When Anna boarded the plane from Chicago to Madrid, Pamplona was just another curious stop on a two-week tour through Spain. She had seen the photos: white shirts, red scarves, chaotic joy. It felt wild, distant, almost cinematic. But when the train pulled into Pamplona and the sun struck the cobblestones like a spotlight, something shifted.
Now she is in it.
In the crowd. In the sweat. In the drumbeats echoing off ancient walls. Her white blouse clings to her back, her red pañuelo tied tight around her neck, just like the locals. She marches—not at the edge as an observer, but shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers who sing in Basque and Spanish and don’t care where she’s from.
Ahead, brass bands erupt in bursts, playing “Uno de Enero, dos de febrero…” The words are unfamiliar, but the rhythm pulses in her bones. She laughs without knowing why. Her sandals are covered in spilled sangria, her cheeks flushed from Rioja wine and sunlight.
To her left and to her right, groups of young men chant, “¡Viva San Fermín!” with fists raised and eyes lit. Behind her, the echo of a bullhorn, somewhere near the Plaza del Castillo, where thousands swirl like a tide of red and white.
It’s not just a march—it’s a release. A surrender to something ancient and alive. She thinks of Hemingway, of all the clichés and contradictions she read about: the bulls, the bravado, the blood. But this—this march—isn’t about danger. It’s about being claimed by something older than fear.
She doesn’t know every word of the songs, but when the rhythm slows and voices lower for the Txupinazo, the opening firework, she raises her eyes with everyone else. The rocket flies, and for a moment—just a moment—the city seems to hold its breath.
Cheers split the sky. Strangers embrace. The march becomes a flood.
Anna doesn’t know where she’s going anymore—but she doesn’t need to. In Pamplona, during San Fermín, the city marches through you.