Big Angry Bovines

We went to see a bullfight the other night here in Sevilla. It was a novillada, which is kind of like the minor leagues of bullfighting. The bullfighters were all baby-faced boys, some of them less trained and less graceful than others. The bulls, while apparently smaller than those of regular corridas, where still quite large.

I have never quite been able to get my head around bullfighting. I have read way too much Hemingway, and developed way too strong a love for Spain, to be able to dismiss the "sport" outright for the bloody, cruel spectacle that it is. I am fully aware of all of the reasons that I should hate every moment of the experience, completely in agreement with the arguments most often leveled against its very existence. I do not like to see animals killed, nor do I like to see bullfighters wounded, thrown by bulls, stabbed by sharp horns.

Still, like I say, certain life experiences and my personal choice of reading material have created within me a certain appreciation for the event. I am drawn to the grace of the bullfighter's movements, the beautiful, brassy music of the band, the joy and raucousness of the spectators. I like sitting among the Spaniards as they scream and cry and yell "Ole!".

The blood, and the proximity of death, both threatened and assured, add, oddly, to the strange beauty of the thing, resonating with some Roman-like fascination with danger and cruelty.

I don't like it, but I do like it, and I make no apologies for what I feel. What is most amazing to me is that I am not alone in this feeling--12 of our young, educated, privileged students remained at the entire bullfight, refusing to leave until all six bulls had been dispatched by the young, inexperienced toreadors.

When we first arrived in the Plaza de Toros, we found our seats being utilized as countertops, sausages and ham and bread and bottles of wine lined up in front of the old men in the row behind us. I explained to them that they had taken our seats, they recommended we find some different seats. I told them, in no uncertain terms, that I was not excited by the prospect of trudging around the entire arena, 15 students in tow, getting kicked out of every new seat by the rightful owners. They would just have to leave.

We continued to yell at each other, not angrily, but loudly, for the next five minutes. We made huge, sweeping gestures with our hands, and acted annoyed, smiling at the same time. We adamantly asserted our rights, and finally, the old men shifted back a few rows, sucking sour grapes and telling me the "air was cooler up there anyway."

Later, after a number of young men had nearly been killed, tossed like rag dolls by the massive heads of massive bulls, I met the men again. I had moved from the group for a few minutes, and was sitting alone a few rows back. Suddenly, I heard taunting, though friendly, voices behind me.

"That's not your row!" they said. "What are you doing here?"

I turned to find my adversaries from earlier, sitting behind me, laughing at my displacement. One of them, the one I had most spoken with earlier, clamped a huge, meaty hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes, and yelled to a friend, "Get this man a glass of wine!"

And so it began. Before the eyes of many amused spectators, I was stuffed with chorizo, ham, bread and wine for the next fifteen minutes. My once empty stomach was quickly filled, and my once clear, sober head was quickly muddled with the four shot-glass sized cups of wine they forced upon me. They laughed with me and clapped my shoulder, and when the bullfight ended, just a few minutes later, they shook hands with me, every single one of them, telling me that they hoped to see me again soon.

Perhaps this is what I love about these events, more than danger and blood and Romanesque gore. Perhaps it is the revelry and joy and loud, exuberant living that I have always found at bullfights, ever since my first experience in Puebla, Mexico.

That one too, come to think of it, involved wine freely given by fellow spectators, served from a bota, a flask made of flexible leather. With great flourish, I was taught, on that day, nine summers ago, to squirt the wine from far away, aiming the stream directly into my mouth, quickly and skillfully stopping the flow with a twist of the wrist.

I, of course, ended up with my once-white t-shirt stained a deep red.

Some of the students made videos of the bullfight, and I would like to share one with you all here (will put up on the next post, hopefully later today). This is not, however, the standard image of death, but rather a particularly exciting, and frightening moment of danger for the matador. There is no blood in the movie, though the young man is hit with a frightful wallop by the bull.

Thanks for reading. I hope that all are well. As always, please feel free to leave your comments and to pass on my site address to your friends, family, and enemies too. The more the merrier.