Pamplona is one of those newly prosperous Spanish cities with outer rings of high-rise apartment blocks and industrial parks. We follow signs to the old city center. Since this is Saturday afternoon and this is Spain, there are no motorists and few pedestrians. The whole city is asleep or eating the midday meal.

The wide boulevards suddenly change to a warren of narrow, one-way streets and "pedestrian only" lanes. There is no place to park or even stop. Ahead, just now, is a construction scaffold built out from the face of an old building, almost to the middle of the narrow street. I put one pair of wheels on the little sidewalk and squeeze by. With the help of St. James, who does not completely disdain pilgrims on wheels, we escape to the broad boulevards again.

We park the car and walk back into the old city, which seems friendlier to pedestrians. A good and cheap lunch at a neighborhood tapas bar gives us the energy to look for a hotel. La Pearl at one corner of the old plaza has seen better days. They claim that Hemingway was a guest. The desk clerk lets us inspect a large room on the 3rd floor facing the street. It has a certain faded elegance. I explain to the clerk that it is probably too expensive. He says "60 E per night" and I accept immediately. It seems too good to be true - and it is.

There is an acceptable level of street noise till 2 AM and then it really gets loud until 6 AM when a fleet of garbage trucks and street sweeping trucks begin tidying up. The city quiets down about 8 AM, I suppose so that the noisy bastards can finally get their sleep.

I suppose I had heard about the night life in Spanish cities and how it roars till dawn, but I didn't realize how irritating it can be. I don't think it is just a bunch of jolly souls having a good time; I think it is sick. From 4-6 AM a few people, probably unemployed, can make enough racket to keep the entire city from sleeping.