The entire country was migrating north, filling trains and buses to capacity and leaving many with no choice but to hitchhike to Pamplona, a normally quiet town at the base of the Pyrenees that erupts in chaos each July. The town welcomes the madness of thousands into its narrow cobblestone streets and spacious squares for one week, hosting the San Fermines Festival. Wine flows in tiny rivers throughout the city, thunderous chanting and singing echoes from the buildings, and adrenaline-crazed men think it wise to run with horned beasts, swatting them with rolled up papers.
I arrived in the bright mountain sun of early morning, tired and hungry from being on the road. Having hitchhiked from the port in Algeciras up along the eastern coast through Alicante, Valencia, and Barcelona, I headed west to Zaragoza and from there found a small bus to take me to Pamplona. The exodus was a blur of sleepless nights,and exhausting days, but the mountain air was invigorating.

Noon announced the beginning of San Fermines with one chest-thumping explosion from a rocket overhead. Thousands had already poured into the streets, filling the roomy squares to standing room only, all of them dressed in white with red sashes. Food soon became attack weaponry and the white clothes were stained rainbow. Eggs became grenades, squeezable mustard bottles were used like flamethrowers, and champagne was uncorked and shaken into the air, blanketing us all. The stench was suffocating as I weaved my way through the mass of humanity towards Caf Irua. The whole scene felt unreal to me, standing at the bar having a coffee, I was overcome by where I was and suddenly wished that I had someone to share it with.
When night fell the temperature dropped and it began to rain. Everything I owned was stored securely in a public baggage check, so I was free to sleep in the street, having nothing of value to be stolen. People were scattered everywhere in sleeping bags, under newspapers, and beneath trees. I climbed up the side of a brick building, using a drainpipe, and lay down on the second story balcony, sheltered by the one above it. It was an uncomfortable night, and I smelled like the culinary slosh that puddled in the streets below. One must accept one's stench at times, and consider it part of the experience.
The clock struck eight in the morning and a deep-pitched boom rocked the Basque country, silencing a very drunk, chanting crowd. The bulls had been let out. A dull roar let out 800

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