Plaza de Toros
In 1970, my friends and I spent the summer backpacking through Europe.
Most of the time we stayed in youth Hostels, which were very inexpensive. Many of them included one or two meals a day. You had to purchase a permit to do this for five American dollars and then show your permit at each Hostel. It was a common way to travel and we met some very interesting people along the way.
On a very hot Sunday afternoon in Madrid, my friend Nita and I decided to attend a bullfight at the famous Plaza De Toros de Las Ventas. Since we were both traveling as cheaply as possible, we opted for the least expensive seats. This meant we were seated in the sunniest section of the arena. Vendors moved through the aisles selling white hats made of a sturdy paper. The white paper was folded into a cone shape on the top. It had a wider brim to the front and sides. It made me look like the flying nun from the old TV show, but it did shade my head.
When the paseillo started, we were full of excitement. It is a procession of Matadors and other bullfighters into the arena before the bullfighting starts. When the bull came into the arena, we all cheered. After the Picadors rode by this magnificent animal shoving spears into its neck and back, Nita and I stopped cheering. We were so enthralled about visiting the great Plaza De Toros of book and movie fame that we honestly did not consider what would happen to the bulls. Yes, I know this sounds naive.
We watched in horror as men in fancy costumes rode by the poor bull inflicting its body with more pain. We shouted Bravo El Toro, for the bull, and we booed just as loud when he was hit. We created such a stir by cheering and booing that the Spaniards around us turned nasty. Surrounded mostly by working class men shouting angry words at us in Spanish, we quieted down.
By the time the matador entered the arena, the sun was so hot we took our white paper hats apart to fan our sweaty faces with them. The bull was so full of picks and sharp pointed spears that he stood there dazed. We wondered how people could call this kind of torture a sport. When the matador finally finished him off with his sword, it was a blessing. Nita and I hugged each other and cried. The men, who had been shouting angrily at us earlier, were now simply puzzled by the crazy Americans. As they passed by us to leave, many of them patted our shoulders in a comforting way. They smiled at our tears with a questioning look. In Spanish, they tried to explain that the bull felt no pain. I did not speak Spanish well enough to tell them they were wrong. We knew the bull felt the pain because Nita and I felt it too, in our hearts.
We learned later from our friends who had gone to Pamplona for the running of the Bulls that at least some of the Bulls took revenge.
