Finding My Flair

I watch Walter unfurl a red muleta and enter the ring alone, pacing the dirt to execute a complex ballet of side-steps and advances with an imaginary bull before the live beast is let loose to face him. A cow bellows in the holding pen amidst the general bustle and commotion. Finally, the yearling is ushered in with all the expectancy of a celebrity at the Golden Globes. She blinks in bewilderment and her nostrils flare as scents of sun, dust and sweat commingle.

Walter approaches her slowly, one step at a time, until he reaches an invisible threshold. His body is a rigid, taut wire beneath the folds of his Romeo-inspired blouse; the vaca shows signs of agitation, flicking her ears back and rasping her hoof against the dirt. And then – Walter’s heel striking earth, a harsh call of challenge uttered from somewhere deep within his chest. The vaca responds by lowering her head for the charge. She is swept beneath the muleta as Walter pivots gracefully to let her pass, as in a dance. She charges him again; this time he stumbles in his effort to confront her and his precision dissolves into a clumsy attempt to escape. On the third charge, his composure returns and the vaca’s desperate low reverberates in our ears as her eyelashes graze Walter’s stone-washed jeans. All blunders aside, he has performed considerably well for his first time in the ring, and now he joins the on-lookers so that the others can have a round.

Finally it’s my turn. She looks deceptively placid, but I know that she can paw the ground with the best of them. I muster my most imposing stance and approach her – shoulders back, spine straight, head high. My insides are a quivering jellyfish buffeted by the churning waters of a hurricane.

And then it happens, all in a blur so that it’s done before it can even begin. The vaca charges towards me and despite my best efforts to dazzle the crowd with my bullfighting prowess, I remain rooted in her path and she head-butts me in the crotch, lifting me off the ground before I stagger backwards in bewilderment. Thank goodness I’m not a guy and thank goodness she doesn’t have horns. I barely have time to compose myself before I’m being charged again. This time she makes more contact with the red muleta than with my crotch. I hear cheers and claps from behind the burladeros: “¡Bien hecho! Well done!”

Juan Belmonte, a pivotal bullfighting figure, once said, “Se torea como es. One bullfights the way one is.” Any art form will reflect who you are, and toreo is no exception. In a twisted sense of paradox, my first attempt at bullfighting reminded me of my own human ineptitude and simultaneously augmented my self-confidence. This feisty vaca bestowed me with a new-found sense of perseverance. I may not be the next Cristina Sánchez – there were no red carnations thrown – but I have found my matador´s flair.