Hola,
When we left you last time I was just recovering from being visually sucked into a hairy black hole (stray towards the nude sunbaking areas frequented by the older Hossegor community at your own peril), and Krys was still basting in a post Robin Hood glow. But we finally extracted ourselves from France and made our way to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls festival. And what an incredible time it was.
I had been to Pamplona once before about 15yrs ago and have hazy memories of sangria, public urination and bulls with sharp horns. Last time I actually ran with the bulls and remember it as being the most exhilarating and terrifying thing I’d ever done in my life. But clearly that was before taking a child to a kids party at Skyzone. A Skyzone experience is a level of sheer terror and distress that is unlikely to ever be matched. And sadly at Skyzone it is frowned upon to do alcohol shots to take the edge off the unbridled fear. Something about drinking Cafe Petron from the bottle at 10am on a Saturday morning surrounded by children being inappropriate? Well that’s what the 15yr old kid acting as the kiosk operator / security / killjoy seemed to be implying anyway.
Anyway, as we approached the town of Pamplona we could tell that we were getting closer as the intensity of the people dressed in the traditional red and white San Fermin festival outfit increased. Just like you know you are getting closer to a Collingwood AFL home game as the intensity of teeth per person decreases. We pulled into the underground carpark, and emerged with our travelling circus into the main square where the energy just envelopes you. Fresh from the chaos of the morning bull run, families with children play on the grass next to sangria stained revelers who are passed out from the carnage of the all night party. The smell of morning excitement blends easily with the repercussions of the night before, and everyone is just here to enjoy the festival and have a good time in whatever way they can. So we found our Airbnb, dropped our luggage, and went looking for outfits and a jug of sangria of our own. It was here that I realised that the trip, and a bottle of wine a day, was beginning to bite. I told the man my usual size for the white pants and when he brought them back I could barely get them past my knees. So I had to start telling him numbers that I hadn’t said out loud since that ‘early relationship’ phase with Krys where all we did was drink, eat chocolate and slap together like a pair of enthusiastic but uncoordinated walruses. So we left the shop with outfits for the girls, and white pants for me that could double as a painting drop sheet when we return home, and hit the streets.
And the streets are just one huge continuous party. It really has the most incredible feel and everyone is just so friendly – but perhaps a little too friendly for my liking at times. I left Krys in the street party with the girls to duck into a bar to get us some drinks (yes amazingly you aren’t made to feel like you have murdered a family of kittens if you choose to sip an alcoholic beverage in public here) and when I came back there was a guy who looked like he was auditioning as my replacement (not a tough audition I must admit – if he could just refrain from humping Krys when she loads a dishwasher for more than 2 days I reckon he’d get the part). It seems he took the 2 minute window I was gone to strike up a conversation with Krys, and despite her saying she was married and these ice-cream smeared midgets were her children, his enthusiasm was not diminished. Goes to show that Krys has still got it – must be of exceptional quality for a guy at a street party bathed in red wine to look at a woman with 2 kids in tow and still think as a package deal, it is worth a shot.
The friendliness extends to how kids are included in all of the festivities. Although in true Spanish style I’m not totally convinced that is an altogether good thing? One of the main children events involves people in frighteningly weird costumes going through the crowd and belting the kids in the head with a foam stick. And some of the beatings make me think that under the costumes are a bunch of mums finally releasing the frustrations of years of being unable to shower or urinate without being constantly harassed by their children. Nothing like a cloak of anonymity from a demented mask and a festival inspired relaxation of laws around hitting children to see parental frustration unleashed. It was so brutal I actually spent the time shielding the kids from potential concussion.
Then they have a “Running of Bulls – for children” in the evening. We had pictured someone in a fluffy bull costume dancing through the crowd as kids laughed and ran away. Expectations of lots of laughter, fluffiness and cuddles all round. Instead as we stood at the top of the designated run we could hear mini explosions and see genuine concern on parents’ faces as they cradled their children and ran streaming past us. And before we can move we see it – the Spanish version of a “kid suitable” bull run is to strap a network of fireworks and pipes shooting showers of sparks to a fake bull which is then run through the crowd carried on the head by a Spaniard immune to burns. So our children events involved trying to protect them from concussion, 3rd degree burns and eye injuries from flying incendiary devices. I can only imagine the “Parental Information” forms at a Spanish daycare are a little different to home. While we have to sign an awareness form if our child trips and grazes a knee, I’d imagine Spanish forms would only begin at the loss of a limb or a permanent loss of sight.
The next morning was the real bull run (they happen every morning for a week), and we’d arranged to watch it from a balcony overlooking the main strip. So we arrived early, were filled with pastries and got in position to watch the madness unfold. I did ask Krys one final time for clearance to run (I thought she might relent if I annoyed her enough in the previous days and the thought of me getting maimed by a bull would appeal to her) but I think she took one look at the large white target that was my arse, another at the kids, and realised that the odds of me getting collected by a bull was high. And she needs help with the kids for at least the next few years. Although I think I did see in her eyes some regret in the rejection of the street party Trent replacement from the day before. Could have been solution that was a win for all concerned. But standing on the balcony and watching the runners on the street below as the minutes ticked down to the run brought back many memories. The escalating nervousness that leaks into fear as the run gets closer. Followed by curiosity and terror as the rocket is fired and you know the bulls are on their way.
And then you see it. The crowd just explodes in panic as the bulls emerge from around the corner and come charging down the laneway. It then just becomes a seething mass of jostling and yelling as the bulls rush their way through the crowd taking out anyone who happens to be in their way. It is Darwinism in its purest form as the overweight or slow are trampled over by the herd. Watching the bulls sweep past I realised that being 15yrs older and 10kgs heavier since I ran made missing the run the sensible option this time around. Can’t help that feel that I may have slipped toward the bottom of the gene pool and been a Dawinian victim this time around.
On our last night we decided that walking the fine line between parental responsibility and mild intoxication was proving increasingly difficult given the propensity of the town to start drinking with breakfast. So we locked in babysitters so we could really explore the party without potentially losing our children. These street parties are amazing; post the bull run the town has bullfights in the afternoon, and when the bullfighting is over groups led by bands emerge from the stadium and charge through the streets, stopping randomly to play some songs and ignite the crowds around them. But first things first – we had to feed the children and get them settled before we could leave them with our Spanish relief parent. Perhaps we were in a bit too much of a hurry to hit the streets as even our low targets for dinner (nuggets and chips) it didn’t quite come off – I can now say “hello”, “goodbye”, “wine”, “coffee” and “this is not a non-stick tray” in Spanish as the nuggets melded themselves to the tray like children’s skin to the pavement when it is sprayed with fireworks. But rather than find an alternate dinner, the kids were pumped full of Weetbix (such a versatile meal alternative) and we were on our way.
We emerged onto the Spanish streets sans kids filled with so much excitement that we knew we had to try and curtail our enthusiasm and desire to drown in a sea of sangria immediately – or tonight would be over far quicker than we anticipated (although Krys should be used to that now – it’s all about a good time, not a long time. Right?!?). But it is hard to hold back the tide of excitement that comes with parental freedom so after about 2hrs (and well before the sun was setting) we were already well on our way; the Pamplona specialty of kalimotxo (red wine and coke) will do that. After drifting between bars, bands performing in streets, and bulls, we found ourselves in the back blocks of Pamplona well after dark (which is an effort when the sun sets at 10.30pm) when a band wandered past with the biggest gathering we had seen (perhaps they were a Spanish modern day Roxette?). So we tagged onto the back and waited for them to stop. Once they did they launched into a performance that set the whole crowd (and Krys) alight. For a while there the mix of alcohol and excitement almost had Krys singing fluent Spanish.
We finally stumbled home to reality around 1am to be greeted by a surprised and happy babysitter. Apparently despite us pulling what we thought was a huge effort, it was on the lighter side of a typical Spanish hit-out, and we were home far earlier than she anticipated. So she was going to go and get changed and head out herself, while we were left to squeeze in what sleep we could with the town going wild around us in preparation for a 6am children wake-up call. But some nights are so worth it – and this was one of the greats.
And so ended one of the most amazing experiences of our lives. It is hard to put into words the energy and joy that comes with the San Fermin festival. The outfits, the bulls, the bands, the parties, the people…… but it was time to move onto our final destination of San Sebastian where a conversation that Emelia had with an eel made us think that is was time for home. But more on that later.
Adios.
Trent, Emelia, Olivia and a Spanish singing Krys if the mix of red wine and coke is just right
smallthoughts 