(Post written by Charlie)
I don't regret many things. Regret takes up valuable time that could be spent playing Solitaire, or reading dictionaries, or building lego. So I begin my blog this evening by confessing a regret that I have. My last blog entry was entitled, "Bullfights and Birthdays". This is now something I have come to regret. Bullfights were not mentioned in my last entry—they simply made the title because I like alliteration (Bullfights, Birthdays) and because they are quintessentially Spanish. My regret is this. I have now seen a bullfight. A real, live, the bulls are dead at the end of it, bullfight. I do not regret seeing the bullfight. I regret I wasted using bullfights in a title of a blog entry on Alliteration (some language lovers out there are probably thinking, alliteration is never a waste; I agree but I'm trying to make a point).
Alas, sadly, I present to you, "Bullfights and Palaces," with a little shame, and a lot of regret. And there isn't even any alliteration.
My story begins with the advent and coming of Dave and Beth Pettigrew, family friends from Vancouver who were finishing a French and Spanish adventure in our hometown of Madrid, España. We met them at their hotel, Hotel Europa (seen photographed in previous blog entry), at the heart of the city and after some customary hugs and cheek kissing (Canadian tradition followed by Spanish tradition), we were asked, "So, do you guys want to see a bullfight tonight?". There are a few things you need to know about bullfighting: a) the season is incredibly short and b) it's very rare that a tourist (Dave and Beth) would be in town at the right time to see one. How could we say no? Obviously, no was out of the question.
Our first order of business was pastry—we were not about to search down a ticket vender on a semi-full stomach. After pastry, we set out to find the vendor Dave and Beth had seen the night before, although as many of you probably know, a foreign city seen at night can look remarkably different during the day. We rambled through a few plazas and eventually stumbled (literally) across the street of the vendor and purchased our tickets. We had the entire day to kill before the big event so we set out towards the Palacia Real (Royal Palace) where the Bourbon Dynasty still holds court, despite actually living in a mansion 15 minutes away. We toured 24 of the 2000 rooms in the palace—I'm assuming we saw the more important ones—and came to realize that we probably would have built the palace bigger. Why be able to house 3000 guests when you could house 5000? Silly Bourbons.
The palace was followed by churches; churches were followed by bocadillos de calamare (calamari sandwiches); and the bocadillos were followed by a walk through Madrid's streets to Plaza de Santa Ana for some after lunch cafés con leche (cappuccinos) and churros con chocolate (which I believe I've mentioned). After our little snack we meandered through the Parque del Buen Retiro (quite literarlly the Park of Pleasant Retreat) and up the street to the Ventas bullfighting arena which was built in 1929 but designed to look like a medieval arena with Muslim influenced architecture. Stepping out into the seating area is awe inspiring. The building is not spectacular in and of itself, but being there transports you from 2008 AD to 8 AD. It is as close to stepping into the Gladiator arena as can be produced today. Thousands of well-dressed, excitable Spaniards (and a handful of scared Canadians) have come to see blood—and they will get what they paid for. Through a series of events or acts, the bull is released, angered, tortured, battled, and eventually killed. It's grotesque. Somehow, it's also beautiful. The matadors disgust you, and also allure you to cheer them on. Courage often isn't displayed in head to toe pink, but watching a man stand perfectly still as a 1000 pound horned animal lunges within inches of his body is spectacular in any colour. I cannot say I condone bullfighting. Decisions to attend or reject most certainly need to be made by personal conviction. I can say I will never regret attending the bullfights—
I have seen the core of Spain and have survived its cruelty and admired its majesty.
This most certainly will be an important statement for Becky and I in the coming year. For Spain, as we are realizing quickly, is a cruel land full of majesty. Interestingly, Spain does not see itself as the matador, but instead as the bull. Wild and free, and constantly fighting a losing battle—they are the bull that is slain, with no need or desire for any other to take its place, be it lion or lamb.
I will never regret seeing the bullfights. Nor will I forget it.
