Day #017

Pamplona, Spain.

The Collision of Rituals: Between Bulls and the Camino

I didn’t stumble into Pamplona by accident. I knew it wouldn’t be just another place my boots were bound to reach eventually. I knew this place would become a memory.

As fate – or maybe something more mischievous – would have it, I arrived in Pamplona during the festival of the Running of the Bulls.

Hemingway would be proud.

This city is a spectacle - not with the quiet meditation and holiness of the Camino, but with something wilder. Something more dangerous.

Something that’s possibly outdated.

The air in Pamplona is thick with smoke, music, and sweat. The streets and alleys pulse with revelers draped in white, cinched in red. Drunk kids kiss like they’d just learned how. Old men dance like they’ve discovered the fountain of youth. And without dropping their cigarette – moms dote on their kids roaming around the festivities.

In every direction – alcohol flows. Sangria. San Miguel. Rioja. And concoctions that make frat house parties look tame. It seems many of the partygoers had a hole in their mouth. Their white shirts bear the classic stains of a party in full bloom.

To my right, a brass band starts tuning. To my left, a marching band wraps up their route through the Old Town. Straight ahead of me, hundreds of twenty-something year olds sway to Rufus du Sol.

The Running of the Bulls doesn’t so much as invite you to participate. It gives you an ultimatum – or rather, a dare – stay or get out.

I stayed.

The next morning – everything changed.

As if watching Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" in action, I stood at the edge of the barricades donning the uniform: red sash around my neck and white clothes from head to toe.

The thrill – the anticipation and tension in the air – is palpable.

We are all here for the same thing: To witness a true combination of adrenaline coming into contact with mortality.

Just before 8am – with our chosen beverage in hand - a hush falls over the thousands of spectators. Not a word. Not a musical note.

Only the tension of silence.

History is waking up.

A low tremble rises from the stone under your feet.

Closer – the rumble grows.

Closer – the glass panes vibrate.

Closer – it’s seismic now.

And in a moment – there they are.

The bulls.

Thunder.

Massive and mythical. Hurtling through the narrow arteries of Pamplona’s ancient streets.

They ran with terrifying grace – while all around them, chaos was in motion.

People scattered – stumbling, shouting, throwing their weight into escape strategies.

Some jumped barricades for safety. Others dodged into dark corners. The stealthy ones maneuvered through the danger.

From the balconies above – a chant begins its chorus.

The street is in full rhythm.

The electricity of the scene is humming – as if you’re standing too close to something that has no interest in your survival.

And – in a matter of seconds - it’s gone.

The bulls are no longer in view. Their tremble departed as fast as it came. The chaos has moved to the next block

But the echo lingers – we all feel it.

You can see it in the eyes of the person standing next to you.

In the smile of the kid on top of his dad’s shoulders.

In the blitz to post videos and share photos with loved ones around the world.

Several hours later – the revelers are back in party mode.

The bands snake through the plazas and alleyways. The pintxos fly from the cafes. The drinks continue to flow.

And here I am.

I sit alone at a quiet café, tracing the mud on my boots. Each smear is a reminder of the distance I’ve covered on the Camion and the questions that remain unanswered.  

My red sash loose around my neck.

And I watch this city exhale.

Two rituals collided here – one born of muscle and madness. The other of patience and prayer.

Pamplona screams. It’s loud. Visceral. Primal.

And the Camino whispers. Steady. Holy. Meditative.

And in the space in between – I laugh at the this collision.

One ritual has taught me to run through the chaos.

The other has taught me to be still in the beauty.

This isn’t a story about bulls. It’s about velocity. Fear and grace. Chaos and stillness.

We’ve all had rituals we didn’t understand until they changed us. They remind us that to be shaken is to be alive.

And to walk forward is to become yourself.

Either way, the path remains – for all of us. In one way or another, we’re always moving toward something we hope is meaningful.

Creating new memories as we go.