I would not dare complain about a trip to Europe, but by my third week there, and well into my third month abroad, travel fatigue began to set in. The ennui of moving from city to city and room to room was further aggravated by two factors, one the obvious fact that Europe was my most expensive destination overall, and the other the less overt lack of challenge and adventure. The Old Country would prove a logistic cake walk in comparison to places like the Indian Subcontinent or East Africa, and although happy to have no want for hot showers, I was somewhat bored by the banalities of Continental comforts. This was also the first stop on my voyage where I was frequently exposed to the stereotypical American tourist, loud, obnoxious, and with an undeserved sense of self-importance. Where in other more exotic locales, I was excited to act as a positive ambassador for my people, in Europe I did my best to maintain a low profile, often embarrassed by the behavior of my fellow expatriates.
Nevertheless, I was still in Spain, and determined to make the best of it despite budget constraints and social inhibitions. The tourist traps of Madrid can only occupy three days at best. While it's an easy and pleasant city to walk, with an impressive and intricate subway system, after the Prado, the Reina Sofia, and the remaining parks and palaces, all that’s really left to do in Metro Madrid is eat, drink and shop. The good news is that there are plenty of places to delight in all three diversions.
My culinary quest sent me in search of Jamon Iberico, a gourmet ham I’d only seen in Spanish travel shows and once at a fancy market in Seattle. At over $80 per pound, Iberico Ham is best hand-shaved directly from the preserved leg of a pampered pig. It took me a couple of tries before I found what I was looking for, at the San Miguel Market a couple of blocks southwest of the Plaza Mayor, a pedestrian-only civic center. It was everything I hoped it could be…hands-down the best ham I’ve ever had, paper-thin slivers of perfect pork…Hambrosia, the Ham of the Gods.
Of course, I perused other plates, dishes like Paella and Ceviche, even other meats like Spanish Chorizo, and Jamon Serrano, but nothing could compete with the incredible Iberico as far I was concerned. I ended up quite content with making my dinner a small sampling of Hambrosia followed by a glass of Sangria. On either my second or third consecutive night at the San Miguel Market, I stood in a common bar area with my ham and wine, and overheard a gentleman next to me pointing out to his foreign friend that my plate possessed the "greatest ham in the world". I insisted that his friend try a slice from my plate. He in turn insisted on buying me a few slices of the “greatest cheese in the world”. Already a huge fan of Manchego, I’d limited my cheese consumption in Madrid. Augustin, the Spanish gentleman, bought me Cabrales…a gorgonzola-like bleu cheese produced in only three villages, aged in local caves. After that, I added a couple of wedges of Cabrales to my nightly Iberico/Sangria ritual.
Before my jiffy jaunt to Lisbon, having plodded most of the pavement in central Madrid, I pondered the entertainment possibilities available upon my return. This is when I made the morally ambiguous decision to buy a ticket for the weekly corrida, or bullfight. Commonly criticized as an unnecessary and inhumane tradition, bullfighting has been outlawed in much of Spain, and is going the way of the evening newspaper, gradually disappearing from the national consciousness, popularly regarded as the graying remainder of a Philistine past. But, remembering my initial desire to immerse myself in local culture as much as possible during my short stays, I could not resist the curiosity of witnessing a tradition that may soon be nothing more than a memory, for better or for worse.
When I reserved my seat at the Plaza del Toros, no one knew that Spain would end up facing Italy in the Euro 2012 soccer championship game that evening. For that reason alone, the bullfight was moved up two hours, for which I had no objection, as I wanted to watch the match along with the rest of the country. Emerging from the Las Ventas subway station, I entered the imposing stadium, and took my seat among the crowd on the sombra (shaded) side of the arena, opposite the cheap seats baking in the blinding summer sun. Similar to the mental preparation I'd attempted prior to peeping in on cremations in India, I’d readied myself for a disturbing debacle. What I did not expect was such a melodramatic matinee.
More show than sport, the bullfight begins with an introduction to its cast of characters, who march across the dusty ring to pay gladiatorial tribute to the event officials as a brass band heralds their arrival. First the toreadors (whom I labeled matadors, though technically the matador is the lead toreador) then, the banderilleros, followed by the mounted picadores, the puntilleros, and finally the mule team that drags the fallen bull away once the fight is finished. Once the bull enters the ring, a handful of toreadors waving their indispensible capotes (capes) act as sharply dressed rodeo clowns, distracting the toro via various secants in a warm-up effort to arouse both cattle and crowd. After a few minutes, the toreadors leave the ring and two picadores ride in on horseback. The horse is covered in a blanket of armor and wears blinders, for obvious reasons. The picadores wield sharp medieval-looking pikes, and use their lances to impale the shoulder muscles of the bull. This understandably angers the bilious beast, and guarantees the horse will be subjected to at least one full measure of horns. In the second of five rounds I witnessed, one bull managed to maneuver its way under the armor and gore one of the horses, which immediately fell to the ground. In this instance, the mule tenders played the rodeo clown role, distracting the bull until the horse could be removed. I have no clue as to the condition of the quadruped victim.
The banderilleros follow, carrying barbed spears decorated with small floral banners (“banderilla” is Spanish for “little flag”). Even though the bull is bloodied at this point, he still retains a remarkable reservoir of vigor. One by one, the banderilleros coerce the bull to charge, and ideally, at exactly the right moment, the harpoon holder leaps into the air and jabs the barbs deep enough into its shoulders to make them stick. Many times, the banderillero fails make contact with one or both barbs, and elicits catcalls and hisses from a disappointed audience.
Then, the matador, with all his bravado, enters into the arena, and this is where the theatre begins. Decked out in a skintight sequined suit, he gracefully goads the beast through its last dance, and once it is fatigued to his satisfaction, the matador requests his kill sword (Estoque de Verdad, or "Real Sword") from the sidelines, and after making a somewhat effeminate ceremonial stance, charges head on toward the creature, aiming to plunge the sword deep into the bull, between a gap in the scapula and through the heart. As with the banderilleros, if the matador fails to execute this maneuver swiftly and cleanly, then he is jeered by the crowd.
Although the bull appears to be at a marked disadvantage by the time he faces the matador, he remains rather dangerous, as I would find out during the third round. The third matador, with his salt and pepper hair, looked older than the others, but appeared to have more experience. He began with an impressive set of moves, including the daredevil act of evading the bull while on his knees. Meriting overtures of “Ole!” ovations, I thought, “This is gonna be good.” However, this matador’s machismo was soon to meet its match. After a few masterful moves, one minor misstep placed the obstinate hombre in the piercing path of a horn. In what looked like a macabre mocking of Superman, the matador was sent aloft, along with his cape. When he landed, he was covered in blood, gushing forth from a wound in his leg. But at this point, his pride was punctured worse than his thigh, and despite the overt objections of his assistants, he defiantly set off to dispatch the bull once and for all. But this too was not to be. Going in for the kill, the toro sent his nemesis flying once again, and this time, the matador would not continue. As he was taken off to surgery, another matador from an earlier match finished the job.
When a matador misses his coup de grace, or if the bull is reluctant to give up the ghost and graze the fields of Elysium, the puntilleros are paged. With sharp daggers, they repeatedly stab the bull in the head until the deed is brutally done, and the vanquished vaca is hauled off by a mule team. I found this to be the most disturbing (and most dishonorable) aspect of the entire affair. When I was not sitting in awe, stunned by the sanguine spectacle, I thought about objections I had to the often offensive act of bullfighting. While I probably won’t go out of my way to attend another corrida, I should mention that in comparison to the meat and poultry so many of us consume on a regular basis, the bulls bred for the ring are treated as bovine kings until the day they die, and when that day comes, at least they have a fighting chance to take out the men marked to put them down. While I can’t condone the practice personally, if I had the choice (and I were somehow a cow with my current mental capacity), I would much rather make mortal combat than follow the herd to systematic slaughter.
Walking to the subway on my way back to the center of town, I heard cheers echoing in the distance. Instantly I knew; “Spain must’ve just scored a goal.” Eager to find a good spot to watch the game, I found a bar with a flat screen TV on an outdoor terrace not far from the Plaza Mayor. Devouring even more ham and cheese, I witnessed an easy 90 minute romp…Spain 4, Italy 0. I swiftly settled my tab and made a brisk walk to the Puerta del Sol, Madrid’s main square. Standing next to the large fountain in the middle of the plaza, the party approached from all avenues. Within minutes, I was surrounded by thousands of serendipitous Spaniards…some jumped in the fountain, some shouted congratulatory chants, and others (like me) just stood around smiling while sipping celebratory beer.
It was the kind of mass happiness I hadn’t seen since New Year’s in Thailand, and I felt fortunate to be present for such an event. The party lasted well into the wee hours, but I had the discipline to return to my hostel room at a decent time, not because I necessarily wanted to go to bed, but because I had a long day of travel the next morning, to a new continent in a new hemisphere.
