It all started Friday afternoon when I met Alvaro at Plaza De Castilla. His rugby team was getting together for summer training and fancying myself a sporting man, I jumped at the invitation. We played for two hours in the sweltering sun under the guidance of his coach and I fell in love with the game, though I could not understand a word anyone was saying to each other. The event proved to me how sports can transcend. The silent camaraderie among my team both old and young, male and female brought strength to my muscles and air to my lungs. I ran around that Spanish field as a kid in the summertime who knows no other sound than his mom calling him home for dinner. And this was exactly what happened next.
Alvaro invited me into his home after the match for traditional Spanish tortillas and cold tomato soup. I thought I tasted good cooking in Madrid, but I knew nothing. If I could tell his mother that her food was what dreams are made of, I would have. Alvaro and I then caught the late bus back to Madrid. The following morning we would travel to Pamplona for the running of the bulls.
The people on the bus shouted continuously, I brought a book to read but quickly put it away. No reading would take place on this journey, the riders wanted to party. Sangria bottles rolled across the floor and everyone sang traditional Spanish melodies with a relentless fervor. Before I knew it, we touched down in Pamplona. We started to walk towards the center, none of us knowing what to expect, and no one was to be seen. How could hundreds of thousands of people be partying in this town when I could only see a few scattered here and there. However, a couple twists and turns later, the crowd lay before me. Immediately, we jumped into a circle of dancing party-goers, in the middle of all us a band strummed a joyous ballad. From here, came pictures on the grand bull and matador statue. From atop the bull, I beheld the scores and scores of people all wearing white and red. From the sky, it would seem as if the streets were a continuous, pure pattern of these very colors. I stepped down and began to wander stopping every few blocks to dance. We soon ate chorizo boccadillos and the cafe proved to be a welcome respite from the madness. Out into the street again, we were swept up in a marching band parade and danced, danced, danced. Amazingly our whole contingent remained as one. Not only this but we were feverishly alive. We let the madness consume. We joined it and welcomed it. Our souls were breathing the crisp Pamplona air.
Soon a disco appeared and we hung out just within ear shot of the music to avoid the door charge. This is when Alvaro and I split from the group. We plunged into the masses and made it to the square where we conversed with a most eclectic crowd, meeting people all the way from the hills of Ireland to the shores of Australia. Some amount of time later, we stumbled across our group when Alvaro paused to use the Pamplona public restroom otherwise known as the street. At this point, the alcohol spilled on the streets amounted to quick sand with its stickiness.
Laying on the grass, I leaned back and looked at the sky, how could this type of party be legal? This whole event centered around some simple bull runs, the concept astonished me. If this energy could be retained for daily life, the world would be capable of anything. Bored with the lounging, Alvaro and I prepared for our next adventure and dove back into the masses to find some churros. On any other day, this trek would have lasted but 10 minutes, however on this day it took us over an hour.
As one of our mates began to get intimate with a woman he had just met, Alvaro and I split for our next adventure. It was two in the morning now and our bus would leave from where it dropped us at nine. We rejoined the party in the street and danced again, getting lost in the crowd numerous times. The flow of people both ways and the large rhythmic mass of dancers in between left us literally stuck in place for extended periods of time. At around 5 in the morning, I sat down to regain my wits as a couple of men from Mexico tried to ask me questions about America. I broke from them and proposed to Alvaro that we look for our friends. Meandering back towards the center, one of our mates came into view. He was without his bag, which contained his wallet, passport, and phone. Someone stole said bag when he ventured to the park with the woman we left him with some hours before. That we found him was nothing short of a miracle. He would worry about his missing bag when we got home.
The three of us then found a bakery for some croissants and hot chocolate to help recharge before the running. Once again, we plummeted into the crowds to get a view of the sanctioned off street. The runners and bulls passed in a flurry and it was over. I told myself that one day, I would run.
It was now 8 am and we needed to return to the station. We strolled past a few more women going to the bathroom in the street as well as a litany of passed out party-goers going to the bathroom on themselves. We kicked empty alcohol cans with our arms around one another and recounted our night. As the bus stop came into a view, I looked down at my white shirt, which was now maroon with sangria and other fluids which were not even mine. My red bandanna smelled god awful and my shoes were red as well. We survived Pamplona and just like the climber who gets depressed after climbing Everest, I doubted I would ever find a party quite as lively. Not even drunk, I was high on the thrill of it.
The roaring bus crowd quieted to a whimper on the ride home. I drifted into unconsciousness and awoke in Madrid. Being upset over not really seeing any bulls, I said ado to my friends, us now carrying a sacred bond, and headed to Madrid's bull ring. Inside the ring, I passed out in my scorching hot seat. The sounds of synchronous horns then jolted me upright.
What happened on the streets of Pamplona over those 24 hours will forever live in infamy in my head. No names will be remembered, no Facebook friends made, only the memories of the raw energy of life will last. And those types of memories never fade away.
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