the few trees near enough to provide the view. Together we climbed, and together we waited. Sitting 2 hours on a piece of wood two inches wide as the sun grew brighter and anticipation reached a maximum level.
The actual running was faster than I thought it would be. As soon as it started it seemed to be over. The first alarm sounded and the crowd grew tense. Here it was - mob of people coming up the road, looking absolutely terrified and stumbling all over one another, causing falls and all levels of confusion. Eventually the bulls came, one after the other. Huge, silent and focused. Running towards the pen and the inevitable, paying hardly any attention to the frantic running around them. I thought to myself how easy it would have been to run, how I should probably have just maned up and done it right the first time.
After 2 hours of waiting around those barriers, the run was over in hardly 15 minutes. We climbed down, spent a rough morning wading through trash filled streets, stepping over the little flowing rivers of who-knows-what dripping down every street, and searching high and low for Lo. We talked of plans. We wanted sleep. Needed sleep. 3 nights on boats, 1 night of camping, and now we found ourselves at the biggest party in Spain and we were losing momentum. We'd seen the festival, and that was that. We'd embraced it, but one day and one long night was more than enough, so we brainstormed on what would be next. Camping in the mountains, Barcelona or mobbing it up to France. We simmered on our ideas...
But then there remained the problem of the diction. Would I be able to really say I ran with the bulls? Could I cross it off when really I just watched? Would it be worth it to man up and spend another wild night to make sure I had done the job right? I was torn. In the end I settled on the thought that nowhere on the list does it say he ever would have wanted his daughter running, and in fact I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have. That combined with the fact that I didn't feel comfertable with it made me okay with my decision.
We settled on a train ticket to southern France, just over the border, to get ourselves out of Spain and on to our next destination. We had about 2 hours before our train, so we gathered our luggage and set out on the next task: the ashes. The whole time I had been at San Fermin I thought constantly about where to put the ashes, and I still hadn't come up with anything. Where could I leave him amongst the chaos of the city? It was too filthy, too crowded, and with too much concrete. I wanted nature and peace. When I finally placed the little container of ashes in my hand, familiar feeling now on the third go, I walked without a destination in mind, following Dave to somewhere he remembered, somewhere that maybe would be nice enough for me to feel okay leaving him there. Right near to the corral, where they keep the bulls before the running, there is a church, and behind the church a grassy hill leading out of town. I stood awhile admiring the location, feeling beyond thankful for Dave, and making a plan to climb over the little fence and put him somewhere in the grass, near to where the bulls are released, where he could watch all the action. I turned to look at the corral, empty now after the running. Some tourists were poking around taking pictures, and there was even a space between two fences big enough to crawl through and I noticed impacts in the dirt left from the hoofs of eager bulls and I thought how they would change when new bulls came in for the next days running, and wondered how it was that so many big animals fit into such a seemingly small space and no wonder they were angry and I thought again of the hoof prints and it hit me.
Run with the bulls. He didn't want me to run with the bulls, he wanted to run with the bulls. I could have done it for him but I didn't and that was that. But it didn't matter anymore, because it was him that wanted to run, and it was going to happen.
I crept in past the picture taking tourists, through a slit in the fence, and stood there in the empty corral, my footprints mixing with those big circular indentations and I felt a little small but happy. I hurried more than I would have liked to; I wasn't supposed to be in there and I wasn't about to get kicked out before I could manifest this idea into reality. Little black container of ashes, lid popped open, turned upside down and thats where I left him, in a neat little row, waiting waiting like I did for the bulls. And there they would be, those big creatures, confined, frustrated, ready to run, with little bits of him on them. There he would be running with the bulls the next morning, and the morning after, on and on. The idea filled me with happiness until I thought I might burst, and it was all I could do to just stand with the widest grin on my face staring down at the little line of grey mixing slowly into the light brown dusty dirt. It was perfect. In the midst of the biggest party in Spain I heard nothing, time stopped a bit and peace prevailed to make space for all the perfection of that moment. And then I remembered the tourists and the cameras and I felt more than I little goofy so I turned, making my way giddily with hops and skips to Dave and together we left Pamplona, and all its madness, on a slow bus to southern France.
...to be continued...
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