Bullfight

Below the hotel window are the sounds of families going to watch the Semana Santa processions. Lured by children's laughter and women's voices, footsteps on cobblestones echoing up from Calle del Infante, we venture out on our first evening in Madrid and follow the crowd to Plaza Mayor. We watch the costaleros bearing aloft their saints, candles, flowers, and carved Cristos on their slow pilgrimage across the old town. Men in green nazareno robes of penitence, eerily pointed hoods and covered faces in mourning for their sins of the last year, pass by in all solemnity. Spain is revealing herself to us with each new street corner we turn.

Dining al fresco on the edge of the plaza brings the popular delights of bocadillos de calamares, music, and general goodwill as we take in the sights and sounds of this golden hour. With our remembered high school Spanish and their bits of English, somehow we get by and understand one another. After dinner, we stroll along the main boulevards to Puerto del Sol and marvel in the mix of old and new, today's Adidas and Apple stores with traditional cafes and tapas bars. Standing amid the throngs of people, we smile at the huge iconic Tio Pepe neon sign overlooking the public square and shake our heads that we are really here in Spain.

The full moon hanging low in the sky draws us down the Gran Via toward the magnificent eighteenth century fountain of the goddess Cybele with her lion-drawn chariot and back around Paseo de Prado. We lose ourselves among the streets and side streets of the barrio de las letras, joined by the ghosts of Cervantes and Lope Vega as the likenesses of literary giants peer out from tiled storefronts, their words etched in gold below our feet. 

In the morning, we seek out a local café for Easter brunch, the gentle smiles of servers welcoming us with pride. A dish of huevos con jamon brings such a vivid childhood memory that it causes a fork to pause midair. We sit next to the open window and enjoy the families in their Sunday finery passing on their way home from worship, the older women with their smart suits and scarves and sensible shoes. 

The Metro is simple to navigate, and in just a few stops we climb up from under ground to stand before the Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas: the 1920s-era bullfighting arena. An audio tour takes us in and around the bricks, arches, and terraces, past the famous doors from which spectators could greet their emerging heroes, where bulls are led to an artful slaughter so iconic and integral to the cultural heritage that we are told there is no understanding one without the other. After witnessing it this evening, we will better comprehend that truth and understand the quiet solemnity of the chapel and the infirmary. A small museum offers testimony to the centuries of tradition and ritual, the matadors who became like rock-star gods, yet sometimes ended their illustrious careers at the ends of those sharp horns.

Today, with tourists and madrileños, we attend the Domingo de Resurrección spectacle. Having first dined on tomatoes, cheese, and bread as well as bull meat, potatoes, and cod with olive oil that tantalized our mouths, we nervously await the event in the arena. Old men in flat, wool caps and little girls with bows in their hair, dapper men in suits and ties with little boys whose eyes open in wide wonder, and women of all ages in spring dresses take their places on rented cushions in the bajo and tendido seats around the stadium as the groundskeepers rake the sand and paint the concentric white circles like so many baseball gamedays we've attended. 

The band beats and blares its introduction as the men parade into the ring, the shining gold and silver threads of their capes catching the last of the day's sunlight. The crowd cheers them on and we begin. The entourage awaits the entry of the first bull, their bright yellow and pink capes swirling and calling it to one and then the other of them as it becomes exhausted and disoriented by the chase, the men taking periodic refuge behind wooden gates. Then, the picadores on horseback enter and further tire the beasts, stabbing the mound of flesh behind their necks with their lances as the startled horses wearing blinders push back against the massive weight of the toros. Applause lets the performers know whether their skills thus far have been appreciated. The musicians sound a series of trumpet blasts to signal the time remaining to bring the animal to its inevitable end.

In the second stage, the weakened bull charges one man and then another as they dance around the animal and attempt to insert two banderillas at a time into its shoulders, leaping and spinning, locked in a ballet of death. This agitates it just enough for it to rally in a futile defense, as it angrily runs toward their billowing capes. Its head lowered, its hooves beating the sand, it is fatigued and vulnerable. 

Now, the matador re-enters the ring alone for the final tercio de muerte. The bull is color-blind, so the red cloth that has become a tradition is mainly to mask the blood that is steadily spilling down its hide, the barbed sticks still hanging along its sides. A series of stylish passes and bodily arcs and contortions create a hypnotic connection between the two, a faena that must end with a final blow of the sword from above. Brought to its knees, the noble animal has fought for its life, but the rules of the corrida all lead in one direction, and the roped bull is dragged from the ring, its pathetic hooves trailing in the sand cheers and applause and the waving of white handkerchiefs in approval.

Six of these scenes we witness, too fascinated to look away. It is both horrible and thrilling. It is a high art form so valued as to be protected by UNESCO along with the flamenco. The bull must be slaughtered for its meat; the people must be entertained. I am neither for it nor against it; it is as it is. Having borne witness, I think I will not want to do it again. I am mindful that it took at least ten men to bring down one animal, some leaving the ring with dust-smeared faces and blood-stained pants. This is uniquely Spain, and the experience of whatever is unique to the places I visit is what I come for.