The Pamplona Reminder

Pamplona. July. The heat is thick enough to chew, and the cobblestones are slick with more than just spilled Sangria. You see them—the young, the brave, the spectacularly ill-advised—waiting for the gate to swing wide.

They think it’s a game of speed. It isn’t. It’s a game of respect. Because there is a specific, muscular reality to a thousand pounds of focused intention coming at you with a lowered head. It’s a lesson in boundaries, delivered at thirty miles per hour.

You don’t have to run with the bulls to appreciate the philosophy. You just have to know when to stand your ground and when to let the world know that your patience has its limits.