Ah Pamplona!

A history-rich city in the province of Navarro, in Basque country, the name sounds more like a celebrity endorsed fragrance sold at Macy’s than a tribute to old-fashioned masculinity.

Supposedly, Hemingway fell in love with the town and its most famous tradition, the running of the bulls.  For many years, he was known to watch the festival as he poured himself spirits from the balcony of the Hotel Quintana.

There are practical and religious aspects to the festival which now attracts visitors from all over the world.

The nine-day, July festival began with the practice of moving bulls that were raised in the country inside the city’s wall to be sold and slaughtered. To hurry things along, young men would jump onto their route (just under one thousand feet) and “excite” the bulls to “run” after them.

Now the “running” takes place on the second day of the festival. The path winds through Caso Antiguo (the oldest part of town), and ends at the Pamplona Bullring, a 22,000 seat arena, which is basically only used for this annual event.

St Fermin, the son of a 3^rd century Roman official from the area, converted to Christianity. He performed some minor miracles and after being beheaded, was adopted as the patron saint of the region.

My tour group first became acquainted with Pamplona during an organized walk and sampling of the thickest, richest cup of hot chocolate imaginable at Café Iruna, one of Hemingway’s favorite hangouts. I also enjoyed a meandering walk around the Taconera Gardens.

But the featured discovery activity was to follow the path of the bull accompanied by the narration of a local guide who personally participated in the event almost every year.

The guide started the tour by showing us a replica of several bulls at a corral just outside the city gates. He took us to the glass encased bust of St. Fermin embedded in the stones of a Roman wall, then walked us past small hotels and the market in the old part of town.

He pointed out souvenir shops where we could buy white pants and tops with red scarves — the outfit worn by the young men who run with the herd. He described other attractions at the festival; sports competitions and the Parade of the Big Heads.

Eventually, he led us to the red door of the arena and passed out black and white photos showing him finishing in several past years.

Of course, we all wanted to know, “Why do you do this?”

He repeated this phrase enthusiastically several times over the course of our walk, a little surprised that we should even wonder.

“It’s tradition! It’s free! It’s fun!”

I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the red door of the bullring.  All runs end here. Right?  The beginning of a “slaughter.”

My trip to Northern Spain and Portugal began shortly after Hamas invaded Gaza, and, although I didn’t stay current on all the details of the hostage crisis during my travels, the finger-pointing and the worldwide protests, I did catch some news and was aware of what seemed like an all-pervasive irony.

It’s free. It’s fun. It’s tradition……

War is never without costs, although they’re generally incalculable.  Some might love military parades but wouldn’t describe heightened conflict as fun. But wars are generally fought as a sacred tradition.

Children have been taught at an early age that they should hate certain people and consider them as enemies regardless of how much they have in common.

In the name of “tradition,” people can fail to examine habits and make the same bad decisions over and over again. But is a “new tradition” possible when any deviation is seen as a sign of disloyalty? Or abandonment of values?

On a personal level, I think of my reluctance to change a fundamental way I’ve approached some things (despite a record of that thing not working out).

As I walked towards the red door of the Plaza de Toros de Pamplona, I wondered if interdependence could ever supplant calls for dominion as a defining and shared goal.

Deciding to re-route, to step off the path of the bull, is no small thing.