sangre.
i've had two especially memorable encounters regarding this word thus far during my time in spain.
primero.
a typical situation, a variation of which occurs without fail every time i am abroad: shopping in a corner store that is run by a chinese family (chinos) and being mistaken for an employee. a spanish boy approaches me and asks, "sangre?" being the color-blind (i'm joking) american that i am, i have no idea why this boy is saying the word "blood" to me, or if i am even hearing him correctly. i look at him blankly. "sangre?" he repeats, pointing at his arm. "blood?" in an even worse accent. i look at him pointing at his arm, then look down at mine, half-expecting to see blood spurting out from an unnoticed cut. "sangre falso," he clarifies. fake blood. the boy is looking for fake blood for a costume. fortunately, an employee rounds the corner, and hustles over to take care of the customer's needs.
segundo.
actually, i didn't see blood, fortunately, although i know that there was plenty of it spilled. san fermin. acclaimed spanish festival in the city of pamplona, where hordes of people come out in drives to the otherwise tranquil city in the north of the country to participate in the running (and eventual killing) of 6 bulls per day. the entire city turns out in a mass of white and red, and the streets are crammed full of families and children and performers and drunkards 24/7 for the weeklong duration of the festival. the revelers participate in relays of drunkenness: those who stay out all night long, and those who stay out all day long.
the day starts with my arrival to pamplona after a 4 hour drive. i dutifully change into my white tshirt and red scarf and sash and head into the city center. while waiting to meet my friends who are already in town, my host's father shows me the plaza de toros, a massive stadium filled with debris and drunken revelers showering each other with sangria, the fruit wine that unsurprisingly has the tint of blood. "all this," my friend's father tells me, "will be gone by tomorrow morning. the city municipality will be cleaning this all up so thoroughly so as to make sure that there is not a piece of trash in the arena when the bulls and the runners enter at 8 in the morning." the city waste management works around the clock during this week, continually cleaning up the hundreds of tons of waste that accumulates throughout the day and night.
i find my friends, and off we go to join the hundreds of other people gathered on a nearby field to watch the fireworks show as we mix and down giant solo cups of cheap red wine with coca-cola, a young spanish favorite known as kalimotxo. the fireworks are impressive: every night is a performance engineered by a different firm, all of which compete with each other in an annual international competition. once the fireworks are over, the crowds shamble over to the plaza de castillas to continue finishing the gallons of premixed kalimotxo and sangria before hitting the bars.
i have made the mistake of wearing sandals to san fermin. more than having people stepping on my feet (which did happen often enough through the night), the worst was the pool of alcohol, piss, vomit, and god knows what else that my feet stepped through and were soaked in throughout the night. by the time dawn broke and we emerged from that labyrinth of bars back into the open plaza, my ankles down were covered in a filth i did not, do not want to think about what it was comprised of.
classic night out scenario: cell phone completely dead. friends wasted/zombies on their feet/already in the beginnings of their hangovers. host disappeared in the last minute as we exited the last bar of the night. anxious friend who needs to get home in the morning but doesn't want to leave a foreign small asian girl alone in the city. the encierro in 20 minutes (it is 7:40 am). not much else to do but head over to the plaza de toros. the fences that comprise the encierro are already lined with people both sober and still drunk. with all the best positions for key views taken. even though it is so early, there are still so many people out to watch the running of the bulls.
"a san fermín pedimos, por ser nuestro patrón, nos guíe en el encierro dándonos su bendición. viva san fermín! viva! gora san fermín! gora!"
6 euros each, and we are settled in the third tier of the stands in the plaza de toros, eagerly watching the large screen that broadcasts live from the first shot indicating the release of the bulls to the moment the last of the bulls enters the ring. except in the end, the last bull doesn't. he turns around mid-run, uncertain, confused, dangerous, and is eventually herded back to the pen from whence he was released at 8 am.
4 runners down (one a man from philadelphia!). those "runners"that finish the run a full minute before the bulls are jeered as they enter the arena (the run lasts approximately 1.5 minutes in total, from the moment they are released to when they enter the arena). the bulls and runners swarm in, and the bulls are led into their corrals. it is time for the vaquillas, the little bulls, to be brought out. the entrance of each one into the ring is marked by bodies squeezing themselves on the ground in front of the entrance of the gate from which the animal exits, flying over their heads as it jumps out into an arena filled with a tens of human bodies in a stadium filled with the roars of hundreds of voices. then the jesting begins. the provocation. the daredevils run wildly at the vaquilla, waving their arms to get its attention so that it will charge at them as they sprint and attempt to duck its horns. most make it away; some don't, although most remain relatively unharmed. a few fall and do not get back up, and are quickly borne away by other fellow runners to the side of the ring where a team of medics await. one particularly foolish boy gets caught by the bull, and the crowd chants, "tonto! tonto!" serves you right for provoking the poor animal. another garners boos and jeers from the crowd when he gives the poor animal a resounding slap on its hind which echoes throughout the entire plaza, causing it to rear and swivel in fear and panic and pain.
eventually the vaquilla is corralled back into its enclosure and the next released. and so it continues. a glance around, and most people are still going strong, considering many have been out all night long. others are fast asleep, snoring in the stands even amidst the noise of the crowd. we decide to leave before the last vaquilla is released so as not to get caught up in the guaranteed mass exodus.
after walking around looking for an open (and not packed) cafe/bar, we finally find one where i can put my phone to charge. un beso, a hug, and a brief goodbye and i settle down to a pincho tortilla española and a café con leche as i wait for my battery to revive enough to dig up my friend's address.
i enter the house at 11 am, and stumble into bed, to recharge. as i sleep, i will miss the recortadores, the performers who flip and jump and dance around the bulls, and i will miss the various parades and performances in the many different plazas located throughout the city, and i will definitely miss the bull fight, but that is not my turn of the relay, and to be honest, i don't mind. i'm not sure how i would take the sight of real sangre dyeing the plaza de [muerte de] toros.
but come nightfall, i will be a sanferminer nevertheless, dressed in red and white and singing and dancing along the age-old streets and bars, and maybe, although i will have been several days back in the office in madrid by the time the festivities end, maybe, i will have internally raised my hand and mournfully chanted along on the 14th,
"pobre de mí, pobre de mí, que se han acabado las fiestas de san fermín"
i've had two especially memorable encounters regarding this word thus far during my time in spain.
primero.
a typical situation, a variation of which occurs without fail every time i am abroad: shopping in a corner store that is run by a chinese family (chinos) and being mistaken for an employee. a spanish boy approaches me and asks, "sangre?" being the color-blind (i'm joking) american that i am, i have no idea why this boy is saying the word "blood" to me, or if i am even hearing him correctly. i look at him blankly. "sangre?" he repeats, pointing at his arm. "blood?" in an even worse accent. i look at him pointing at his arm, then look down at mine, half-expecting to see blood spurting out from an unnoticed cut. "sangre falso," he clarifies. fake blood. the boy is looking for fake blood for a costume. fortunately, an employee rounds the corner, and hustles over to take care of the customer's needs.
segundo.
actually, i didn't see blood, fortunately, although i know that there was plenty of it spilled. san fermin. acclaimed spanish festival in the city of pamplona, where hordes of people come out in drives to the otherwise tranquil city in the north of the country to participate in the running (and eventual killing) of 6 bulls per day. the entire city turns out in a mass of white and red, and the streets are crammed full of families and children and performers and drunkards 24/7 for the weeklong duration of the festival. the revelers participate in relays of drunkenness: those who stay out all night long, and those who stay out all day long.
the day starts with my arrival to pamplona after a 4 hour drive. i dutifully change into my white tshirt and red scarf and sash and head into the city center. while waiting to meet my friends who are already in town, my host's father shows me the plaza de toros, a massive stadium filled with debris and drunken revelers showering each other with sangria, the fruit wine that unsurprisingly has the tint of blood. "all this," my friend's father tells me, "will be gone by tomorrow morning. the city municipality will be cleaning this all up so thoroughly so as to make sure that there is not a piece of trash in the arena when the bulls and the runners enter at 8 in the morning." the city waste management works around the clock during this week, continually cleaning up the hundreds of tons of waste that accumulates throughout the day and night.
i find my friends, and off we go to join the hundreds of other people gathered on a nearby field to watch the fireworks show as we mix and down giant solo cups of cheap red wine with coca-cola, a young spanish favorite known as kalimotxo. the fireworks are impressive: every night is a performance engineered by a different firm, all of which compete with each other in an annual international competition. once the fireworks are over, the crowds shamble over to the plaza de castillas to continue finishing the gallons of premixed kalimotxo and sangria before hitting the bars.
i have made the mistake of wearing sandals to san fermin. more than having people stepping on my feet (which did happen often enough through the night), the worst was the pool of alcohol, piss, vomit, and god knows what else that my feet stepped through and were soaked in throughout the night. by the time dawn broke and we emerged from that labyrinth of bars back into the open plaza, my ankles down were covered in a filth i did not, do not want to think about what it was comprised of.
classic night out scenario: cell phone completely dead. friends wasted/zombies on their feet/already in the beginnings of their hangovers. host disappeared in the last minute as we exited the last bar of the night. anxious friend who needs to get home in the morning but doesn't want to leave a foreign small asian girl alone in the city. the encierro in 20 minutes (it is 7:40 am). not much else to do but head over to the plaza de toros. the fences that comprise the encierro are already lined with people both sober and still drunk. with all the best positions for key views taken. even though it is so early, there are still so many people out to watch the running of the bulls.
"a san fermín pedimos, por ser nuestro patrón, nos guíe en el encierro dándonos su bendición. viva san fermín! viva! gora san fermín! gora!"
6 euros each, and we are settled in the third tier of the stands in the plaza de toros, eagerly watching the large screen that broadcasts live from the first shot indicating the release of the bulls to the moment the last of the bulls enters the ring. except in the end, the last bull doesn't. he turns around mid-run, uncertain, confused, dangerous, and is eventually herded back to the pen from whence he was released at 8 am.
4 runners down (one a man from philadelphia!). those "runners"that finish the run a full minute before the bulls are jeered as they enter the arena (the run lasts approximately 1.5 minutes in total, from the moment they are released to when they enter the arena). the bulls and runners swarm in, and the bulls are led into their corrals. it is time for the vaquillas, the little bulls, to be brought out. the entrance of each one into the ring is marked by bodies squeezing themselves on the ground in front of the entrance of the gate from which the animal exits, flying over their heads as it jumps out into an arena filled with a tens of human bodies in a stadium filled with the roars of hundreds of voices. then the jesting begins. the provocation. the daredevils run wildly at the vaquilla, waving their arms to get its attention so that it will charge at them as they sprint and attempt to duck its horns. most make it away; some don't, although most remain relatively unharmed. a few fall and do not get back up, and are quickly borne away by other fellow runners to the side of the ring where a team of medics await. one particularly foolish boy gets caught by the bull, and the crowd chants, "tonto! tonto!" serves you right for provoking the poor animal. another garners boos and jeers from the crowd when he gives the poor animal a resounding slap on its hind which echoes throughout the entire plaza, causing it to rear and swivel in fear and panic and pain.
eventually the vaquilla is corralled back into its enclosure and the next released. and so it continues. a glance around, and most people are still going strong, considering many have been out all night long. others are fast asleep, snoring in the stands even amidst the noise of the crowd. we decide to leave before the last vaquilla is released so as not to get caught up in the guaranteed mass exodus.
after walking around looking for an open (and not packed) cafe/bar, we finally find one where i can put my phone to charge. un beso, a hug, and a brief goodbye and i settle down to a pincho tortilla española and a café con leche as i wait for my battery to revive enough to dig up my friend's address.
i enter the house at 11 am, and stumble into bed, to recharge. as i sleep, i will miss the recortadores, the performers who flip and jump and dance around the bulls, and i will miss the various parades and performances in the many different plazas located throughout the city, and i will definitely miss the bull fight, but that is not my turn of the relay, and to be honest, i don't mind. i'm not sure how i would take the sight of real sangre dyeing the plaza de [muerte de] toros.
but come nightfall, i will be a sanferminer nevertheless, dressed in red and white and singing and dancing along the age-old streets and bars, and maybe, although i will have been several days back in the office in madrid by the time the festivities end, maybe, i will have internally raised my hand and mournfully chanted along on the 14th,
"pobre de mí, pobre de mí, que se han acabado las fiestas de san fermín"
