The heartbeat of Pamplona, Spain during the San Fermin Festival… What is it like? The city has a heartbeat like the wings of a hummingbird; you know the wings are there inevitably propelling motion, yet they move too quickly to see; they don’t beat, they vibrate. The city is vibrating.
As the streets of Old Town fill each morning after dawn to see the 8am running of the bulls, as the music and singing lasts all night and as the beer never ends, Pamplona is a city nearly bursting at the seams.
In his non-fiction novel, Death in the Afternoon (italics), Ernest Hemingway wrote, “I was trying to learn to write, commencing with the simplest things, and one of the simplest things of all and the most fundamental is violent death…. So I went to Spain to see bullfights and to write about them for myself.” And it was Pamplona where Hemingway came to do it. He also wrote his fiction novel, The Sun Also Rises (italics) about Pamplona and the now famous Cafe Iruña where he spent a great deal of time. Hemingway came to Spain to confront death, and when you step into this city, especially as a writer, you realize that you’re stepping into a legacy much larger than your own.
Malcolm Gladwell writes about legacy stories in his book, The Tipping Point (italics). Gladwell writes that every region and/or city has an “overstory” that came to exist over time through a series of various and variable circumstances particular to the place. Pamplona and the San Fermin festivities are a very old overstory – Hemingway found himself here because he knew that he could step into it, write about it, reach higher, attain that thing that all writers crave- to write something of worth; a juxtaposition of beauty and of truth.
This moment in Pamplona, a stop on the trail to Santiago de Compostela, on the Camino is much like that for me as well. I’ve stepped into a series of overstories much bigger than mine, big enough to pull something greater out of me; to confront death at 7:45am where the bulls run, praying not to get crushed in the crowds against the bull pen men are building, down the cobblestones streets as the police attempt to control the mob. My pulse beats like the wings of a hummingbird, vibrates. I’m determined to know myself more thoroughly, to confirm again those things that I already once knew.
Have courage, take heart because the world is large, grand and full of adventures to be had. On the Camino, our stories overlap as we pass other pilgrims. We share our joys, process our griefs, our reasons for coming and doing this crazy thing; laugh about the ironies of life. Together, we make one large overstory going back thousands of years when the pilgrimage began. It is a theme is overcoming, it is a motif of hope. There is catharsis here, and there is death to self along the road.
The streets of Pamplona are a sea of red and white, crimson scarves and sashes atop alabaster clothing spattered in mud. I don’t know if I agree with the bullfight. I’ve read enough Hemingway to know you need to make into the ring to understand. I haven’t made it that far yet. If I make it tomorrow, perhaps I’ll know. What I am certain of is that we are all leaving blood behind in Pamplona, whether you’re staying here for a few hours passing through or a few days. Here, we are all starring death in the face a little. 