Dispatches - 20 July 2025 - Post-San Fermin, Pre-Camino de Santiago

As quickly as it started, la Fiesta de San Fermin ended at midnight on July 14th. No flinging sangria, singing about how we don't have any friends with tens of thousands of my closest friends, and no more red pañuelos around the neck. Instead, the closing ceremonies, called "Pobre de Mi" (literally, "Poor Me"), are relaxed and reflective. One of the peña bands (La Única this time, I think) played popular songs like "El Rey, "La Chica Ye-Ye," and, naturally, "Uno de Enero." We swayed back and forth singing "Pobre de Mi" at midnight as fireworks sent the fiesta off with a bang and we all tied our pañuelos around our wrists until we can don them again in 2026. My first time at the closing ceremonies was with Jo last year, and I felt like a true Pamplonesa singing long and not being hounded by chants of "Guiri! Guiri! Guiri!" like some of the Aussies were when they tried to keep the party going after midnight.

I took some time to wind down in Pamplona for a few days. I wanted to go to Bilbao or San Sebastian, but they were simply too expensive. I don't mean "outside of my budget" too expensive; I mean truly too expensive. Even if I wasn't a budget traveller, the cost-per-night for a hostel bed was absolutely outrageous. So, I changed hostels for an enclosed bed while I readied myself for the walk ahead. The town was closed down anyway, as every bar, restaurant, clothing, and jewellery store needed to recover and transform from their fiesta persona to their real identities. I remember my first time in Pamplona outside of San Fermin, I could hardly get my bearings because everything looked so different.

I've gotten several videos edited and scheduled on the YouTube channel. It's funny to me that after a week of fiesta, encierros, and bullfights, the most stressful things to me are keeping videos edited and scheduled and writing posts for the blog. Not my second book, not my third book, and not the hardest part of the Camino coming up tomorrow. That's just the life of a travel blogger/vlogger, I guess.

I'm writing this in St Jean Pied de Port, the "official" (if there is such a thing) starting point for the Camino Frances, the French Way of the Camino de Santiago. Starting tomorrow, I will walk 734 kilometres across the north of Spain to Santiago de Compostella, where James the Greater's remains and relics are located. If all goes according to plan, I'll be there in 33 or 35 days. I'm a bit worried about my good knee with the hardest part of the Camino being the first day. It gave out on me for reasons I still don't know in New Zealand last year and put me down for a week, totally ruining my hiking trip there. And I have way more stuff on my back this time. If all else fails, I can pay a delivery service to take my bags to the next city if I need to. I don't want to, but I've learned to recognise my limits when it comes to old military injuries.

While I'm here in France, though, I have to put up with the stereotypical French attitudes, and they are living up to their stereotype. First, the lack of deodorant is astounding. I've asked French people in the past why they don't wear deodorant, and the answer is the same as the one to why they don't use air conditioning: it isn't natural. Well, yeah, I get that, but neither are the clothes they are wearing. Walking around the supermarket yesterday borderlined on gross, and I hate having to pass in close proximity to French people here, because they smell that bad. Second, I can speak a bit of French, more than enough to get by, but that doesn't prevent the French from looking down on me. They would rather you speak English than speak French poorly. Whenever you try, they just give you that dumb "je ne comprends pas" face that comes so naturally to them. Worse, when you ask if they speak English, they will say "Oui" before proceeding to only speak French to you. Well, if you don't want me to speak French, then don't speak French! Third, they are wholly inconsiderate of others in hostels. It is a well-known, well-established rule that certain nationalities behave certain ways on the road. Aussies party, Southeast Asians slurp their noodles, and the French behave obnoxiously. The guy on the bunk above me kept knocking things off his bed onto me, the rest of them took up all the space in the common area of the room, and all of them give all the non-French people the stink eye in the lobby and dining room. I get it, Americans are far from perfect abroad, but we're not the only ones who have a stereotype to avoid (or live up to, in the French's case).

Meanwhile, I've met many Spaniards who don't speak English, but with whom I can keep a good conversation, even when I make mistakes. They get the gist, they know it’s my second language, and they don't get bothered with the particulars of tense and pronunciation if they can understand what it is I was saying. I can't wait to get back to that tomorrow, even if it means walking for five to ten hours. In Jo's immortal words: "I miss Spain!"