Toros & Tubas: Adios a Pamplona
Farewell to the Festival of San Fermin
“There are two things necessary for a country to love bullfights. One is that the bulls must be raised in that country and the other that the people must have an interest in death.”1
-Ernest Hemingway
Once again, our vacation began with an early morning wake-up. We had a train to Madrid to catch later that afternoon, but there was one final to-do item before our time in Pamplona came to an end. The tickets we purchased two days ago to watch the end of the running of the bulls inside the bullring only cost six euros. We still didn’t know what we were in for, but we had low expectation since it was less than the price of a jamon iberico sandwich and a bottle of sangria. We entered the Plaza de los Toros for the third day in a row. The previous two nights there were digital ribbon boards that displayed the most basic of information electronically in text form, but in their place now hung large LED video displays. In place of drunken tuba music, a professionally dressed band was arranged at the center of the ring in a semi-circle. The lyrics to their sing-alongs were prominently imposed over a live video feed, though the only people that seemed to not know the words already were Paige and me. I tried to keep up with my high school Spanish vocabulary, but mostly just sang, “lo, lo, lo, lo, lo” during the chorus. When the song ended, the band packed up and marched out and pump-up music started playing through the public address system. A picture of each bull with its stats flashed on the video boards like a starting lineup at an NBA game. Each bull got as many cheers as Jordan and Pippen during the mid-nineties.
In the distance, we heard the pop of a firework, and then a few seconds later, the pop of a second one. The bulls were headed our way. The progress down Calle Mercaderes and Calle Estefeta was simulcast on the video boards. Our previous day's encierro viewing was limited to 13 seconds, but this time we got to watch the entire parade route. The bulls introduced moments earlier were off the bench and in the game, navigating through downtown Pamplona and toward the arena. A few men were stationed in the center of the ring with pink and yellow capes in case they were needed, but otherwise all we could see inside the plaza was dirt ground down from the bullfights leading up to today. The far entrance was open to street level. A few joggers trotted in, found a wall to hug, and celebrated their triumph and lack of goring. Then a few more joggers. Then a few more joggers entered. Then a lot more joggers spewed in, causing a stampede that knocked several people over. They laid in the fetal position to avoid getting trampled as the last of the runners desperately tried to make their way to safety.
We knew our favorite team was about to make their dramatic entrance. Except it wasn't that dramatic. Exciting, yes, but uneventful. The lead steer knew exactly where to go, and the six bulls being exposed to the route for the first time took solace in this steer’s knowledge. They slowed as he slowed, pulling up from the dead sprint and almost appearing relieved they had made it to the end of the road.
The last five steers galloped into their own stables, and the last of the runners congregated to the center of the ring. The encierro was over. That felt like about six euros worth of entertainment, but as Paige and I prepared to exit the stadium we noticed no one else was moving, particularly not the runners on the bullring floor. The doors that had just shut as the last steer crossed through the ring swung open again and out popped what looked like a miniature bull. The little guy was confused by the mobs of people, and proceeded to charge, thrash, and flip any day drinker that got in his way. I couldn’t believe what I was watching. The event planners of San Fermin were giving the people exactly what they craved, a chance to get injured by wildlife. We eventually gathered that the “he” was actually a “she” and I also learned how little I knew about cattle. This was a heifer, a female that still had its horns, which I didn’t realize could happen. The only time I had heard the word “heifer” was the name of Rocko’s best friend in the classic Nickelodeon cartoon Rocko’s Modern Life.
I was texting my boss live updates of the day's events and told him how confused I was by this cow's anatomy. Or heifer’s. Or whatever it was down there flipping a tourist on its horns while the guy's buddy laughed at him. My boss texted a co-worker of ours that lived off the fat of the land in rural Wyoming. He was the kind of guy that used his own pocketknife to cut steak at a restaurant and had a stuffed musk ox in his living room that he shot himself. Heifer facts were transmitted to my cell phone from across the Atlantic Ocean, but I forgot the lesson. I was too distracted by one of the tiny bulls jumping over the side of the ring and getting stuck in the concourse.
My boy Ernie Hemingway told me they use heifers to train the next generation of bullfighters, but the current scene resembled less of a training session and more of a mosh pit at an Insane Clown Posse concert. I don't think they have liability insurance for events in Pamplona. When the festival organizers grew tired of the shenanigans, they let out a steer to track down his lady friend and escort her home safely. After the heifers were safely tucked in, our final event at the Festival of San Fermin had concluded.
We had a train to catch.
•••
We spent a few days in Iceland before landing back home in Omaha. As with any long trip, the recovery process was gradual and the pile of leaflets I collected across Europe were stuffed in a folder for a later date. I kept on thinking about bull 33. Every recap of the trip focused on his heroics and he became the icon of our time in Europe. I wondered what his name was, I figured it would be something badass. Something that I might call my dog or first child since we had now completed our first annual last big trip before kids. I remembered I had saved the program from our bullfight in our stack of scraps.
When I found the leaflet, I was somber. The name wasn’t tough at all, it was a girl’s name. The same name as an old friend of mine. A friend that I cared about. A friend that during my final year of college, had died.
•••
“Old lady: Sir, I do not know.
Author: Madame, neither do I and it may well be that we are talking horseshit.
Old lady: That is an odd term and one I did not encounter in my youth.
Author: Madame, we apply the term now to describe unsoundness in an abstract conversation or, indeed, any over-metaphysical tendency in speech.
Old lady: I must learn to use these terms correctly.”2
-Ernest Hemingway
Death in the Afternoon by Ernest Hemingway. pg. 265
Ibid. pg. 95