The Bleeding Bull

Follow the crowds, I thought.  I've got an idea where I'm going thanks to Google Maps and a hotel pamphlet for the San Fermin Festival in Pamplona, Spain, or more commonly: The Running of the Bulls.  But, with so many plazas, back alleys and street confusion, it may take a little while to find my way to the start of tomorrow morning's 0800 run.

Having departed the bus station by foot, I'm quickly a few blocks away from the opening festival, slated to start at noon today.  With each step, the streets become more crowded and louder and everyone's clothes more dotted, splashed and doused with Sangria.  As I hit the Navarro Museum, some participants' white pants and shirts are now completely pink.  Not surprisingly, most of them are in their early twenties and appear to be having the time of their lives.

"Ole, Ole, Ole, Oleeeee.....!!!!"

I know I'm close to the festival's start at City Hall when the foot traffic comes to a standstill and the cracking of spontaneous fireworks grow louder up the street.  Inching my way forward, the crowds hold up red handkerchiefs, dance, yell for those above to dump Sangria and water on them; from nowhere, I'm hit by ketchup shrapnel.  This is a party, and in front of me sits the City Hall plaza, raining a cloud of floating confetti above inflated balloon bulls that the crowd hit up up in the air.  I need a drink to join the raucous!

City Hall explodes with fireworks and confetti at the opening festival.

Below the madness, someone shows his "what have I gotten myself into?...and I'm loving it!" face.

The apartments above had no shortage of Sangria and water for the masses below.

Further up the route that I'll run tomorrow, I find a party store and get a beer and Sangria before I pass a folk festival in Plaza Castillos en route to the run's finish, the Plaza del Toros.  As I reach my destination, the crowd begins to disperse, and I find myself compelled to turn around and re-enter the sweating mess of partiers that I just left.  Double-fisted, I return, passing the Santa Maria la Real Cathedral on the way to a monument where jumpers mount before diving into the awaiting arms of their buddies three meters below.  (Later, one of them will face-plant into the pavement after breaking the bonds of those arms.  He wouldn't be the only one taking an ambulance ride today!).

Plaza Castillos.

Beer tents lined the lanes.

The running's finish: Plaza del Toros.

The Cathedral.

Yup, that's a guy doing a back flip off the monument!

One more block through the masses and I hear English for the first time in recent memory; I make my way over to the small group of Canadians, Australians and New Zealanders.  After some quick introductions, my new mates take a look at my whitish garb and determine to rectify my "dull" appearance by spraying Sangria-filled canteens all over me (kind of a waste of alcohol, but oh well - this would be the first of many such baths throughout the day).  With a fading atmosphere near the central plaza, we make our way back to the monument jumpers and a few of the city's hundreds of bars.

It was only an hour later that my trip somehow took an unexpected - and surprisingly unfelt - turn for the worse.  At one of our stops, one of the girls let out a scream of shear horror and pointed at my right foot, which was nothing less than a blood-soaked pool filling my sandal's reservoir.

My awesome foot.

Noticing it myself for the first time, my response was "how the hell did that happen" followed by a few assurances that I wasn't going to die after peeling a small flap of skin back to its proper place on my right "ring" toe.  Not convinced of my ability to continue the festivities, one of the women sought help.  Pamplona security soon arrived, followed by an ambulance.

After a quick assessment, I was loaded up on the meat wagon and laid out as a technician started cleaning my red foot.  Before I knew it, I was at the hospital, being wheeled to the ER in a chair I didn't think I'd be a passenger in until I reached 100.

A brief wait and an even quicker time in surgery ended with eight stitches, a white compress that turned red as quickly as my clothes earlier in the day and another wheelchair ride out of the hospital.  Most surprising was the bill: zero Euros was tallied at the bottom of the only paperwork confirming my visit to Pamplona's hospital.

Surgery at the ends of Sangria-stained trousers.

Americans aren't alone in misspelling my last name.

Pretty scenic helipad...

Over dinner some hours later, the realization hit me that my running the next morning would have to be delayed a year.  No problem - things change, and I've got another year or two before I have to leave this neck of the woods.  Besides, I'm pretty sure that I've got one of the more unique (if not slightly embarassing) experiences of 2011's opening day to the San Fermin Festival...except for the dude who missed his buddies' arms.

The Hail of Bull Stuff...

• Born a Taurus, it's not too much of a stretch to refer to myself as "The Bleeding Bull," is it?
• Don't wear sandals if you think you may be tempted to enter mobs of party-goers...at any festival.
• The festival is held each year between 6-14 July.  Each morning (after the first day), the bulls run at 0800.  Each afternoon, there's also a bullfight around 1700.
• Bring a newspaper if you plan to run; that's how the professional runners keep the 600 kg beasts off their heels! 
• The weather was great: 80's and sunny each of my two days.
• You can get the white pants and shirt and red sash easy enough after arriving to the festival.  However, any white pants / shorts / shirts work.
• There's no fighting a mob in the middle of the streets.  You're at their mercy and will go where they want you to, as I realized when I wanted to go forward at one point and ended off my feet and twenty feet to my rear a few seconds later.
• This is a group deal and many of them didn't worry about hotels - there's plenty of parks and plazas that work just as well as any hotel room, especially mid-afternoon.
• On that note, it's still a family-friendly environment (along the outer limits of the madness).  Tons of families and kids were all decked out each day.
• Getting around Pamplona by bus and foot is pretty easy, as it's not too big and all you really need to do is follow the crowd!

The morning after this incident was the first running and my only day at the festival until I had to continue to Barcelona.  Instead of waking to witness it, I stayed in bed after I felt my throbbing foot (and head).  That afternoon though, I witnessed one of the Parades of the Giant Heads, as it passed next to the park where I took my afternoon siesta...

Big Heads take to the streets!