In Pamplona, a white-walled, sun-baked town high up in the hills of Navarre, is held in th
e first two weeks of July each year the World's Series of bull fighting.
Bull fight fans from all Spain jam into the little town. Hotels double their prices and
fill every room. The cafes under the wide arcades that run around the Plaza de la
Constitucion have every table crowded, the tall Pilgrim Father sombreros of Andalusia
sitting over the same table with straw hats from Madrid and the flat blue Basque caps of
Navarre and the Basque country.
Really beautiful girls, gorgeous, bright shawls over their shoulders, dark, dark-eyed,
black-lace mantillas over their hair, walk with their escorts in the crowds that pass
from morning until night along the narrow walk that runs between inner and outer belts of
cafe tables under the shade of the arcade out of the white glare of the Plaza de la
Constitucion. All day and all night there is dancing in the streets. Bands of blue-
shirted peasants whirl and lift and swing behind a drum, fife and reed instruments
in the ancient Basque Riau-Riau dances. And at night there is the throb of the big drums
and the military band as the whole town dances in the great open square of the Plaza.
We landed at Pamplona at night. The streets were solid with people dancing. Music was
pounding and throbbing. Fireworks were being set off from the big public square. All the
carnivals I had ever seen paled down in comparison. A rocket exploded over our heads with
a blinding burst and the stick came swirling and whishing down. Dancers, snapping their
fingers and whirling in perfect time through the crowd, bumped into us before we could
get out our bags down from the top of the station bus. Finally I got the bags through the
crowd to the hotel.
We had wired and written for rooms two weeks ahead. Nothing had been saved. We were
offered a single room with a single bed opening on to the kitchen ventilator shaft for
seven dollars a day apiece. There was a big row with the landlady, who stood in front of
her desk with her hands on her hips, and her broad Indian face perfectly placid, and told
us in a few words of French and much Basque Spanish that she had to make all her money
for the whole year in the next ten days. That people would come and that people would
have to pay what she asked. She could show us a better room for ten dollars apiece. We
said it could preferable to sleep in the streets with the pigs. The landlady agreed that
might be possible. We said we preferred it to such a hotel. All perfectly amicable. The
landlady considered. We stood our ground. Mrs. Hemingway sat down on our rucksacks.
"I can get you a room in a house in the town. You can eat here," said the landlady.
"How much?"
"Five dollars."