Ole Days Death in the Evening |
Sunday 17th August 2008 |
Despite crawling into bed (only because it was on the floor) at 2am last night we were up and having breakfast by 9am. There wasn't a vast choice on offer at Hotel Arosa but if we had woken up having turned slightly Japanesey then we could have had miso soup or noodles for breakfast. Actually, what was available was very tasty and I especially enjoyed being able to dress my toasted bread with fresh chopped tomatoes and garlic infused olive oil. Whilst the coffee was diabolical it was still a breakfast worth getting up for. |
I
thought it must have been a former palace or of some royal patronage,
(usually the only source of excessive funds), but
instead it was a spectacular statement of power and success commissioned
by an insurance company in 1911. |
The spring in our step had began to slip by the time we reached the gateway. The warm weather that had lifted our spirits earlier was now causing us to sweat quite profusely; and it wasn't even midday yet! We paused for breath on a shaded bench at Plaza de la Independencia looking at the granite archway, wishing we had an ice cold beer in our hands. Our prayers were answered when we turned into Parque del Retiro and a small vending booth appeared like a mirage. Surprisingly we behaved rather sensibly and chose ice cold mineral water over the beer. A bottle of San Miguel and we would ended up sleeping on a park bench for a few hours! |
Not far from where we entered was a large boating lake where fathers fail to impress their families by rowing their hired boats around in circles heading on collision courses towards the Olympic rowers in the fast lane. Sharing the lake were literally thousands of goldfish, jumping over themselves with excitement as they were being liberally fed by young kids. No wonder they were huge monsters! There was a lovely atmosphere in the park and a saxophone busker on the corner was a vital part in adding to this ambience. Now there's one instrument I'd love to learn to play. There's just something sexy about the sound of a saxophone that can transform the blandest melody into something cool. |
We didn't want to waste the whole of this glorious day inside so we chose to do just the one and with its focus on the Spanish greats of Goya and Velasquez it had to be Museo del Prado. |
Perhaps
it was a mild case of sunstroke? Perhaps I was hallucinating when I thought
I had seen trees like broccoli? |
I even marvelled at the exit, Puerta de Felipe IV. I thought it was a striking piece of arch architecture! Opposite Felipe Felope's gate was Cason del Buen Retiro. It claimed to be the Museo del Prado which confused me slightly but it turned out to be an annexed wing of the museum. It used to house Picasso's Guernica but that has since moved to the modern art museum of Reina Sofia. The building itself was apparently one of the few remaining parts of a royal palace which existed at the Retiro during the 16th century. |
A short walk later and we popped out at Prado's back door near the church of San Jeronimo el Real. (Is he really the patron saint of Red Indians?!!?) |
Our
first port of call were rooms 66 and 67; Goya's 'black' paintings. They
weren't at all easy to find even with a floor map but we got there in
the end. |
I stood in front of it for ages. There was just something about it that made me imagine Goya painting it and his state of mind at the time. We systematically covered all three floors of the Prado ticking off the masterpiece highlights on a kindly provided list. One in particular I was excited about was the family portrait of King Carlos IV by Goya. It shows the royal family in 1805. |
I behaved myself for the remainder of our visit ending up in the museum shop before we left so that we could buy postcards of our favourite paintings that I couldn't photograph. It was now time for a spot of lunch. As we didn't fancy another bout of Mallorcan ring we headed out to find something less contagious. |
In no time we had reached the "square of the colon" (surely colon means something else in Spanish?). |
Well, obviously it did! The modern high rise block and the fountains had nothing to do with the colon but the Plaza was in fact a tribute to Christopher Columbus. The Italian born explorer whose expedition to find the New World in 1492 was funded by Spain. He had already gone cap in hand to the royal courts of Portugal, Venice, and even England but it was Ferdinando II who stumped up the cash for his Carribean cruise. It was his new found best friends who called him Cristóbal Colón; hence the name Plaza del Colón. |
Perched high up on Colón's column was the man himself, looking west, hoping to see a way to India. When he returned from his epic journey he didn't exactly deliver on his promise of untold riches. He was more renowned for introducing the potato, tobacco and syphilis to the old world. At least one treasure he did deliver was the opportunity for Spain to claim, conquer, colonise and pilfer these new lands. |
We were looking for a ticket office located on Calle de Goya, which is the north side of Jardines del Descumbrimiento (the green space on Plaza del Colón). As I'm a vegetarian it may come as a shock that we were actually collecting tickets to a bull fight this evening. I now feel I must justify myself. I wouldn't wish hypocrisy upon my head. (Aargh .. too late!) I believe that all death is abhorrent yet I've paid money to witness the murder of a proud animal. I must confess that my desire to write about the experience was slightly stronger than my conscientious objection. The ego wins again. |
But also and I do mean this quite sincerely, (although this may sound like a kop out), I felt it was an opportunity to put my vegetarianism to the test. My meat abstinence began as Julie's idea which I rolled with and have sustained it for 14 years; mostly because of how my beliefs have developed since. A dalliance with Buddhism fascinated me and taught me not to accept what I'm told to believe nor what I think I believe but to test my belief through experience. Then and only then will I know it to be true. I may find myself getting caught up in all the excrement ... uh I mean excitement. I certainly do when I watch boxing. When Joe Calzaghe steps into that ring my persona changes and I'm in there rooting for him to knock his opponent's head off. I'm baying for blood. There must be a primeval core to us all. I'm interested in discovering if my caveman urges are more powerful than my self-imposed values. It will be an insight. We eventually collected our tickets once this old guy talked at us at a rate of thousand Spanish words per minute. Three and a half thousand words later all I could say was "OK". |
I don't think "Just give me the bloody tickets." would have gone down well. To be fair he was only trying to explain everything but I'd already guessed by the 19:00 horas NOVILLADA PICADA SOL on the tickets that we were going to be sitting in the sun watching novices at seven o'clock this evening. |
It was now 2:00pm and desperately time for lunch. Luckily the Hard Rock Cafe was right on the corner. I had heard that it's very popular with the Madrinellos but I didn't realise how popular! It was packed to the rafters. We were fortunate to get one of the last remaining tables in the back room. Our waiter who disturbingly looked like a young Ricky Martin, (long hair and bandana phase) came and said "Hi, I'm Ricky! " I almost laughed out loud. I thought to myself "That's not your real name is it? You've just told everyone to call you Ricky because of your fixation with livin' la vida loca." "I'm your waiter, anything you want just call on me" and off he salsa'd. |
When he returned we put in our order for two veggie burgers, a portion of fries and a bowl of cheesy mash potatoes. "You do know there's no meat in them, right?" he asked. I turned to Julie and pulled an "eh??" face. The only sort of face you can pull when someone says something stupid. I couldn't believe that he felt he had to explain. Do they actually get people complaining there's no meat in the vegetarian burger?!? I also ordered a mojito. I was waiting for him to say "You do know there's rum in that, right?" The food arrived remarkably quickly considering how busy it was and all was delicious; especially the refreshing mint infused mojito. It was the first time I had tasted the Cuban cocktail and it won't be the last! When Ricky came to collect our plates he asked if everything was OK with the meal. We told him that it was very very tasty. He replied with a shocked squeak "Really?!?" He obviously didn't have much faith in the HRC veggie burger! |
Back out on Plaza del Colón, whilst Julie sat in the shade of Christopher's column, I hotfooted it across the square to a couple of large concrete blocks. | ||
Before I reached the modern memorials to Christopher Columbus I passed beneath what must have been the world's largest flag. Mi Dios! It was the size of Andorra! I would love that for my flag collection but I just couldn't imagine myself scampering up that flag pole to appropriate it. |
There was a metro station beneath us here somewhere but despite the baking sun, for some inexplicable reason, we decided to walk back. We soon regretted not heading underground. It were as if the city had the characteristics of a storage heater, absorbing the heat and getting hotter. We struggled up Gran Via hill. At the point where we would have emerged from the metro we turned down calle Montera hoping to find a convenience shop for some water. All we found were a string of sex shops and women leaning on every available lamppost. It was enough to make a poor country boy blush. By the time we finally made it back to our hotel we were really exhausted. We fell into a deep sleep and, no matter how uncomfortable the bed was, we found it very difficult an hour later to peel ourselves from its embrace. It wasn't enough time to recharge. We almost decided to call it off but I strangely wanted to go. This was not my first bullfight. I was eleven years old when I first witnessed Spain's traditional pastime. It was 1978 and everyone who was anyone were spending their summer holidays on the Costas. My father was no exception and took me and my brother on our first overseas adventure to sunny Torremolinos on the Costa del Sol. I loved every minute of it (except for a terrible bout of the classic Spanish tummy!) |
We made our way to our seats on tendidos 7, seat no. 7 & 8, front row. We couldn't get any closer to the action. I didn't know if i was pleased or alarmed! |
We had just made it onto our cushions in time as all the performers of this elaborate sacrifice strutted out into the ring and made their way towards the presidential box for Caesar's approval. With a wave of his very important hand the adoring public were then given their opportunity to show approval as they circled the ring with an arrogance that only bullfighters and boxers seem to possess. Having completed a full cycle of the ring the cast left the stage leaving behind only those who carried a bright pink cape. Decked in lycra and sparkling sequins they pranced around in what I can only by described as some air-bullfighting. When the band tooted up they took up their positions. |
Up to know I was enjoying the show but the harmless entertainment didn't last. The gates opened, in tottered a hesitant bull and my stomach dropped. Poor Toro Bravado wasn't so much the fierce angry beast but a very insecure animal. He didn't know which way to turn. He just nervously stood in the centre of the ring, his head darting from left to right and back again. Then he shat himself. I felt an immediate empathy. "Run back inside and hide!" I felt like shouting but I managed to catch the words in my mouth before they slipped out. |
Before the crowd got restless at the inaction two muppetdors in front of us edged their way into the ring, waving their pretty pink capes and shouting "Cooeey" at the bull. Toro didn't like that one bit and soon forgot about his stage fright by charging for the camp clowns. The men in tights turned on their heels and scampered back to the safety of the barriers. On the opposite side of the ring another two pantomime caped crusaders ventured out and hurled verbals at the bull. Off he flew, nostrils flaring, but by the time he had reached them they were safely tucked away behind the wall. |
My lips moved as I muttered to myself like a demented old man. The picador was twisting the lance in and out with some vigour yet despite the weapon lodged deeply between his shoulders the bull continued to push hard against the side of the half-horse-half-tank, lifting the horse at one point. What immense strength he must have to be able to do that. Back in the old days the horse wasn't protected at all and was often shockingly disembowelled. Toro was having a good go. |
The matadors all gather around to encourage the bull to stop thrusting into the side of the horse and to chase them instead. This he did, but there was no chase left in him anymore. With the his neck muscles now shredded and his black hulky frame heaving heavily it was now safe to get a bit closer, confident that the bull wasn't going to move quickly. The difference was remarkable. Minutes earlier the young bull was hurtling about like a beast possessed but now tired and injured he had become nothing more than a puppet controlled by the swish of a cape. |
His more laboured movements were now restricted to charging at the empty cloak. He was made to look the fool. |
Why does the bull charge the cape and not the man? I know it's nothing to do with the colour because they're colour blind. |
The second phase began when the banderillieros, armed with long sharp sticks, ran towards the bull, aiming for the gaping wound already gauged out by the picador. The first one failed to connect but the next two stabbed their arrows into the vulnerable shoulders. Within a minute the fluffy white length of the banderillo was soaked blood red. The crowd were entertained by the novice matador practicing his moves with a few "Ole" rippling around the bull ring. "Go for the legs" I muttered, mouth moving like a demented old man; but the bull seemed incapable of doing anything else than chase the cape. Another "Ole". |
Gravely weakened it was time for the final phase, the dance of death, as the executioner swapped his magenta pink cape for blood red, and collected a sword. The Toro just stood there, loosing blood, hypnotised by the matador's peculiar wiggling and shuffling movement, only attempting to attack the cape when instructed. A succession of swoops and step asides continued as the matador assessed the bull. Before long the brave and fierce animal was now broken and humiliated. His head hung low, his eyes were gone. He stood inches away but made no attempt to charge. |
Even when the matador had his back turned whilst arrogantly lapping up the applause, there was no will to fight anymore from the bull. It was time for the kill. |
Death was imminent. My heart was pounding. |
His second attempt was more decisive but the sword didn't penetrate as deeply as it should have. The brave and fierce Toro was now clinging on to life, still standing but hardly aware of anything. This was a slow and painful death. I was overwhelmed by the emotion. I felt sick and I'm not ashamed to say that I cried. We all waited for the suffering to end but he was still holding on, refusing to take his final breath. The matador had to retrieve his sword and finish him off. This time there was no need for stealth nor bravery. He could simply step up to the bull, place the tip of the sword at the back of the head, and thrust it in. |
Toro Bravados immediately fell to his knees. A banderillero administered a dagger through the skull to finally put him out of his misery. By now I was visibly shaking. This was the most barbaric act I'd ever witnessed. What were we doing here? "That was terrible," said Julie "Are you OK ?" "No, I feel sick. I don't think I can watch another one" It had taken half an hour to kill a bull. How many do they go through in an evening? Three horses dragged the body out to a celebrational trumpet and fake whip crack accompaniment. |
It was a remarkably quick turnaround. As we sat there in stunned silence another bull was sent rushing out into the ring. We should have left but we didn't. This young bull (they're usual around four years old) was feistier than the first, with much more fight in him. He caught the pink capes a few times, caused the picador to struggle and was certainly livelier when the matador went in for the kill. He even managed to catch the matador and briefly trampled him underfoot. |
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I thought my reaction would be to root for the bull and shout "hoorah!" but instead I was genuinely concerned about the twat in the sequins. |
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Of course, despite all his strength and aggressiveness, his destiny with death was inevitable. Perversely his courage brought about a more gruesome end to his life. After being trampled underfoot the hesitant matador got up and misplaced the fatal strike. |
A little to the side and too far back the blade missed the heart, piercing the lungs instead. Within seconds blood came gushing out through the mouth, knees buckled as he staggered forwards in a final attempt at a charge. He ploughed his way into the earth, rolling over slightly, legs flailing in the air whilst a red fountain continued to spew out. He continued to struggle, drowning in his own blood, before the dagger through the skull brought it to an end. "Let's go now" I said. With our cushions tucked under our arms we made our way to the exit. We weren't the only ones leaving, there was a steady flow of people, traumatised tourists probably, or those who didn't appreciate the artistry, the passion, the glory and the tradition of the bullfight. Now I'm not going to attempt to persuade anyone differently. All I can do is explain my own experience and my own conclusions and I personally feel it's time to stop this cruellest of sports. It is time to ban the bullfight. To perpetuate evil because of its tradition is no defence. It was once traditional to feed Christians to the lions, to publically execute the aristocracy or to hunt tigers to the point of extinction. As a race we are evolving but the bullfight harks back to a darker age of medieval values. |
It
was such a beautiful evening we decided to sit outside a bar called Armenia
and watch Madrid mooch by. A few beers and a bowl of nuts later the sun
had set and our thoughts turned to tapas. Despite having researched all
the guide books for places to eat we decided instead to ignore their guidance
and wander the streets aimlessly. |
Where the streets Victoria met Cruz we decided to stop at a tapas bar called Fatigas del Quirer. It was a wonderful little bar, with a lively atmosphere, great flamenco music, friendly waiter, (although he did think himself a bit of a cool dude; but that was more humorous than irritating.) After ordering our food I went for a walk towards the back of the bar to take a picture of the band that was filling the room with this infectious music. I soon had to pretend I was looking for the toilet when I realised there wasn't band here at all. The crystal clear p.a. system had me fooled. I could have sworn it was live music! (I do hope nobody notice me enter the toilets with a camera!) |
"We should have ordered two of these" said Julie, not wanting to share. It was so delicious and comforting we could have eaten this all night. I wasn't finished though. The final dish of Tostas Quesos Curado Quejas then arrived. It was a cheese similar to pecorino on toast and was really tasty. I felt full and tired which was not a good combination for when I had to run down Calle Cruz to Plaza de Canalejas to find the nearest ATM. The Fatigas del Quierer did not accept any cards. Considering the portion sizes, the quality and that it was €10 less than last night it was exceptional value. We made our way back home, stopping along the way at Bar Armenia for a final drink before getting to our hotel by 1am. Before we got to sleep Julie was struck by a severe stomach pain. So bad was her pain we almost considered phoning for a doctor. Whilst we joked that it was probably wind, we were both quite worried. Fortunately Julie's fatigue was stronger than her pain and we eventually fell asleep. |
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