Tuesday at noon in Pamplona, the mayor shot a rocket into the air from the balcony of the town hall and the fiesta de San Fermin burst into abandon. Thousand of locals and visitors started what is an eight-day, non-stop party in the streets of this northern Spanish town.
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Last week’s column described the reasons why Charlie Leocha returns to Pamplona year after year. This week’s column deals with the reality of running the bulls, enjoying the fiesta and some nuts and bolts.
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Sometimes travelers wander into cities by accident. But I know exactly why I came to Pamplona that first year. I came to run the bulls. This is the world’s biggest party. It starts in a few days.
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Anyone who knows me know that I have returned to Pamplona’s Running of the Bulls for the past 30+ years. I love the fiesta and fine it a time where the outside world stays at bay and the festival envelopes me. Here are some video’s that bring the morning run to life.
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The world’s limited view of the fiesta, broadcast on TV and splashed across newspapers, is the two to three minutes each morning when six fighting bulls and several steers run through throngs of anxious runners dressed in the traditional garb of white with red scarves. Most of the thousands of runners who cram the narrow course that winds between ancient buildings succumb to natural panic. They cringe in doorways and dive over fences to avoid the rampaging herd.
Sometimes travelers wander into cities by accident. But I know exactly why I came to Pamplona that first year. I came to run the bulls. I drove for two days to see if the fiesta was as wild as James Michener made it sound in his chapter set in Pamplona during San Fermin in “The Drifters.” The Running of the Bulls, as we Americans know it, or Fiesta de San Fermin, as it is known throughout Spain, lived up to every description and much more – more than I could even imagine.
