Spanish NASCAR

whether you go to watch a well-executed pass or the tail-in-the-air collisions, bullfighting is quite spectacular.  i knew that when I'd signed up to stay in Andalusia that I could not deny going to a bullfight based upon the typical American reaction to watching an animal tortured and bested for show.  and I also could not deny going to a traditional Spanish sport on any humane grounds once I found out that the bull is actually eaten afterwards.  i mean, for goodness sake, I rely on slaughterhouses for my meat and have never been to one of places to see the chickens or cows herded between grates and smacked in the heads.  I think that might be a bit more disturbing to watch.  

so, here's the thing.  Anglos.  If you want to watch a bullfight in Sevilla.  A) likely, you will find no other Anglos interested in going with you.  fortunately, I like to do shit alone.  B) there are a ton of websites aimed at the unsuspecting Anglo who will fork over 3-4 times the cost just to find a ticket through a broker whose website is in English.  those seats looked fairly empty by the way.  C) don't pay the extra 10 euros to have the ticket mailed to your house.  Instead, be confused by the cryptic 'you will be given a pager number' message at the bottom of the page.  Is this the 80's?  no, better to enjoy the cloak-and-dagger adventure of trying to find Angelo at the bar at 2 o'clock to collect your ticket in person.  really.  fortunately, my guiri accent pegged me well and he knew exactly who I was when I walked up.  Next, D), get to the match early.  This way you can stick out just that slightly bit more as a foreigner and as a sad sight as the only solo person there.  No, there were definitely other solo people.  But they were old men that had been in those same seats for years.  Don't worry, if you make it through a few kills without vom'ing or leaving, they will come talk to you and explain some things.

Like, this is a special breed of bull.  Not like those bulls in North America.  No, these guys have been bred for this. They're strong.  They literally feel no pain. ?  And, like any decent military thought - if they aren't strong enough - we don't use them??  Because it is a fucking sport.  

Let me put it this way.  It can be disturbing.  But really only when the matador completely sucks at his job.  Otherwise, you don't spend much time contemplating why a bull was chosen for this act of gladi-ation.  They're stupid. Here's a skinny little man, a featherweight, dressed in a mickey mouse hat, pink socks and sequins.  He stands perfectly concave, puckering his anus, dangling his pee-pee out and the bull is 'tricked' into rushing for the pink and yellow cape that he is swooping.  Really?  You can't see who is holding the freakin' spears and capes?  Your damn sure they aren't using a decent pitbull for this 'fights'.  Trust me, that would last about a nano-second.  So, this is a big, black pile of food on four legs.  Check.

Now the score.  You enter the arena.  The audience is chock full of old men and strangely, little girls with their grandparents.  Disproportionately more girls than boys.  Not sure why.  You hope not to get wedged between two overly large men on the concrete bench, but are grateful when there are alternate seats.  You presumably rent a hemorrhoid cushion, if you are a local, but for 2 hours, no pasa nada.  Then, the band starts up.  The music was fantastic by the way.  A bugler announces the beginning of the show and a bull trots out into the arena.  Five or six rodeo clowns, dressed as matadors, jump out from behind the guard gates and coax the bad boy over to the shady side of the arena.  (It took me a long time to figure out it wasn't the shade they wanted, but the side of the arena without the cheap seats.)  Okay, a dance begins.  Over here bully.  Over here bully.  Let's tire him out a bit.  He's panting.  His fringed pee-pee (thinking this is the whole macho we're-going-to-dangle-our- pee-pee,-too, thing comes from) is bobbing on a string.  Then, toot-toot-te-toot, the horses come out.  Two, though only one seems to get action at a time.  Atop the slightly armoured horse is another skinny Spaniard, but this time in less rhinestonery.  Because he has a big spear.  They coax blacky into ramming the horse (truly the horse is who I felt the worst for) whilst the rider tries to puncture the fatty area behind the beast's neck.  Remember, no pain.  Then, when that is satisfactory, the horses leave and the clowns come out with banded toothpick looking things.  Two at a time.  Those get pricked into the same necky region and eventually lose their color to red with the blood.  I think these must be used as indicators to assess how much blood is actually lost.  Surprisingly, not very much.

Okay, then, our dear old matador comes out.  He makes a big show.  He coaxs a charge and sweeps the beast majestically past his hip.  OLE! If he is lucky.  And thus he needs to draw it out for a good little while.  Why?  because we only have 6 bulls and have to fill 2 hours dammit.  So, tire, tire, tire him out some more and if you are slow the bugler will remind you and you have to artfully jab a long spear behind the neck and into the lungs.  This likely hurts a little, but isn't instantaneous.  Bully can still rally and horn the matador a few more times.  And, that he did.  Of the three, only one was a truly good matador.  The other two got good and flipped and one I thought was totally down for the count.  Anyway, so once the beast is truly lulling, the wait is for him to just collapse.  Yea!  Man in Tights won!  Our friend El Picadero then prances over and thrusts the final ice-pick-like blow at the base of the skull and it is done.  The absolutely most retching part is his.  He doesn't just jab.  He jiggles for a bit, too.  That guys a psycho-path.  The others at least dance and sally and run away at times.  That one's the opportunist.

Done.  Dead bull.  A team of zookeepers comes out.  Chains around the horns, attach him to a team of horses and pull him around the sand to the exit.  Showy.  If the matador was good, white hankies are waved, some feathery Shakespearean looking character comes out and cuts off the ear for the matador and the matador takes a slow victory lap around the arena.  Flowers, if thrown, are gladly accepted.  Hats and jackets?  Goodness knows why, were also thrown to him.  But, they didn't match his outfit, so he threw them back.

I've tried to give you as complete of a description of this event as possible.  I know that it is unlikely that any of you will book a flight just to see a bullfight and I am hoping to have saved you a few euros.  Well, it only cost 12 euros, but you know what I mean.  I found it fascinating.  Likely I will never feel compelled to repeat the experience.  But with a good matador, it isn't as disturbing as you may imagine.  It's just getting to that good one that's the trick.  

Hope you getting to enjoy a lovely sunny Sunday afternoon.  And remember, next time you eat your beef, someone had to do it.  I just hope he got to flip someone first.