(This was written after our first day of "running with the Bulls" in Pamplona a few years back. After reading about the desire to give more power to the St. Helena Tree Committee,  It is still timely)

"Fiesta begins as a celebration of life and ends as a dance in defiance of death", so wrote a long forgotten Basque poet.

The Basques are a unique people. Fierce, brave, independent. They speak a language all their own, Euskera. Linguists have been unable to trace it's roots. It has some connections with indo European languages, but also resembles languages of the Caucasus and even has similarities to North African tongues. There have been official attempts to eradicate the language altogether.

Thanks to Franco, from 1936 to 1977, Euskera and its diffusion was forbidden by decree.

But the soul of the Basque is too complex to be subdued by simple governmental edicts. It simply will not be defeated. The armed separatists, Euskadi ta Asktasun (ETA) are considered terrorists by the government--freedom fighters by many locals. It was ever thus. Whichever side one is on, there is a keen sense that no one's going to push these proud people around.

Word over beer in the Plaza is that the local government has paid off the ETA not to disrupt the nine day Festival of San Fermin. Great. Not only do we have to worry about people getting gored in the streets and bulls being killed in the ring, now we can wonder about a bomb going off outside Cafe Iruna! This isn't a festival--it's a hypothalamic holiday of hormones.

The talk all day before the evening's bullfight is of the condition of the woman who was so severely gored below our balcony. The television news has her motionless on the gurney, face covered, and
the medics walking slowly (not rushing her into the ambulance). We fear the worst.

The street is a-buzz with inside info on her. "Only a matter of hours". "In a coma". "Did you hear about the woman? She just died". Nothing, however can be confirmed.

As the people are drinking, dancing and gossiping in the streets the each Matador is donning his traje de luces, the suit of lights.

Ray Mouton: "It takes longer to dress a matador than a debutante... Though all bullfight fans believe they know something about what it takes to be a matador, no one but a matador will
ever know what the last, final moments before a corrida feel like, for the matador is the last man to
live by the sword... None but the matador engage in scheduled, contracted combat... And then attempt to create art in the process. Only the matador makes this kind of appointment and keeps it.

...Many foreigners... have tried to view this spectacle as a sport when there is nothing at all sporting about it... The word "sport" implies a game or a contest with a winner and a loser...There are not winners and losers in a corrida. There is danger for the man and death for the bull."

The arena is jammed. It has a Super Bowl frenzy about it. We are in the highest seats, furthest from the action (what do you want for 150 bucks from a scalper who told you they were the best
seats in the house?)

It is mesmerizing. The spectacle awesome. The action brutal--barbaric.

Watching the death by sword of a proud bull is not a pretty sight. However, there is great nobility in it.
As we kibitz afterwards in Cafe Iruna, we find that most of us were pulling for the bull.
Then we ask ourselves, "What kind of people are we that we watch bulls gore idiots in the streets and armed matadors slay innocent bulls? Are we no better than those that go to auto races to see
crashes?

But then it comes to us. Who are we, a bunch of snotty Americans, to criticize the life and customs of another culture? Where do we get off calling something barbaric or "sick", when people
as noble as the Navarrans see it as art and a religious rite? We are the outsiders. This is their world. They've been paying respects and dealing with bulls since before they
painted them on cave walls in Santimamine forty thousand years ago. What makes us the experts on "civilized" behavior?

And then of course, it comes home. In St. Helena, we are the Navarrans. We have a culture but it is not respected by outsiders. In their eminent wisdom, they tell us what grapes to grow, where to grow them; what stores we should have; where we should build; how we should build; what kind of parks we should have; what a "street" should look like; what trees we can keep or cut. They steal our summers from kids and families because they know better than we do. We plan playing fields for children--they re-write history and insist upon "natural habitats"--that have been artificial since George Yount came in 1834.

We honor the grape no less than Navarrans honor the bull. It is our life blood. It produced the capital to enable us to lead the lives we lead and to preserve the beauty we have. They call it alcohol farming. One doesn't have to go abroad to find Ugly Americans.

The woman lived. The bulls died. Brian survived. And we lit out for Cannes, "Where friends don't let friends wear bikini tops on the beach".

What a trip!