You can lose your old views in Pamplona’s Fiesta de San Fermin very fast.
These people came to chupinazo, traditional launch up of fiesta, with white clothes on, white thoughts in their head and with shiny white futures like textless pages of unwritten book of success.
Only minutes later there’s no whiteness in view. Everybody goes through redwash. It changes one’s personal views quite lot when somebody pours over you a bucket full of red wine or sangria. And then another bucket. And then another bucket.
Maybe cleanliness isn’t next to godliness after all. For me these wet, red, dirty souls are little angels. Angels with dirty faces. And tomorrow morning they will need their angels’ wings when they run before the bulls through the old town.
Every morning about 50 of them is injured in running of the bulls. But how can you appreciate your life if you never get a taste of death?
Summer in Pamplona is red, not green. Some trouble with internet connections here, bulls rip the lines. Not red bulls, the black ones.