The clock ticked down. At 7:55 a.m., a small shrine to Saint Fermín was set up in a wall, and everyone chanted some ancient screed, rolled newspapers waving, to the 12th century saint for safety and well-being. Not knowing what they were saying, I shook my fist and chanted with the rest anyway. The sun broke over the tops of the narrow streets as I heard the first fireworks go off. Everyone started running.

July 6 marks the beginning of the weeklong Sanfermínes festival in the city of Pamplona in northeastern Spain. The ancient celebrations to honor the patron saint of Pamplona and the entire Navarra province are best known for the running of the bulls, or encierro, made internationally famous by Ernest Hemingway’s novel The Sun Also Rises (1926). 

That morning, I muscled into the surging crowd, trying to get to the main square by noon for the “official” beginning of the festival. Donning the traditional white shirt and red sash, plus the ubiquitous red bandanna, I joined the march. I saw an undulating sea of white and red, people moving, dancing, shouting. Packed, glistening crowds of mostly young, semi-inebriated men and women stood shoulder to shoulder in the narrow streets filled with the laughter of thousands.

I made it to the Plaza Consistorial, and the old City Hall building with its Renaissance facade. Amazingly, as I got closer, champagne and wine bottles littered the street — by the hundreds. People were leaning from rows of balconies overhead, pouring liquid down onto the crowd below. The streets smelled like stale alcohol and sweat, but it was warm and the music was honking — a bizarre chaotic scene, but somehow, fun.

I then did the only thing any right thinking person would do — clamored to the nearest wine shop and bought a bottle of Cava champagne. Nothing great, but at least it was cold.

During the festivities, marching bands periodically rumble over narrow cobbled alleys, blasting inebriated tunes for all to hear.

Even all the musicians of the roving marching bands — playing accordions, drums, and trumpets — had drinks in their hands. I met a group of locals, eager to try out their English on me. One woman from nearby Bilbao chatted easily in English, and a big bear of a man named Juanto, warned me about the bulls. “Don’t touch them,” he said. “And don’t run on the weekend, too crazy.” I asked him if he had ever run with the bulls. He smiled sheepishly and said: “No.” We both laughed.

I joined their festive group and we all passed around bottles of Cava, the white-sparkling wine made in this region. “Can you help me find a place called Ruggles, the bar?” asked Jenny from New Zealand. I shrugged, then pointed down the street. The narrow cobblestone alleys were overflowing with thousands of people, crammed into the cafés, bars and shops, and many just sat on the pavement. During the festival, most of the bars remove their doors entirely, since they don't close at all for eight straight days.

Squeezed into one bar, I overheard a guy with a “proper” British manner say, “These Spaniards are simply crazy. I like it.” The cramped streets boomed as all manner of sound bounced off the ancient cobblestones.

Hungry now, I found some fresh pollo y frites (chicken and fries) at a tiny café. It was dreadfully hot, and the food was greasy, spicy, messy — delicious. I ventured back to the main square and ended up at the Iruña bar, one of Hemingway’s renowned haunts. The place was packed with history, laughter and booze. Upstairs I bought a “Special Kas” — some secret tangy mix that included copious amounts of gin. That did it. I danced with a pretty blonde, then thought I saw bulls flying toward the ceiling, singing some song that reverberated in the back of my head. Reality and a dream state were now intermingling.

Stumbling back through the folding crowds, a sign said it was 102 degrees Fahrenheit (39 C) — hot. A nap at the hotel was in order. A park loomed in my foreground and I decided to rest there for a moment. As soon as I hit the grass, I was out — cold. I slept in the park for over two hours, with my passport, money and camera lying at my feet, unprotected in the open summer sun. Fortunately, no one touched anything. I got up, groggy but somewhat refreshed. The festival draws over a million and a half visitors and it’s an accepted tradition that vast numbers sleep in the city parks. And people were sleeping everywhere, just like me.

I stopped for a couple cups of coffee, then sashayed back to the hotel, sweaty, grass-stained and full of life. The bulls would begin running early the next morning.

Somewhere between dream and nightmare, I awoke at 5:30 a.m., and again barreled through the throngs into old Pamplona. I found my way to Santo Domingo Street, the first portion of the Run and camped out. I encountered some American guys: one from Texas, one from New York, two from Los Angeles and another from Atlanta. Two English guys and a huge grizzled man from Jamaica rounded out our little party on the street.