Impressions of a Sanfermines first-timer

As the train arrived on Saturday afternoon, I perused the final chapters of my dusty old copy of The Sun Also Rises to get a quick refresher on what supposedly makes Pamplona a must-see affair – be it the energy of a ceaseless fiesta, the adrenaline rush of the life-endangering encierro (Running of the Bulls), or the dazzling performances at the corrida (bullfight), with the capacity to seduce and enthrall. Having taken a bit of heat from a few Madrileño friends for my decision to attend (and by extension, support) the festival over ethical concerns about animal cruelty, I also came to it with an open mind.

What I saw, in the end, was an incredible, but complex picture

What I saw, in the end, was an incredible, but complex picture. I joined in for the fiestas and even managed to watch a Spanish bullfight. But by far the highlight of the weekend was watching the Running of the Bulls on Sunday morning.

In order to get a good view, I decided to pay €100 for a balcony reservation to watch it from Estafeta street – the run’s longest stretch – after a friend from the States informed me that showing up to watch without any advanced planning would be akin to arriving at Times Square at 11.30pm to watch the ball drop on New Year’s Eve. It was an apt analogy.

In my case, the reservation wasn’t so much a balcony as it was a makeshift barricade constructed to watch the run from near-ground level of one of the restaurants on Estafeta. This kept us especially close to the action (runners were actually giving us high fives as they waited to begin). In the minutes leading up to 8am, our guide told us that if we were going to film the run, we should find a way to look up from our cameras while doing so. The advice proved to be essential.

Despite only getting a 15-second glance of the action my mouth was agape for all of it

Despite only getting a 15-second glance of the action from where I was standing – my mouth was agape for all of it. The sheer exhilaration – especially being as close to the ground as I was – the gust of air that blasted my face as the mob rushed by, the sight of such massive animals running through the city’s narrow street… in those few seconds, I felt as though I had just an inkling of what the runners must experience with the bulls practically on top of them.

Being there is nothing like watching it on TV. Your heart is beating; you see the details. I remember, just moments before the run began, spotting a young Spanish man, who couldn’t have been much older than me, crouching on the ground with his head down. I initially assumed he must have been stretching, as many others were. But after seeing him make the sign of the cross, I realized he was actually praying. In that very instant, it dawned on me that what I was watching was more than just a raucous frenzy of animals and alcohol. It was also, for many, a very serious affair.

Some of the rumors, however, are true. I can attest that Sanfermines truly is a nine-day, uninterrupted fiesta. After the run, upon leaving Estafeta around 8.30am, I encountered a man lying in a sleeping bag on the grass, surrounded by trash, drinking from a large plastic bottle of Sangría. For those who are committed, there really is no time for rest.

At the run’s conclusion, the bulls arrive at the city’s bull ring, where they are kept all day, awaiting a bullfight later in the evening.

I had my own concerns about attending, but it also amazed me to discover that the controversy is not merely limited to the major cities of Spain, like Barcelona and Madrid, as I originally supposed. During the fight, another Spaniard around my age drunkenly approached me and inquired whether I was enjoying what I was watching. Confused, I asked more about him and learned that he was a native of Pamplona – who can’t stand the sight of bullfights. “Is this the first one you’ve seen?” I asked. “No,” he responded. “I’ve been here every day this week.”

The all-white attire I brought with me to Pamplona did not make it back to Madrid

“Why do you keep coming then?” I asked. “For this,” he replied, gesturing at the hyped-up crowd, with his back notably turned to the bulls. “But you can always party outside, right?” I pressed him. “No, no,” he insisted. “It’s not the same.”

Indeed, it was almost as if there were two events going on in the arena: one in the stands and the other in the ring. While at a regular bull fight (I’ve been told), people are typically silent and fixated on the work of the matadors, at Sanfermines the crowd engages in an assortment of activities – from shouting classic Spanish soccer hymns to hurling beer and Sangría at other members of the audience. I must have been splashed by some sort of beverage every 20 minutes (The all-white attire I brought with me to Pamplona did not make it back to Madrid).

Watching the corrida was a slightly less enchanting experience than the encierro. While, after the fact, I certainly felt a respect for what can be considered an art form, it still felt difficult to stomach what was essentially the theatrical torture of animals – a relic of earlier, more barbaric times.

After the fight, I had a few drinks and some tapas in the town’s center. But, true to form, I proved once again that I’m not a real Spaniard. By 1am I had returned to my accommodation – where I duly passed out.