Full Circle

I am back in Granada as of early yesterday morning. I am so happy to be in the shadow of La Alhambra again! I've completed my circle around the Iberian Peninsula and will go back to Madrid this weekend to fly home. I hadn't originally planned to return to Granada, but Mom couldn't go to Spain without seeing La Alhambra, so here we are!

I finished my circle by bus, train and plane. From Santiago de Compostela, I took an overnight bus to San Sebastian on the northern coast. The contrast between the two cities was tempered by persistently drizzly skies, but dramatic nonetheless. It wasn't until I saw San Sebastian's cozy cove of sand protected by forested hills on either side that I realized how cramped I had felt in Santiago. The walk along the beach and up into the woods created the atmosphere of spaciousness where all the tourists and locals could spread out and breathe. In contrast, the church in Santiago is the singular destination of all its visitors, and the neighboring streets are tiny, meeting at a whole range of angles besides 90, and full of touristy shops and competing seafood restaurants with no open spaces. I loved my time in San Sebastian despite the moisture and spent most of it sitting by the beach and reading or gazing out over the Atlantic towards the UK writing in my journal.

Here, my first mistake of the whole trip happened. I had presciently purchased a train ticket to Pamplona because I knew there would be so many people traveling there at the beginning of the San Fermin festival. Planning ahead, right? Well, when I was by the sea, the capricious wind swept my train ticket out of its place between the pages of my journal and flung it into a thicket of brambles at the base of the stone wall I was sitting on. The wall began at the top of a tall, rocky cliff and I thought I just might have a chance of climbing up the cliff (rather than down the wall), so I walked to the base and gave it my best. I dropped my purse at the bottom of the steepest rocks and, praying no one would notice me and make a scene, proceeded to scale the rock faces by gripping the edges of the flat boulders and grabbing fistfuls of grass. I pulled myself up to the base of the wall successfully, but was immediately thwarted by the brambles. I needed to walk through them along the wall to the point about 40 feet away from me where my ticket sat, taunting me. However, the thorns were so sharp and barbed that they didn't just prick, but snagged my skin and wouldn't let go. At that point, I figured a 15 euro train ticket just wasn't worth the pain (literally) and retreated back down the cliff consoling myself by thinking I'd find a sympathetic train employee who would print me a new ticket.

The next morning at the train station, I was thwarted yet again by the lack of any english speaking employees and a full train. I finally surrendered to a higher will and walked through the unyielding rain to the bus station. My thoughts were full of remorse and visions of my family arriving to an airport bereft of any familiar face. I purchased a ticket for 6,50 euro and was on my way to Pamplona in 30 minutes. What was the lesson here? That I really should travel by the seat of my pants, full of submission to the divine? I'm still not sure. I arrived in Pamplona with plenty of time to find my way to the airport and meet my family. I was surprised by the masses of people walking the streets in full San Fermin costume, which is all white with a red scarf. I assumed it was just the individuals who chose to run with the bulls that were in dress, but everyone gets into it, from the youngest to the eldest.

During our stay, we saw the running of the bulls two mornings in a row, bright and early. The run happens at 8 am and since it's through the center of town, the only vantage points are at intersections. The best spots are snagged by camping out overnight, so even though we showed up by 6:15, we could only find a perspective of the bulls running uphill away from us. The whole event lasts about 5 minutes and the part we could actually see was over in a matter of seconds. The ceremony is based around San Fermin, the patron saint of Pamplona. The run originates from the basic chore of herding the bulls from their corrals up to the bullring where the bull fights happen each evening. Leading up to the time of the run, fences are assembled along the route and the non-runners separate themselves by choosing a safe spot on the outside. At 7:50, a statue of the saint is placed in a wall overlooking the path and at 7:55 a song is sung three times. The runners are bouncing, jogging and stretching to warm up, cheering away their nervousness. After the third repetition, a signal is given by an explosion and the bulls are released. The most anxious start running immediately and the brave wait until they can make eye contact with the bulls. Most of the crowd dodges to the side as the bulls stampede by, but this plan fails if a bull separates from the group and careens into the the fence, inevitably crashing into and sometimes tripping over the runners who scramble up and over as fast as possible. When all the bulls have made it to the ring, a final signal is heard and the gates are opened.

The true spectacle of San Fermin is simply the immense crowds of happy, singing drunks at all hours of the day (except from about 8:30 to 3, when they all pass out on the nearest patch of grass). The streets fill with discarded bottles and plastic cups and smell of urine. Street cleaners come through each morning and if it weren't for them, I bet you wouldn't be able to see over the piles of trash by the end of the 8 day festival.

Time's up, but I'll write more often, I promise.