Pumped Up in Pamplona

Once a year, this small city is turned inside out by the festival of San Fermin and its two world-class tests of mettle: the running of the bulls popularized by Ernest Hemingway in “The Sun Also Rises,” and the scarcity of rooms for fiesta-goers.

San Fermin was a local martyr in the 3rd century, and his fiesta has kept some religious underpinnings. But the weeklong holiday is best known for its bullfights and 24-hour-a-day partying.

Hemingway spent a lot of time in Spain and was fascinated by bullfighting and all its trappings. Jean and I had our reservations.

Rather, we were in Pamplona without reservations, about as bold a move as a tourist can make. We had been in Bilbao to see the new Guggenheim museum, and Pamplona was on my secret agenda. I wanted to be there for the encierro, the chaotic dash of young men and bulls through the early morning streets, even if it meant sleeping in the car.

By a stroke of unbelievable luck, we stumbled onto an available room in a very pleasant hotel a short taxi ride outside town.

There we learned that the best place to see lots and lots of macho young men running with the bulls was not from the street or even from an expensive perch on a balcony. The concierge said the whole run took only three minutes and went by in a flash. The place to be, he said, was in the bullring, the destination of the runners and the bulls.

Meanwhile, there were plenty of other things to do.

First was to try to find something to eat and drink. That was all anyone did in “The Sun Also Rises,” after all, and besides, we were hungry.

The streets of the old city were thronged with people in one giant parade, all wearing the same white-and-red clothing or slight variations of it. Bands, big and small, were at nearly every corner, overlapping in cacophony.

Everywhere we looked, eating places were jammed with revelers. But by standing in line for a while at a bar, I did acquire a couple of sandwiches and a couple of beers, while Jean secured us an outdoor table where we could watch Pamplona’s party.

Afterward we made our way up the streets full of strollers to the Church of San Lorenzo to attend a special vespers service marking the opening of the festival.

Since we were among the first to arrive, we found seats that turned out to be very good. We could see both the main altar and the chapel of San Fermin, and we could look up into the choir loft, which for us turned out to be the most important view of all.

By the time the service began, the church was packed, aisles included. I saw no other foreigners, though there were many young foreigners, including Americans, back where the street action was. Virtually all the faithful were wearing the red-and-white Basque colors. And many prayers were said.

The service in the Basque language was beyond us until some of the most wonderful music we have ever heard began pouring out of the throats of a choir of angels--roll after roll of heavenly hymns composed decades ago by two native sons of Pamplona. It was not your average church choir, I can tell you. For one thing, the male voices were richer than the female. Furthermore, it was accompanied by an excellent small orchestra.

We were able to watch the whole performance, and when it was over we lingered to press hands with the conductor.

After the service and a walk through town, where a lot of young people had had too much to drink and were splashing people with red wine, we found a cab surprisingly easily and went back to our excellent hotel.

It had been a long day. We had started it at a beach resort called Plentzia outside Bilbao, interrupted it for a stop in the beautiful old city of Vitoria, then drove the 60 miles or so to Pamplona.

We stopped in Vitoria thinking we might have to stay there because we knew that Pamplona’s hotels had been sold out for months. The people at the tourist information office in the heart of Vitoria guided us to a travel agency nearby where an agent knocked herself out to find us a room for one night. The El Toro had a last-minute cancellation, she said. It was $159 with tax, half again the usual price, but we jumped at it.

I do not recommend such ad hoc arrangements for anyone else, for good reason. Pamplona attracts tourists only during the fiesta. So, for economic reasons, hotels are few. There is also little call for hotels in the surrounding region. One guidebook recommends staying in San Sebastian, a 100-mile drive from Pamplona. Others say reservations should be made at least nine months in advance. We were to find that hundreds of the thousands who had flocked into town had to sleep in parks.

We lucked out. By the time we got to the hotel, the $159 room was unavailable--so they put us in a suite at no extra charge.

The next morning we were at the bullring before 7. The encierro was to start at 8.

Because we were early, we selected good seats for ourselves, facing the spot where the bulls and runners would enter, and watched the vast arena gradually fill with people, most of them young. They were a very enthusiastic bunch, doing “the wave” continually and singing and dancing in place to Basque songs played by a brass band in the ring.

Promptly at the stroke of 8, church bells pealed. A rocket exploded. And the encierro began.

For a century or more, men at this fiesta have run with the bulls from the corral to the arena, a 1,000-yard course through narrow streets. It is a death-defying event. The bulls are big, powerful animals with deadly horns, and are bred to fight. Scores of Spain’s greatest matadors have died after horns went through their vital organs.

Although fatal injuries are rare among the runners, relative to their numbers, city officials take the matter very seriously indeed, more seriously than the runners. Barriers line the route to protect spectators. The minimum age to run is 18. Runners are issued a list of instructions about how to behave. Ambulances and medics are stationed at every corner.

This goes on for eight days.

The bulls that run each morning are those that will be killed that evening. The spectacle begins at 6:30 p.m., which in Spain, where dinner is at 10, is considered afternoon. A bust of Hemingway presides over it all, outside.

Jean won’t go to a bullfight, feeling, as many Basques and Spaniards and, indeed, Pamplonans, do, that it is too cruel. And although Hemingway had made me an enthusiast, I ceased being one decades ago when I saw my first (and last) in Barcelona and watched the bulls being dragged out of the ring with their feet in the air. Besides, tickets in Pamplona cost up to $500 for seats in the shade.

Nevertheless, the bullring provides a fascinating spectacle. And although I don’t know how the bulls feel, they at least can try to kill their killers. And sometimes they succeed.

Minutes after we heard the warning shot, there was a lot of noise at the entrance to the ring and scores of young men ran in, followed by some savage-looking bulls. Professionals guided the bulls into a corral out of our line of sight, and the young men, joined by some in the stands, milled around laughing, joking and comparing notes.

Then a young and altogether too lively bullock--a sort of trainee, not a fighter--came charging into the ring, and the waves of young men parted, some of them somersaulting over the fence that protects the spectators--and matadors--from raging bulls.

Then another bullock was let out, and while some young men got as close as possible, others went in the other direction. At one point a Scotsman in a kilt did a somersault, and 17,000 of us in the arena laughed at discovering what he wore beneath. Only himself.

The animals seemed as crazed as the men, and as the lopsided contest went on, it bothered Jean. She felt it was abusive to the animals, but I found the whole performance delightful and exhilarating since no one was really hurt.

Later, after croissants and coffee at a cafe, we strolled through town back to the church. It was time for the annual procession, when the 15th century statue of San Fermin is taken out of its chapel and carried through nearby streets on the shoulders of men in 17th century dress, tricorn hats and powdered wigs.

Preceding the icon were costumed musicians, 9-foot-tall “giants” and “big-heads” of papier-m^ache, which delighted the watching children. Then followed local dignitaries in formal evening dress, and clergy in gold brocaded vestments. The route was lined with Pamplonans wearing--you guessed it--red and white.

We had positioned ourselves close to the church and were among the first to enter for Mass and the return of the statue to its chapel. We took about the same places as we had the evening before and listened to a very long ceremony in the Basque language. By the time that started, the church was filled, and by the time a second Mass began, the church was so packed we could not get out. But the great choir sang again.

All in all, our experience had truly satisfied us. And an hour or so later we left Pamplona to cross Spain to the Mediterranean coast.

The roads in Spain are wonderful, particularly the national toll roads, and we weren’t on this one long before we found a roadside restaurant where we stopped for lunch. A party of four settled at the next table--two men, one woman, and an unusually handsome boy we guessed to be about 14.

His behavior fascinated us. He was courtly toward the woman, who was his mother, and deferential to the man who was his father.

When they left before we did, we saw that the father had left a sweater on the back of his chair. Jean dashed out and caught them just as they were driving out of the parking lot. The boy came in for the sweater and thanked me in American-accented English.

Jean came back in all excited. The father had asked if she liked the bulls, and when she nodded, he handed her a stunning picture of a young man in a “suit of lights,” the brilliant costume of a matador.

It was a picture of his son.

Jean recognized him as the matador who had dominated the front page of the Pamplona paper that morning. The headline under his picture said (in Spanish): “16-Year-Old Matador Wins an Ear.”

We don’t know much about bullfighting, but we know that it’s an occasion when a matador does such a fine, brave, skilled job working close to the horns that the judges award him an ear of the bull he has killed.

There was great praise, great excitement, in the story of the debut of Julian Lopez, called “El Juli,” and we were very pleased to have touched bases with him, if ever so fleetingly.

Months later, by chance, I read in the magazine Paris Match that 16-year-old Juli had gone on to one triumph after the next in Mexico, Peru and Venezuela, and in Quito was carried around the ring on the shoulders of fans, along with the president of Ecuador.

Then the irony hit me. In Spain, a fellow has to be at least 18 to run with the bulls. The boy who triumphed in the ring could not have run the machismo course through the streets.

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GUIDEBOOK

Bullish on Spain

Getting there: American, Continental and US Airways have connecting service from Los Angeles to Madrid, $1,000 round trip, June 16-Aug. 31. Pamplona is about 200 miles northeast of Madrid.

Where to stay: We can recommend Hotel El Toro, telephone 011-34-948-30- 2211, fax 011-34-948-30- 2085; we paid $159 for one night (the usual rate for a double with bath is about $80). There is a central hotel booking number: 011- 34-948-22-9328. It’s best to use a travel agent because tour operators book up the few hotels.

Browsing around: A Web site full of information is available in English at https://www.sanfermin.com.

For more information: Tourist Office of Spain, 8383 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 956, Beverly Hills, CA 90211; tel. (323) 658-7188, fax (323) 658-1061, Internet https://www.okspain.org.