--Ernest Hemingway from The Sun Also Rises
After the adventure that was Barcelona, things once again moved in divergent directions. Shane woke before dawn on the morning of the 13th to catch a flight back home with the promise of meeting us in a few days time in Edinburgh, where we would then go visit with his Great Aunt and her family in Glasgow for a few days. Ashley and Stephanie had parted with us the night before, their intention being to stay on in Barcelona for another afternoon (they arrived a day behind us) and then take the train over into Italy. When we shall all be together again is unclear, though the girls and us all fly out of Dublin, so at some point we might cross paths once more on foreign soil.
For our part, Chris and I had a most different sort of challenge ahead. We left Barcelona in the early afternoon on a slow train that wound us along the gorgeous Mediterranean coast, and then up into the foothills of the Pyrenees into Basque country; the former Kingdom of Navarre. We were bound for Pamplona, and a long night in the fortified city during the famed Festival de St. Fermin. We had no lodging booked (for such would have been very expensive) but we had a plan. We showed up late in the afternoon and caught a bus into the city center (I didn't see where it was going, but followed my gut. To our good fortune, my gut is an accurate navigator.) Once in the city, we used the free map we got at the station (we have used free maps from the stations everywhere we've gone and, though some of them have been quite lame, we've always had success) to find our way to the luggage check that Pamplona city sets up every year for transient festival attendees such as Chris and myself.
For a little under five euro, we were able to check out bags over night. I changed into my all white attire, and then we hit the city to find a vendor selling the rest of the Fermines custom. During the festival, everyone where's all white except for a red sash or neckerchief, or both. Chris and I just went with the neckerchiefs, and soon we were blending in with the hundreds of thousands of others from Spain and around the globe there to wait up all night for the corrida del torros; the running of the bulls.
My young sister Lorraine visited Spain the year prior, and had also attended the Fiesta. She said then of Pamplona that it was "crowded, filled with drunks, and smelled like pee." She could not have been more correct. By 4am the city was so filthy and doused in urine, that a fresh breath was hard to find. People were passed out in every available green space (and some on the narrows streets themselves where they were mocked and messed with by other revelers.) Before that however, things were grand. Dueling marching bands roamed the old, cobble stone streets leading impromptu parades. Concerts played in the plazas, and the excitement of the moment was in the air. By about 2, however, I was failing out. I had not slept nearly as much as I had hoped on the train in, and Chris and I looked around for a secluded spot to nap. Fearing for our safety at times, we only caught snatches of sleep, then eventually abandoned the endeavor all together.
After the run, we wandered back through a now remarkably cleansed city past a cafe with a TV showing the footage filmed of the run moments before. We watched on camera as nine people were bucked or trampled, resulting in the most injuries yet of the Fiesta. Having just finished yesterday (the Fiesta), I believe the record still stands. After watching this, we retrieved our bags and made for the train station where we were bound to travel back to Madrid to connect on an overnight Trainhotel to Paris. Needless to say, we slept pretty much the entire day, in trains and train stations alike.
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