For years, going to Pamplona, Spain, and photographing the running of the bulls had been on my “need to experience” list. In 1967, I decided not only to go but to film it with my new Bolex 16 mm movie camera. To accompany the camera, I bought a Uher portable tape recorder on the advice of a friend, sound engineer Bruce Kirby, with the intention of making a film about bullfighting, its barbarity and why it should stop.

As with so many other things, one alters their conceptions as one actually learns about the subject. I changed my opinion as I became somewhat immersed and conversant in the bullfighting culture and traditions during that week in Pamplona.

The great, well-known toreros Antonio Ordonez, Paco Camino, El Cordobés and perhaps Curro Romero were some I remember being on the afternoon cards. When I arrived in Pamplona with my former wife, I knew nothing about bullfighting but I did learn some things from attending five or six bullfights. The extent of my knowledge was to try to get seats in the sombra, a shaded section, or at least the sol y sombra, a part half in the shade and half in the sun. However, I learned the most from talking with aficionados from all over the world while sitting in the cafes, bars and restaurants that week.

Those were magical days for me. We sat at tables altogether: mainly young people, mostly men from England, Sweden, America and, of course, a few from Spain. After a few days, we were regulars and I was recognized loaded down with my ubiquitous equipment. Because of the equipment, I think I might have had a kind of street cred or status that was entirely unearned, but I took advantage of it and conducted many recorded interviews while at cafes drinking wine.

Everyone seemed drunk most of the time, especially the Scandinavians. Later that summer, when we went to Sweden to visit some of the people we met in Pamplona, I could understand the allure of Pamplona for the Swedes: music, bulls, hot sun and cheap wine and food. Luckily for me, they all spoke English, so I could talk with them about Spain and its bullfighting history and traditions.

I did speak enough Spanish so that I could interview some Spaniards in a simple way and everyone seemed interested in explaining the importance that the corrida (bullfight) has played in Spain for many years. No one suggested a change. No one wanted the bullfights to stop. Every one of the Spaniards was serious and grave when describing its significance. I began the interviews opposed to the whole bullfighting culture but I gradually changed my opinion as I came to realize that I was not a part of the culture and had little right to criticize it.

There was a Hemingway impersonator; he was tall with a white beard, a tan fisherman’s vest, white shirt and khaki pants. He made his rounds in the cafes, even signing autographs. Evidentially, he was a fixture at the event.

The bulls for the day’s corrida were held in a pen at the foot of the narrow street down by the river. The narrow, cobbled street began at a low point by the river and was inclined upward, leading to the bullring. I had to find my spot to stand early in the morning because the cannon was shot off to announce the start of the encierro (running of the bulls) at 7 a.m.

I always tried to find a spot in a doorway that was recessed about a foot in order to have some protection from the bulls raging by. The problem with the doorway idea, I heard later from some Swedes, was that if the bull stopped in front of you, you were trapped and unable to escape. Luckily, that didn’t happen but I did see an occasional young man get gored or bashed by a bull while he stood helplessly in a doorway.

The festival of San Fermín lasted seven days and each day began to take on a familiar rhythm: wake up early and find a spot along the street, wait in the early morning coolness for the cannon boom and then I could hear faint shouts near the holding pen as the runners began to run ahead of and with the bulls. My heart started pounding a minute later as the rumbling of hooves on cobblestones, shouts and terrified screams got louder — so loud that I couldn’t hear or feel my pounding heart any longer.

On the first morning, I was starting to think that this was the stupidest thing I’d ever done. I was opening myself up to being gored in the doorway or chased by a bull while I carried my precious camera and tape recorder. I had no idea of what to do or how to avoid a charging 1,000-pound frightened animal with razor-sharp horns striking out at anything that was in its path.

As the days passed and after talking with many encierro “pros” from Northern European countries, I began to get an idea of what to do in various bull versus man scenarios. If you fall, lie still on the ground and cover your head and neck with your hands and arms and stay down; if a bull breaks from the pack, watch out, it’s dangerous! Sometimes there’s a straggler and watch out for that one, too. All of these warnings and more probably were of little use to me with all of the equipment I had with me anyway.

After the six bulls, plus a couple of oxen with bells, passed, it was generally safe to start walking to the arena — just watch out for a bull that has turned around and is deciding which of us to attack.

The arena was filled with people in the stands and the runners, in their white pants, shirts and red sashes, all in a big mashup with the confused and frightened bulls at the narrow entrance. I was in the stands for one run and could see that the entrance was all clogged up with red- and white-clothed bodies, many of whom were piled up on the ground as bulls leapt or ran over them.

After the encierro, it was time for a coffee and roll at a cafe and lots of talk about the morning’s events. In the morning, after the encierro, it was easy to meet and talk with people from all over Europe because there was a commonality, a kinship of just having been through an epic event. For some, who ran just in front of or touched the bulls, it was possibly a transformative event.

I was eager to hear all of the information I could on where to stand, the customs and history, and methods of running as well as where to get the best paella and wine. For me, I went around photographing, then lunch and a siesta before the bullfights in the evening. I even picked out my favorite bull of the week. His name was Pensativo (Thoughtful) and I was sad to think, as I watched him in the bullring meet his death, that if I were to eat estofado de toros for dinner that week, it may be Pensativo that was on my plate.

Before the corrida began, everyone would gather in the bars and cafes and talk about the bulls and matadors on the card that day. We talked about all sorts of things such as the breeds, owners, bloodlines, weights and tendencies of the bulls’ movements. We also discussed and debated the matadors’ abilities, mostly by people much more knowledgeable than me.

After good conversation, some drinks and tapas, we walked over to the arena with tickets and cameras. Six fights later, and it was time to have dinner. We found a restaurant, the Maitena, the first night and thought the paella was so good and the atmosphere and ambience so perfect that we found our way back for three or four more dinners.

When we finally left Pamplona for our next destination, with a backpack full of 16 mm color film and reels of recordings, which I carried around Europe for three months, little did I know that, after returning to Rancho Mirage, a “100-year flood” would destroy it all and my camera a short time after returning home.

Así es la vida.

Zeny Cieslikowski is a Corte Madera resident. IJ readers are invited to share their stories of love, dating, parenting, marriage, friendship and other experiences for our How It Is column, which runs Tuesdays in the Lifestyles section. All stories must not have been published in part or in its entirety previously. Send your stories of no more than 600 words to lifestyles@marinij.com. Please write How It Is in the subject line. The IJ reserves the right to edit them for publication. Please include your full name, address and a daytime phone number.