I fancy myself a badass. Sure, I may be terrified of whales, and Elliot may have to get rid of any dead cucarachas that are lying around the house (I swear we don't live like this ; they're just common in this type of climate), but I know that I am physically and mentally strong and can achieve a lot when I put my mind to it. I may not be Spiderman, but I could hold my own in situations if need be. Like running in front of bulls. The thought of running with the crowd in Pamplona during the San Fermin festival didn't scare me; in fact, I was PSYCHED to do it. Way back in the day, when El and I learned that we were moving to Spain, going to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls (or Encierro as it's known to the Spanish) was the first thing that was a must-do while in Spain. Once we got here though, we learned that a) women aren't allowed to run (oh I went off into a Donald Duck-style tantrum after learning this) and b) neither are military members. Sad trombone. Well, it looked like a future of looking like the bad-ass matador was going out the window, but we still wanted to check out the festival and be a part of the electricity.
It was all over before we knew it, and Lisa and I climbed down to the actual street to make our way to the bull ring. For those of you unfamiliar with Encierro, Pamplona isn't the only city where this occurs. Actually, there a many surrounding towns who have encierros every year; Pamplona's is just so well-known because, well, Hemingway wrote about it. And he's kind of famous. The running started off as just a way to get the bulls to the ring for the evening fights. As word spread about San Fermin and Encierro, and the number of curious foreigners grew, people started actually running with the bulls as sort of "feats of strength" type of thing. After doing a little bit more research on San Fermin, I found out that he was a Catholic saint in the 3rd century who was beheaded in France. He was a follower of Saint Saturninus, who was also martyred by being dragged through the streets by a bull. So, it seems that over the years bulls became associated with San Fermin more than St. Saturninus, hence the running every year. There's your history lesson for the day. Class dismissed.
The crowd had lightened up on the street, but the smell of vomit and stale beer seemed like it intensified. As we sloshed through the garbage and spilled beer and wine, we held our kerchiefs up to our noses to block the stink. Some guy, who seemed to be the only sober person around us, gave us this sheepish look and said that "Pamplona doesn't normally smell like this." I should hope not, sir. I should hope not. We took a few pictures of us pretending to run the route just to say we did, and kept making our way to the Plaza de Toros.
Walking towards the bull ring, we saw tons of reporters and camera crews interviewing runners, including one guy who proudly held up his shirt to show off the long scratch he got courtesy of a bull horn. We also saw some bizarre sights that made us think that we had entered the Twilight Zone. Some guy walked past us with his small fish tank full of goldfish, because why wouldn't you bring your goldfish with you? A couple that had clearly met a few hours ago making out against the wall. Some old guys on a balcony toasted us with their flute of champagne, and the wheels were turning in my head trying to figure out how to make them our sugar daddies for next year. It's cool; they'll be El and Jeff's too. We passed by bar after bar that was packed with people keeping the party going. Music was bumping from every direction, and the poor delivery guys were trying to navigate the crowds to deliver their morning bread. Despite not sleeping in the car, I got a serious second wind from all the craziness and awesomeness around me. We passed by a poster/souvenir shop that had some sweet replicas of festival posters from the 1950's and each bought one.
The bull ring was just ahead, and we climbed up on one of the remaining wooden gates at the entrance (they had torn almost all of them down already) to find the boys. We didn't see them, but we did get an eyeful of a Spanish guy wearing nothing but a green speedo. Wanting to impress the ladies with his coarse black butt hair, he gave himself a Speedo wedgie to show off the cheeks. When we did that, we got an extra treat (?) of seeing stranger genitalia. Please try not to be too jealous of us.
Elliot called and said that they were actually IN the arena, so we went inside to find them. It was free to get in, and the ring was just packed with people. We passed by numerous entrances to seats to see what was going on, but the crowd against the railing was at least 3 deep. We grabbed a necessary beer and went up to the top level and pushed our way into the seating area. The crowd would just erupt into cheers every few minutes, but we couldn't see what they were cheering for. Before we could further push our way towards the railing, people started clearing out. Apparently what was going on had just ended. We now saw that the ring was full of people, and we later learned from the guys that they had released smaller bulls with blunted horns into the arena with the runners. The bulls were apparently running amok and just going after the people around them. The cheers we were hearing from the crowd came when one of the smaller bulls would charge and/or make contact with someone. El later said that he saw a loooot of people with broken ribs and dislocated shoulders. Just when you think it's safe to go back in the arena...
We spotted the boys in the ring, but Lisa and I sat for the first time all morning and enjoyed our beers. There was a group of guys sitting around us with a blow-up doll with boobs that were totes fake. The foot of the doll kept rubbing Lisa in the face, so we finished our beers before there was a full-on molestation. We tried in vain to get to the center of the ring, gave up, got a big beer (where some Spanish guy named Ruel "helped" aka gave the bartender our order; it's very difficult to order "dos cervezas" I guess), and just went outside. We saw the guys who had their own big beers in tow and swapped horror stories. They had lost Ray in the shuffle, but Jeff had the good sense to suggest a meeting place and time if all hell broke loose. The guys told us how they saw one guy trip, grab onto a bull's horn and then get DRAGGED INTO THE ARENA. For the rest of the morning, until we learned that a bull had actually hooked his clothing and it wasn't because he was taming a bull, we extolled his bad-assness.
On our way to the meeting place, we actually ran into Ray. We stopped in a shop and made our way to the cafe where El and Jeff's friend John was waiting with his friends. While walking, we saw a guy who had tied his red kerchiefs around his junk to make a makeshift Speedo; he was just letting life hang out on a balcony overlooking the crowds. My and Lisa's Speedo quota for the year had been filled in one day. Success?
We passed by the hotel where Ernest Hemingway would watch the festival and came into a Plaza whose cafes were filled with people. We went to the bar where John was supposed to be, and there was LMFAO blasting and people dancing. Didn't matter that it was 9am, the party was still goin' strong guuuuuuurrrrlll. Lisa and I had to go the bathroom, so we climbed down the stairs into the basement/dungeon to find the bano. The bar had laid down cardboard on the floor, but with all the spilled booze and (probably) pee on the floor, the cardboard had disintegrated into mushy brown bits. I've gone the bathroom in some pretty seedy places, all in the name of desperation, but this one may have taken the cake for one of the grossest ever. Didn't have time to dwell on it though, as the relief from going the bathroom outweighed the thoughts of feces on my shoes.
John wasn't in the bar, but we spotted him with his group of friends at a nearby cafe. I'm not gonna lie, I actually wanted to stay at the bar and start dancing. I knew that if I sat down, I was going to get sleepy, and let's be honest-there are only two ways to tolerate crazy drunk people: a) avoid them (not possible) or b) have a drink. But since we came to this place to actually see John, it might have been a tad rude to just say "Whatevah, dude! I just gotta dance!"
John is also AF and is one of two US military personnel stationed in Zaragoza (northern Spain-about an hour an a half from Pamplona). He and his friends were really nice, and he knew a lot about the history of the festival and all the events that were to come later in the day. They were staying in Pamplona, so he was telling us about the fireworks later that night that they were going to go see. If we ever do make it back to Pamplona (and that's a big 'if'), we would definitely stay in the city. Way more convenient, and we could get to the course earlier to get a good spot. Lessons learned though! We all grabbed some breakfast, and I had a much needed cafe. We didn't chat too much with John's group of friends, but I did find it interesting that he introduced a friend who came later as, "She's here from Colorado to research cows". How do you respond to that? "Ohhh, cool" is about all you can really come up with. Ray's response though was probably best because he thought John said she was here to research houses. So when John said she was here to research cows, Ray responded, "Oh, like a realtor?" Exactly like a realtor.
We finished up our brunch, found the "official photography" store of the fest to see if we were in any pictures and made our way back to the car. There were people still in the gas station lot grilling and boozing, and we figured that they were going to crash HARD in an hour or so. It would've been fun to grill out and tailgate, but we were so exhausted we just wanted to head back to Bilbao. On the drive, El and I couldn't get over how green and lush the mountains around us were; the green was only interrupted by old houses with dark roofs that looked like they've been in the family for generations. The Basque country is incredibly beautiful and would be a great area to hike or camp in.
Once back in Bilbao, Jeff and Lisa took a nap while the rest of us set out to find a snack. We were fading fast, so all we wanted were a few tapas to tide us over until dinner. We found a bar whose entire counter was lined with great looking tapas. We noticed that all the tapas were served on toast and grabbed 6 for me and El to split. Basque tapas are so unique compared to Andalucian ones and, I'll be honest, a lot more flavorful. We split one that had roquefort cheese rolled in crushed nuts and drizzled with a sweet sauce, tomato with queso and caramelized onion, cod with ali-oli, jamon croquettas and a flash-fried pepper stuffed with crab. Everything was really good, and we needed a heavy nap after those tapas.
After a 2.5 hour necessary pass out, we met up with everyone in the lobby of the hotel for dinner. We headed back to Old Town and wandered the streets in the hopes of finding a restaurant. There were so many different types of bars, but it was going to be an early night due to our early flight the next morning. We ended up having dinner at another Italian place called Tartufonero, and I am some really garlicky but good penne with pesto. After dinner, we all said our goodbyes and called it a night. El and I had to wake up at 5 the next morning (sleeping in!) to make our 7:10am flight back to Sevilla. While it was nice to get home early and actually enjoy our Sunday, our bodies were hating us for the lack of sleep over the weekend. The Brouse gypsies were finally home from their 2 weeks of travel.
People have asked me if I'd go back to Pamplona for Encierro, and it's honestly up for debate. Part of me wants to avoid the crowds and garbage, and another side of me wants to be part of it. There would definitely be some changes though, starting with staying in Pamplona. Bilbao is an awesome city and certainly worth checking out, but it's not the most convenient for getting to San Fermin. Staying in Pamplona would let us a) sleep in later b) get us to a better spot on the route and c) allow us to partake in super-soakers filled with wine. Did I mind that people were shitfaced? Hell no, it was a fiesta! Did I get annoyed with people shoving me and their overall leering tendencies? Yeah, of course; who wouldn't? Do I still think I'm a bad ass even if I didn't run? Please, is that really a question?
San Fermin was a helluva experience, both good and bad, and certainly one I will never forget. I may not have run with bulls, but I ran with the boozers. And when you run with the booze, sometimes you're gonna get the horns.
We returned from our honeymoon cruise to the Baltic (that blog will take me awhile) on the 4th of July, washed our laundry that Thursday, and flew up to Bilbao that Friday afternoon. We booked our flights with Iberia back in January, so total it was only about 100 euros for the both of us. It was much more convenient to fly and stay in Bilbao than Pamplona, as Iberia runs direct flights there from Sevilla. Bilbao is in the northern part of Spain known as The Basque Country. Basque people have their own unique language that has a LOT of k's and x's in it, and Basque cuisine is said to be the best in the world. That comes from the fact that they have the highest concentration of Michelin stars in the world. Well, they're tied with Paris, but let's not split hairs. Historically, the Basque people, much like the Catalans, are very vocal in their desire to have independence from Spain. "Well, why don't the Spanish allow them to be independent?", you may ask. El put it best when he explained, "A lot of people in Texas want to be independent too, but that doesn't mean the Union is going to let them." Point taken. We arrived in Bilbao around 8:00 pm., picked up our rental car (only 30 euros a day! Booyah), and checked into the Hesperia Bilbao. The hotel was REALLY nice, and since we booked it so far in advance, REALLY cheap. Score one for the little guys.
Jeff, Lisa and their friends Tom and Ray had already arrived in Bilbao, so we set off into Old Town to meet up with them. Unlike any trip we've taken EVER, this was the first where I didn't have a detailed spreadsheet (yes, I make spreadsheets-don't judge) with things to see and places to eat. Since I had basically planned a 12-day vacation in the Baltic (which included MULTIPLE spreadsheets), I gave my Lonely Planet book a rest for this vacation. Fortunately, I have a great friend from Iowa, Jeff, who had studied abroad in Bilbao and just visited his Spanish cousins there and in San Sebastian. He graciously offered to hook us up with them, as it was in our plan to see San Sebastian after Pamplona. Other than that, we decided just to wing it in the Basque country.
We walked along the river that runs through Bilbao and admired the interesting architecture that surrounded us. There is a Guggenheim museum in Bilbao, and it certainly made its presence known on the river it sat on. El and I also marveled at how DIFFERENT the Basque country looked from Andalucia (where we live). In an Andalucian summer, the sun is so hot that fields are scorched; from late June until September, and the only color you see is brown. The closer you get to the coast, the landscape becomes more mountainous, but we live in a very flat, farmland area. It's like the Iowa of Spain, but with a drier climate. And with more brown. And less drinking. So I guess not at all like Iowa.
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| Basque in it |
We actually ran into Jeff, Lisa and crew walking through the streets, and we decided to head to the Old Town area. I couldn't help myself, and I sneaked a peek of restaurants recommended by L.P. and found one that was described as looking like a French bistro "but with raucous Spanish spirit". They also had tapas for 1euro, and after vacationing in the Baltic where beers run you about $9 we were on a tighter budget leash. Old Town is a series of alleys, each lined with crowded, noisy restaurants where people enjoy their tapas, known as pintxos in the Basque country, and conversation. We found the place we were looking for, Xukeia, and were told by the waiter that they only had cold tapas for the moment. We stepped outside to talk over our next move when we heard a marching band playing "Hang on Sloopy". Uhhhhh? We turned the corner and sure enough, there was a random marching band playing songs and people dancing in the street. There was a group of people wearing garbage bags decorated with colorful ribbons (even as I type it, I know how ridiculous it sounds) dancing to the marching band jams. I love random crap like that.
We decided to grab a beer and a cold tapa or two at Xukeia, and I thoroughly enjoyed my tomato and goat cheese on toast. It wasn't accompanied by the musical genius of Hang on Sloopy, but it was still damn good. Also, apparently "raucous Spanish spirit" means "lots of random (mostly American) crap on the walls." Not judging, as I sure do love random crap (see above). We finished up before finding a Basque/Italian restaurant to eat at before calling it a night. The food was pretty good, the portions huge, and the wine was just strong enough to aid our early visit to Sleeptown. 4am wake-up calls require a slightly earlier night than most.
For those of you who have done that dreaded 6:30am flight from Sevilla to Madrid, you can relate that waking up at 4am is no picnic. It takes a certain Herculean strength and willpower to force yourself out of bed at that hour. Unfortunately, we were an hour and a half away from Pamplona and needed to meet Elliot and Jeff's friend John at 6:45; leaving no later than 4:45 wasn't an option. We rolled out of Bilbao at 4:30 and, for the first time in my life, I couldn't fall back to sleep in the car. It's a lot colder up north in the Country of Basque, and my Southern ass had only packed shorts and tank tops. I had one 3/4 length "sweater", but it didn't quite cut the mustard in the 'warmth' department. So my culo was FREEZING the entire car ride to Bilbao, severely preventing any serious snoozing on my part.
It was still dark when we pulled into Bilbao around 6:15, and we quickly parked in the back lot of a random gas station that we found. There were already tons of people dressed in all white with red sashes and scarves, the traditional San Fermin attire, walking the streets, and Elliot went into Magellan mode. The guys still needed to buy their white pants, shirts, and red accoutrement AND meet John by 6:45. Walking through the lot of the gas station, we saw a guy passed out face-down on the concrete. It will never cease to amaze me how the human body, supplied with enough booze, can make any situation a suitable one to pass out. Elliot and Jeff, panicky that we'd miss it all, started plowing ahead, and the rest of us were left to follow their trail of breadcrumbs. We started walking towards a residential area, AWAY from where everyone else was walking, but you weren't going to see me or Lisa trying to question them. The boys were stressing that we'd be late, and we weren't going to be the ones to point out that if we continued in this direction we'd be even MORE late. Not taking that bait. Fortunately we didn't have to, and Elliot "Ponce de Leon" Brouse quickly realized his mistake. When he typed in the name for City Hall (on the encierro route), Google Maps was leading him to a street with the same name in the OPPOSITE direction of the course. Once we realized where we actually needed to head, we started power walking in that direction.
We made it to the beginning of the running route, and everywhere we looked people were dressed in all white with red scarves and sashes. Despite it only being 6:45am, the streets were packed with people and the smells of booze, vomit and piss were especially pungent. We're probably total boneheads for not knowing this, but El and I had NO idea that San Fermin was such a drunk fest. Like, we were legitimately surprised. Thinking that it was more like Feria or 3 Kings, we were expecting large crowds but not boozy chaos. Since the festival was in honor of a religious figure, the patron saint of Pamplona who was martyred in France, we weren't expecting everyone to be sloppy shitfaced. Oh, and they were. In my experience, I've never really seen Spanish people get out of control when boozing. They may party all night, but they can (for the most part) hold their liquor. Which is why I was so surprised to see that people had basically stayed up all night drinking. On our way to the main area, we saw lots of people tailgating in parking lots, and there was even a huge tent set up with bars and grills set up inside that was packed with people. It was basically the Spanish equivalent of me tailgating in college. Minus Busch Light and cheese puffs. It honestly amazed me that there were so many people whose white shirts were SOAKED with red wine and guys who could barely stand up anymore. "What the hell is going on???", I thought, "Spanish people don't get this bombed!". It's then when I realized several important points:
-The reason Encierro is so well-known is because it was recorded and celebrated by Hemingway in "The Sun Also Rises". Hemingway wasn't known for his sobriety.
-These people weren't Spanish. They were Brits, Aussies and AMERICANS. Suddenly it all made SENSE!
Now, I love my people ::double chest bump, raise one finger to the sky:: but Americans cannot hold their booze for shit. Especially young Americans in Europe, and San Fermin was no exception. People were just BEYOND sloppy; maybe they needed some liquid courage before running from the sharp horns of BULLS stampeding towards them. Hmmm when you put it that way, I can't say I blame them...
We managed to find a shop that sold white clothes and scarves, and the guys quickly changed into their "leaving nothing to the imagination" white pants. Lisa and I also bought red sashes and scarves to go with our all-white ensemble. We took a few quick pictures before the guys left to ::ahem:: get a closer look at the route.
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| We don't run from bulls; bulls run from US |
Lisa and I started our quest to find spots on the street to watch the run. The narrow street that the runners and bulls are on is only 800 meters long, and space is limited with over 1,000,000 people trying to catch a glimpse of the action. The crowds were so dense that people were shoving past one another. One of the first things that I noticed was that men made up the vast majority of people in the crowd... and most of them were crazy drunk. As we're trying to get through, one Spanish guy slurred "Beso" and kissed me on the cheek while another one tried to wrap his arms around Lisa to pick her up. After she thwarted her own kidnapping, we squeezed through one of the wooden gates set up. There are two sets of wooden gates on each side of the route, with the interior gates keeping the bulls in. There is a wide space between the interior and exterior gates, in case people need to get the hell out of the way quickly. Not knowing this, we had gone between the two gates where there was a huge crowd of people. Folks were sitting on top of the inner gates, and we were standing in the middle with the rest of the crowd. It wasn't as crowded as other places we'd walked by, and we thought we had found a great place to watch the run happen. We were standing there about 5 minutes before the cops came and started yelling at people to get out. Some drunken fools started arguing with the po', so the cops started shoving people out of the area. We saw one cop whip out his baton, so we hustled our feminine asses out of there before we were on the receiving end of some angry cop's night stick. As we pushed our way out, we witnessed a fight break out between friends and saw one guy getting the splinters from the wooden gate out of his hand at the first aid station. Somehow I don't think that guy's going to be telling that injury story. "Oh man, I had to go to the first aid station at the running of the bulls! It was so intense-splinters, man!" doesn't sound so legit.
As we started heading towards the beginning of the course, we encountered not just one but TWO marching bands coming through the streets, following by huge crowds of people dancing. We stopped to watch not only the dancers, but the drunk Spanish guy who decided the song was really playing for him to perform a striptease. Fortunately for you all, I kept my camera trained on the dancers.
There was a large open area in front of the church at the beginning of the running route, and Lisa actually ran into friends from Ramstein there. They had tried to get in to run, but the gates had closed before they could squeeze in. Apparently, there are a lot of girls who are able to sneak onto the course, which got the wheels turning in my head for the future. For now, we needed to resign ourselves to watching the run from a distance. Other people were a lot more determined than us though, and we saw people climbing garbage cans, window ledges and even church statues to sneak a closer peek.
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| Just asking for a smiting
As the time got closer to 8:00, people would just spontaneously erupt in song and cheer from time to time. You could feel the excitement growing as people anticipated the cannon fire and subsequent shitshow. I started getting really excited and really hoped that I could see what was going on. Every moment that crept towards 8 seemed to bolster the crowd's enthusiasm and excitement.
Finally, with a loud 'BOOM' the runners started BOLTING it. The crowd started going nuts, and I raised my camera high in the air to try to catch a glimpse. Despite being in a less-crowded area, the only way I could see ANYTHING was if I looked through my camera lens. Even then, I didn't.even.see.a.freaking.bull. Which, in itself, is some bull. Gonna be honest, we were a little frustrated that we survived the running of the drunks only to not see actual bulls running. It was one of those situations where you can say you experienced something, even if it may not have gone the way you hoped. I mean, at least I've got video proof I was there! |
The crowd had lightened up on the street, but the smell of vomit and stale beer seemed like it intensified. As we sloshed through the garbage and spilled beer and wine, we held our kerchiefs up to our noses to block the stink. Some guy, who seemed to be the only sober person around us, gave us this sheepish look and said that "Pamplona doesn't normally smell like this." I should hope not, sir. I should hope not. We took a few pictures of us pretending to run the route just to say we did, and kept making our way to the Plaza de Toros.
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| What the hell is THAT???!!! |
The bull ring was just ahead, and we climbed up on one of the remaining wooden gates at the entrance (they had torn almost all of them down already) to find the boys. We didn't see them, but we did get an eyeful of a Spanish guy wearing nothing but a green speedo. Wanting to impress the ladies with his coarse black butt hair, he gave himself a Speedo wedgie to show off the cheeks. When we did that, we got an extra treat (?) of seeing stranger genitalia. Please try not to be too jealous of us.
Elliot called and said that they were actually IN the arena, so we went inside to find them. It was free to get in, and the ring was just packed with people. We passed by numerous entrances to seats to see what was going on, but the crowd against the railing was at least 3 deep. We grabbed a necessary beer and went up to the top level and pushed our way into the seating area. The crowd would just erupt into cheers every few minutes, but we couldn't see what they were cheering for. Before we could further push our way towards the railing, people started clearing out. Apparently what was going on had just ended. We now saw that the ring was full of people, and we later learned from the guys that they had released smaller bulls with blunted horns into the arena with the runners. The bulls were apparently running amok and just going after the people around them. The cheers we were hearing from the crowd came when one of the smaller bulls would charge and/or make contact with someone. El later said that he saw a loooot of people with broken ribs and dislocated shoulders. Just when you think it's safe to go back in the arena...
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| We're gonna need a bigger ring |
On our way to the meeting place, we actually ran into Ray. We stopped in a shop and made our way to the cafe where El and Jeff's friend John was waiting with his friends. While walking, we saw a guy who had tied his red kerchiefs around his junk to make a makeshift Speedo; he was just letting life hang out on a balcony overlooking the crowds. My and Lisa's Speedo quota for the year had been filled in one day. Success?
We passed by the hotel where Ernest Hemingway would watch the festival and came into a Plaza whose cafes were filled with people. We went to the bar where John was supposed to be, and there was LMFAO blasting and people dancing. Didn't matter that it was 9am, the party was still goin' strong guuuuuuurrrrlll. Lisa and I had to go the bathroom, so we climbed down the stairs into the basement/dungeon to find the bano. The bar had laid down cardboard on the floor, but with all the spilled booze and (probably) pee on the floor, the cardboard had disintegrated into mushy brown bits. I've gone the bathroom in some pretty seedy places, all in the name of desperation, but this one may have taken the cake for one of the grossest ever. Didn't have time to dwell on it though, as the relief from going the bathroom outweighed the thoughts of feces on my shoes.
John wasn't in the bar, but we spotted him with his group of friends at a nearby cafe. I'm not gonna lie, I actually wanted to stay at the bar and start dancing. I knew that if I sat down, I was going to get sleepy, and let's be honest-there are only two ways to tolerate crazy drunk people: a) avoid them (not possible) or b) have a drink. But since we came to this place to actually see John, it might have been a tad rude to just say "Whatevah, dude! I just gotta dance!"
John is also AF and is one of two US military personnel stationed in Zaragoza (northern Spain-about an hour an a half from Pamplona). He and his friends were really nice, and he knew a lot about the history of the festival and all the events that were to come later in the day. They were staying in Pamplona, so he was telling us about the fireworks later that night that they were going to go see. If we ever do make it back to Pamplona (and that's a big 'if'), we would definitely stay in the city. Way more convenient, and we could get to the course earlier to get a good spot. Lessons learned though! We all grabbed some breakfast, and I had a much needed cafe. We didn't chat too much with John's group of friends, but I did find it interesting that he introduced a friend who came later as, "She's here from Colorado to research cows". How do you respond to that? "Ohhh, cool" is about all you can really come up with. Ray's response though was probably best because he thought John said she was here to research houses. So when John said she was here to research cows, Ray responded, "Oh, like a realtor?" Exactly like a realtor.
We finished up our brunch, found the "official photography" store of the fest to see if we were in any pictures and made our way back to the car. There were people still in the gas station lot grilling and boozing, and we figured that they were going to crash HARD in an hour or so. It would've been fun to grill out and tailgate, but we were so exhausted we just wanted to head back to Bilbao. On the drive, El and I couldn't get over how green and lush the mountains around us were; the green was only interrupted by old houses with dark roofs that looked like they've been in the family for generations. The Basque country is incredibly beautiful and would be a great area to hike or camp in.
Once back in Bilbao, Jeff and Lisa took a nap while the rest of us set out to find a snack. We were fading fast, so all we wanted were a few tapas to tide us over until dinner. We found a bar whose entire counter was lined with great looking tapas. We noticed that all the tapas were served on toast and grabbed 6 for me and El to split. Basque tapas are so unique compared to Andalucian ones and, I'll be honest, a lot more flavorful. We split one that had roquefort cheese rolled in crushed nuts and drizzled with a sweet sauce, tomato with queso and caramelized onion, cod with ali-oli, jamon croquettas and a flash-fried pepper stuffed with crab. Everything was really good, and we needed a heavy nap after those tapas.
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| Si! |
People have asked me if I'd go back to Pamplona for Encierro, and it's honestly up for debate. Part of me wants to avoid the crowds and garbage, and another side of me wants to be part of it. There would definitely be some changes though, starting with staying in Pamplona. Bilbao is an awesome city and certainly worth checking out, but it's not the most convenient for getting to San Fermin. Staying in Pamplona would let us a) sleep in later b) get us to a better spot on the route and c) allow us to partake in super-soakers filled with wine. Did I mind that people were shitfaced? Hell no, it was a fiesta! Did I get annoyed with people shoving me and their overall leering tendencies? Yeah, of course; who wouldn't? Do I still think I'm a bad ass even if I didn't run? Please, is that really a question?
San Fermin was a helluva experience, both good and bad, and certainly one I will never forget. I may not have run with bulls, but I ran with the boozers. And when you run with the booze, sometimes you're gonna get the horns.
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| Viva San Fermin! |
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