The Bull Murders
It is not as if I didn’t know what was going to happen at a bullfight. I mean, I knew bulls were going to die right in front of me. Sometimes the bulls kill the matador instead, Sean said helpfully. Great. My alternatives are watching people torment an animal, or watch the animal turn on the people.
Yet I was willing to go to the bullfight, because although you can sit in cafes all over the world, bullfighting is a strong cultural tradition most famously associated with Spain. Plus, I figured I condone the murders of innocent animals each time I eat meat, even if in my ideal world the animal lives a happy little life beforehand. I’m no angel.
Again, because we are cheap frugal, we opted for the cheap seats in the sun for 13 euros per ticket instead of upwards of 30 euros for tickets in the shade. Turns out that like the spectators, matadors like the shade too, so in exchange for having the sun beat down onto us, there was a greater distance between me and the live killings that were about to occur.
Sean busied himself taking live action shots. Don’t worry. Although it meant I was forced to live through the killings a second time, I screened all of the shots to not subject you to any of the ones with stabbing, goring, or blood. There were three matadors on the poster advertising the fight. We naively assumed we would only have to watch 3 bull “fights,” but turns out there were six bulls murdered that night. The crowd never grew tired of the show.
Each time, a bull would be released into the ring. It would stumble around, looking confused. Then one of the matadors would entice it to come over with a pink cape, and the bull would take off running. They would egg the bull on for a while, provoking it to charge at the pink capes, until a man on a horse would come out. The bull would take all of its anger out at the horse and charge at its side. The horse, who was blindfolded by the way, would stumble around while the rider on top stabbed at the bull with a long sword. Fortunately, the horses now wear armor. For a time, more horses were killed in bullfights than bulls.
After being weakened by its stabbing from the rider atop the horse, the bull continued to charge at the matadors. They taunted the bull, enticing it to come closer, until each of them stabbed two colorful pointed sticks (banderillas) into the bull’s neck. Sometimes, one of the two would bounce off the bull and land on the ground, but the end result was that the bull would run around, raging mad, with 4-6 banderillas dangling from its body.
Finally, a matador would come out with a red cape. When the bull charged at the cape, the matador raised a giant sword and thrust it in the bull’s neck, going for the kill shot. If it didn’t work, the matador would repeat until the bull stumbled and collapsed on the ground. Just to make sure the job was really done, one of the other matadors gave the bull a few final stabs. Horses dragged the bull’s lifeless body away to the cheers of the crowd, leaving a trail of blood in the sand. The blood was swept over, and the process began again.
I can’t begin to fathom why this is something that people enjoy, but to each his own, I suppose. It is safe to say that this will be the one and only bullfight I attend in my life.
p.s. When we were eating dinner at a little hole in the wall restaurant in Lisbon, Portugal, we noticed they were showing a matador collapsed on the ground on t.v. At first I thought it was the news and a bull had killed a matador. Then we realized it was a t.v. show – something along the lines of C.S.I., Lisbon. All of the characters were there: there was the older, wise detective, the young hot head, and the attractive female. They studied the crime scene, went to the morgue, and interrogated suspects. The only difference was the murder. The murder was of a matador, killed by two banderillas in his neck. A classic Iberian whodunnit.
Not a good day.
Yesterday was another one of those bad travel days. Not every day is good at home, so it stands to reason that not every day will be good on the road.
Yesterday was bad because our SLR camera was stolen and I lost my sunglasses. Double whammy.
When we returned back to our room last night, I realized I no longer had my sunglasses. I suspect I left them sitting on the table where we had dinner earlier in the evening. The sunglasses were only $20 from Marshalls, but considering I use them every single day, I’ll be missing those a lot.
Even worse is the stolen camera. We are in Lisbon, Portugal. Lisbon is full of quaint trolleys, and the 28E takes you up and down Lisbon’s hills through its different neighborhoods. Unfortunately, the trolleys are also hotbeds for petty crime. One moment our camera was between us on the seat, and the next, after we stood up, it was gone. Some advise not to take fancy cameras on the road for this reason, but we always figured that if you are not going to use a fancy camera when you are travelling the world, when would you use it? Out of all the items we carry with us, the camera was by far the most expensive. And we lost more than the camera: we lost the zoom lens we upgraded, the Crumpler camera bag we purchased for the trip, the green polka-dotted camera strap from Etsy.com, the 8 gig memory card, and the two filters we never quite figure out how to use. And our room keys.
Luckily, we only lost about a day’s worth of photos because I try to upload our pictures to our camera every day or so. We are trying not to get too upset about it, but I can’t help but feel that I lost a limb, as we have been carrying the camera around everywhere. We have insurance, so hopefully it will cover the loss. And we have another camera, a little point and shoot, so it is not like we will be pictureless. But still. Not a good travel day, for sure.
The All Elusive Authenticity.
Like most tourists that visit Seville, we wanted to see two of the things for which Seville is best known: flamenco dancing and bullfighting.
According to the all knowing on the Internet, there are many ways to see flamenco. There’s the dinner and a show approach at a tablao, all packaged up neatly for tourists. The advantage is that the dancers are supposedly superb and decked out in full costumes. The disadvantage is that the shows feel a little touristy, and are expensive: upwards of 35 or 40 euros per person. There’s also smaller performances at neighborhood bars, many of which are impromptu and often cost no more than the price of your drinks. The advantage is the more intimate setting and the lower cost; the disadvantage is that sometimes the shows are more low-key. One person analogized viewing flamenco shows like this: you can see Buddy Guy at a large arena show with lots of other people, or an unknown blues band at a local bar. The Buddy Guy show is classic blues and technically superior, but the experience at the local bar is likely more authentic.
It really wasn’t that much of a choice for us due to our new frugal lifestyle. Our google searches revealed the name of a bar supposedly renowned for their free flamenco shows – La Carboneria. By the looks of it, everyone else did the same google search. Walking down a dark narrow street off a more lively one, I heard someone say behind us, We’re supposed to look for a red door. Is that a red door? No, I think that’s more orange. Oh, there it is! The instructions on Google mentioned that the bar was not marked and to look for a red door. It sounded very mysterious and exciting, which it may have been, had at least 3 or 4 other groups of people not been looking for the same thing.
Though we arrived early, crowds were already packed in on the picnic benches. Around 11:00 p.m., a woman and three men came to the front of the room. Two played the guitar and one played the flute while the woman twirled and danced. She wore a green print dress that she hiked above her knees. She did not have a lot of room to move. She stomped around and waived her arms as a sweat broke out on her clavicle. The performance lasted only about 30 minutes. I heard a daughter next to me say to her mother, Mom, you’ve only seen flamenco on cruise ships. This is different. This is authentic.
The performance wasn’t quite what I imagined, but I was intrigued and I wanted to see more. Sean was done with “this flamingo dancing.” I talked him into taking a cab across the river to Triana for another show starting at midnight anyway.
Triana is supposed to be the “birthplace” of flamenco, and I read online that Anselma’s was one of the better places in the city to see casual, impromptu flamenco. So did at least 100 others. When we arrived, there was a huge line waiting to get into the bar before midnight when the “show” started. Meanwhile, there already were people occupying every seat at every table. Anselma finally opened up the gate, and the line of people streamed into the bar. When we finally came to a halt, I couldn’t move. There were people standing within inches of me on all sides, and still more people struggled to get by. Anselma made herself known, pushing past people to insist that they get a drink. Occasionally, people we were more important than Sean or me were escorted to premier spots in the bar. One was apparently such a VIP that Anselma booted two people out of their seats and cleared the way for a guy in a suit and his date. Huh. Guess we should suited up, as our backpacker clothes were not getting us any special treatment.
We lasted for one drink and couldn’t take feeling like a sardine in a can anymore. We didn’t see anyone dance, but heard some people play music that sounded excellent. So much for our “authentic” flamenco experience…stay tuned for our bullfighting experience which was a little too authentic for my liking.
Love in Seville
Seville, Spain has something special that all cities want. I’m not sure if is the fascinating culture, the sunny weather, the colorful Spanish tile, the river snaking through town, the wide streets lined with flowers and palm trees, the narrow winding streets in the old section, or some combination of above.
One of the things that Seville definitely has is romance. May must be wedding season in Seville like it is at home, because we saw brides and grooms everywhere. Strolling through the main square. Riding in horse-drawn carriages. Posing for pictures under flowers. At one point, everywhere I turned I saw a newly married couple. Their happiness and passion is infectious.
I was so entertained by the wedding couples that I turned into wedding paparazzi. I need to improve my surreptitious photography skills for sure, as I am sure more than one bride wondered why the crazy American tourist was taking her picture.
Seriously salty fish.
I don’t have a whole lot to say about Cadiz other than man, is the fish salty. The town is nice, lots of shopping, beautiful walkway on the water, etc but all I will remember is the saltiness of the fish I tried at dinner. It was one of those ordering situations where you come away not entirely sure what you had actually ordered. I suspected I was getting the waiter’s recommendation, which would have been fine with me, except it was the.saltiest.thing.i.have.ever.eaten. And it was swimming in oil. I believe it was bacalao (salted cod), but seeing has I wasn’t even hundred percent sure I ordered a main dish, what do I know.
I managed two bites. Sean took pity on me and tried it. He managed two bites as well. One to try it, and the second because you think, surely, it could not possibly be that salty, can it? It is. I moved it around my plate to try to make it look like I ate it, on account of the recommendation and all, but the waiter was on to me. Our first miss in our Spanish dining. Oh well. Bound to happen at some point.
