¡Ole!

The morning treated us kind enough and we were out the door at the crack of dawn (quarter past eleven). We were unnourished but feeling good. Our feet gently struck the pavement as we ambled toward the Sol Metro station. The sun felt good against our pale white skin. We breathed the air in deep and let the not unclean air fill our lungs. It was refreshing. Our first stop this "morning" was El Museo Del Prado.

The Atocha metro station is located near the center of everything of importance in Madrid--Train Station, Scores of Museums, Botanical Gardens, One of the most impressive parks in Europe, and some of the best shopping around--and it was the first stop of the day for us. We ascended the stairs of the station into the bright sunshine and smiled at the hussle of the city goers and the roar of the cars going by. We are made our way to the Prado and, as people are wont to do in every city world wide since the beginning of paid entry into museums, formed an orderly queue. After waiting only 35 minutes we had tickets in hand and we were ready to experience one of the most impressive collections of classical art, mainly Spanish, in the world. After waiting another 10 minutes for entry we were in...and I was unimpressed. Though beautiful, to me, classical art lacks a certain je ne se quois that certain other contempary artists possess in spades. It seems lifeless in detail and unimportant in scope. I yawned my way through frame after frame of some unattractive Royal smirking back at me, content at being an object of affection. I was discontent...until I saw Goya. Although his earlier work is very similar in form to the classical style, his later work is insanely progressive. I speak, of course (since my readership is mainly made up of art history majors), of his "Pinturas Negras." Truly the birth of Modern art and a reference point for any budding surrealist, these portraits are breathtakingly, stupendously, hauntingly beautiful. They are poignant and incomparable. To describe them using my weak words and unimpressive language would do them a disservice. Just see them...ahora!

From the Prado we made our slowly and anxiously to la Plaza del Toros.

We arrived relatively early to the stadium and, like any sporting event, paid too much for nuts. We were nervous about getting in, but upon seeing the "security" and the fact that others had tickets similar to ours, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. We made it through the first gate with heavy smiles. We walked slowly to our seating area and when the ring was revealed to us we let out a slow in sigh in awe of its beauty. The sun was shaded from us but it shone nicely on the seats on our opposite end. It was a beautiful stadium and fulfilled nearly all of my expectation. The crowd was not too bg and the excitement was palpable. There was a steady buzz throughout the stadium when the clock struck 5.oo and the horns began to blare.

Out first came the Matadors to a steady ovation, then a procession followed, showing all those that would be involved in the bullfight. Soon the procession cleared and a hush fell over the crowd. A number reading 615 was put up in the center of the ring and the bull doors were opened. He came out confused, and immediately I felt sorry for him. He was to die soon and he had no idea why. The matadors began with a few oles and the crowd was relatively unimpressed. After a few swipes of those pink capes, there came two men on heavily padded horse back holding spears of serious weight. They aligned themselves at opposite ends of the stadium and one ready himself for what was to come. He pointed the spear at the hard breathing bull, and it charged. With the force of a car wreck and a sickening muffled collision sound, the bull drove itself head first into the side of the padding on the horse and the horseman drove the spear into the back of the charging bull. The first sight of blood shocked me intensely and I felt unsure of this sport. The bull was pried from the horse and it was again sullied into position by the matadors. The horseman again steadied himself for the onslaught, and again the bull rammed itself into the horse, knocking the horse forcefully sideway and pushing its front feet into the air. But the horse stayed hard and the spear was driven deep into the bull's back. The bull was led away and the horsemen exited to applause. Next more blood.

After more, let's call it, oleing, it was time for more spears to be shoved in the back of the bull. The bull is led near the center of the ring where a matador with two frilly spears faces him. The bull charges, the matador prances and they meet in a dance of equal parts anger, equal parts precision, and equal parts grace. At this point the matador leaps into the air and forces the two spears deeply into the bull's back, from where they hang as frilly brightly colored mementos of impending death. This is repeated two more times to (near) perfection. The bull at this point is breathing heavily and saliva draws loosely from his lips, his mouth is sadly agape and his tongue is asking for forgiveness. It is time for the Matador.

The Matador shows his respect to the crowd with a polite bow and briefly basks in the affection shown to him. He carries a bright red cape and a silver sword. He parries the exhausted bull for show. It is merely to become the better of the beast that he shows him the cape and the bull follows without hesitation. Soon, though, it is time for a finale. The bull is lulled into the security of the cape and the Matador points his sword at the back of his foe's head, preparing and steadying himself for the coup de grace. With force and precision the Matador shoots himself at the bull, the bull, surprised, moves forward, the two movements collide and after a split second the Matador stands at one end, triumphant, and the bull stands at the other, defeated, with a sword driven deep into his body. The bull moves around unsteadily and the Matador basks--he has succeeded and glory is his. The Matador once again faces the Bull each for the last time. The bull breathes heavily and uneasily, standing in a steady gaze with his batter. The Matador assumes his position and stares into the bull's eyes, forcing him to succumb, and after thirty seconds of tense silence, the bull falls to his knees and lays to his side. The Matador smiles in his triumph. The crowd erupts. It is over. It has just begun. It is to happen 5 more times.

After the final bull is killed and dragged from the stadium by horse, we stand up in our own triumph. We made it through a Bull Fight with valor and courage, and our intial shock and distaste had dissapeared. We felt one with the remaining crowd and worried when the bull got too close to the matador, and were always hoping for a good show, and a clean kill (aspects not guaranteed and indeed not to be expected with every bull). We had lost sympathy with the bull, and instead viewed it as an object, a sport. We had been desensitized. But soon these thoughts were free from our mind and instead we turned to what to do next.

What are we going to do next?