Were I more technologically minded I would be able to use the wonders of the Internet with a capital I to sufficiently set the mood. I would take a picture of myself with them there eye-pads and upload it and you would see me enscounced in a beautiful café which does the best café con leche y pasterlerías this side of Calle Hortaleza. You would see wicker and white painted chairs and the duenas with their painted nails and lips. You would see the window behind me lit up with sun. You would hear some schmeel on the street catch a glimpse of my still deathly pale skin and catcall "Oye, Oye, Blancanieves!" You would then realise I had forgotten what I was meant to be doing and was in fact taking a video instead of capturing the moment. It would cut of just as I made a rude gesture towards said chico and insulted his mother...
Anyway we'll have to make do with the power of words and a bit of gratuitous Youtube-ing if you really want to get in the moment. It begins with the soft, jazzy piano prelude to "New York State of Mind" which tinkles it's way through the café as we travel shot to my location in the corner, passing Spanish businessmen and ladies of leisure. I am contemplatively sipping my café, gazing out of the window andyou, my friends, are priviledged to hear my inner monologue...
Ah Madrid, ciudad de maravillas. I'm making that up, you don't have an amusing pseudonym. You aren't ancient, not venerable, not huge. You don't have the high history of Rome, you don't have the vibrant mix of London. You lack the grace of Paris and the gravity of Berlin. You are missing the landscape of Bern and Lisbon and the mystique of Athens and Moscow.
But I'll tell you what you do have kid, you got moxie...
You've got the cleanest prettiest streets I've ever seen in an inner city. You got a Metro that makes whoever's responsible for the Tube look like an illiterate child scrawling with crayons. You got clubs and pubs that open so late we get upset when we and a bunch of St Louisians get chucked out of an Irish bar at 4.30am. But then you got the churros shops and the pizza a €1 a slice open to assauge our drunken minds with food.
You've got a chaotic attitude to life that may well yet screw me over uni-wise given the academic year I've had, but I can't help but love you anyway. You got the Gallic shrug down better than the French. You know the customer ain't always right. But when you want to help you fellow man you do it better than any country I know.
Most importantly dearest Madrid, you got me for a year. You got my memories wrapped up in that bar on Chueca, that Sanabresa in the dodgy area but which turns out to be the best restaurant ever, in the Irish bars and the Retiro park and the sunlit plazas. You now have a little bit of my heart tucked away in your calles and avenidas and you may need to take care of it for me, because I might be back one day, when college/the job market/life in general has been crueller than usual and I need to find the little bit of me I left in tip-top condition. You know, marinated in sol and Sangria.
I'll miss drinking tinto de verano. I'll miss "Ay, mujer, por dios!!" which you use to show your attention instead of "A-ha, I see." I'll miss our flat. Our chipped red tiles, our dodgy showers, our windowless cueva, the Virgin Mary above our fusebox. I'll miss the teller at Santander who I thought were two people before I realised she just straightened her hair some days.
I'll miss the little things and the big things. Everything I wrote and everything that for some reason or other never made it into the blog. Like being flashed on the Metro that one time and being torn between pointing and laughing or giving him a smack on the rear in front of all the other passengers .Like always talking to the little Chilean lady who sells lighters on Calle Santa Engracia who said adíos to me yesterday and crossed her fingers and wished me luck I'll get married. Good to know someone's rooting for my Cinderella story. Like being on the wrong street corner at the wrong time in the midst of a fight and ending up in A&E at 5am because of a fall against something sharp. I'm grand least you start weeping and sending Ferrero Rocher (which I wouldn't pass up you know) but I may well bring home a three inch scar at the back of my head. And regular readers will not be too surprised to know that in my own curious world this was exciting and unprecedented and as long as it wasn't too serious gave me a bloody thrilling a story to tell. And I'm nothing without my anecdotal urges...
I'll miss being called guapa, and hermosa and blanquita and even oye, bebé. I'll miss the sunlight and the euro and the freedom that I never fully appreciated comes from living in the city. I'll miss living my own life, I'll miss being far from home and always out of my depth but somehow things always turning out alright in the end. I'll miss my flatties, for as they'll tell you yerself, it was a hell of a year together but at the end of the day we shared our lives for a year and it'll take us all a while to get used to not being able to shout across the hall to one another and mentioning injokes to groups of friends who don't know the context. "Bins not out? Well, it's shit flattie of the week award for me!" Doesn't work in halls...
So now I'm afraid you may have to do some lightening fast Youtube-ing for the piano interlude to "New York State of Mind" picks up tempo, more chords join as it morphs seamlessly into the cinematic piano opening of Kanye West's "Homecoming" to which I smile at this last entry, shake head slightly wistfully, close my laptop and head up to my flat for the last time. And now let's end this thing how we started...
There is a purple suitcase in the hallway that weighs 17kg. I know this and know this well because today I leave the Iberian Peninsula, bound for Dublin, then home and an uncertain future. I've been spoiled for adventure and, wouldn't you know, living abroad has only worsened my bad case of itchy feet. So it's goodbye from me, it's adios from Madrid and it's the end of an era. Faithful readers, I know you're out there. It has been a pleasure and an honour to blog for you from afar and can only hope you have had as much pleasure in the reading as I've had in the writing.
This has been Madrid: A Cautionary Tale.
Goodnight.
And goodbye.
xo
Tuesday 12 June 2012
There...
"Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold." Someone should be chanting this day and nightly into the ears of our fearless leaders as today in Spain Rajoy seems to have confused the word's "massive EU bailout complete with interest and questionable repayment capability" with the words "I am the EMF money fairy and with a wave of my taxpayers wand <POOF> All's well that ends well!"
Anywho, I am not long for this peninsula and have already had to assure the panicking staff at Santander that I was not running away with fistfuls of money to hide under my mattress because of their dire financial outlook, that closing the account was an inevitability and that I only had €3.45 in there and it was hardly going to be the straw that broke the camel's back. This was, of course, only after the manager had pleaded any other way but leaving the bank and I, gazing at him thoughtfully, considered that if he had a room with a dozen bottles of Cristal, a pole and a jacuzzi in the back then I wouldn't withdraw thousands from their bank. Kept my word, sort of...How was he to know I didn't have thousands in there? Sterling service, in the most sincere sense of the word...
The last week demanded many things of poor Erasmus students, but what we demanded from it was no less than the best Madrid had to offer! The sounds, the sights, the tastes, the smells! Maybe not so much the touch for if you give Spaniards an inch they take a mile!
But yes; the full Spanish experience. Which started oddly enough with the celebration of Her Royal Majesty's Jubilee at the flat of a very dear friend. Complete with Pimms, red/white/blue balloons and dress code and a thousand boats floating past on the Thames brought to us by BBC World News. The afternoony tea was a wonderful success; the scones and cream and egg and cress sandwiches were a delight and I found myself saying words like "tremendously" instead of very and "fiddlesticks" instead of "fu...you get the picture."
Naturally my Irish passport was weeping gently in the corner at this appalling display. Where was my sense of decorum; what of the atrocities perpetrated by the Sassenach upon my people? What did the hunger strikers die for? Did Eamonn de Valera fight tooth and nail for? Did Gerry Adams...make a load of speeches for? Fortunately that night Michael Collinns himself came to me in a dream...
"Who's lookin' strong in the All Ireland this year then?"
"Mr Collinns! Thank goodness you're here; I am beset by doubts! Will I be soiling the honour of my native land if I go celebrate the reign of an English monarch tomorrow"
"Will there be sandwiches?"
"I...ah, Yes. Yes there will but what does that have to do with anything?"
"We'll put it this way; sometimes you're gathering to declare the supremacy of a foreign despotic monarch, rattling sabres and frothing at the mouth. Sometimes you pop round to a friend's to have a gander at the TV. The difference is usually sandwiches."
"Oh."
So that was that and Saturday teatime we were all in front of the TV listening to BBC English, demanding more shots of the Duchess of Cambridge, consoling ourselves that she was far too skinny and having more jam and cream on her behalf and generally falling over laughing at the attempts of artists on the bridge to portray the flotilla. Good banter.
The next mission was to get out into the scorching sun as much as we possibly could, with the aim of topping up a Yah Abroad tan, ignoring the 40 degrees celsius. Ah, but it'a dry heat, as many are fond of asserting. So we decided to go to the park. The Parks plural. And have what was basically a triathlon. You heard that correctly. Or read...comme si comme ca.
Anyway what I's trying to say is that Saturday we ended up in Retiro, as Ratty in Wind in the Willows puts it, "Simply mucking about in boats." We took a little four seater row boat out onto the little lake, the Estanque, being Cambridge students got a little too into it and at one stage were attempting to race a rowboat full of pensioners with two of us acting as a cox (oooh errr Matron) screaming "Stroke, Stroke! More from Aileen! Get it turned!"
The water was a very murky green and when we finally settled down into a more suitable pace we were able to glide past the magnificent and fairly huge monument to King Alfonso XII which features granite pillars and himself rearing up on horseback. Little golden fish swept away from beneath our oars and the sunlight shimmering up from the white of the inside of our boat made every photo a glorious hipster's dream, forget Instagram.
But was this lark enough for us? What never? No never? Hardly ever! Sorry, HMS Pinafore crept in there. We were most assuredly not tired of park related transport (did you see what I did there? Genius) and so Sunday found us treking out to Parque Juan Carlos I where, as citizens of Madrid we were able to rent out bicycles fo' free. FREE! We paid nada to be able to zip around an almost empty park, which had been made for cyclists. The slopes were long and gradual and the uphill steep but over in a moment. There may have been a few Saving Private Ryan moments where I begged to be left behind, but our collective will is strong!
We brought a lovely picnic to have and enjoy; and spent a good hour taking cheesy pictures and being fascinated by the wee baby turtles in the lakes and fountains. The sky was clear and we were lookin' a tan to take back to home along with our measly baggage allowance. As I type our life is packed up in the hallway, waiting for us to lug it down the road to the charity shop manana and I'm struggling to remember how I got all this shit here in the first place. But cease and desist!
After the parks and picnics yours truly was in the mood for something more adrenalin fuelled. Something that allowed you to forsake the illusion of safety and be terrified out of your wits. Something like...rollercoaster. Madrid's Parque de Atracciones" to be exact. And thankfully I was not alone in the wish for the endeavour!
So two intrepid explorers stood in front of the Park's entrance, sun beating down, on a Thursday morning and thought "Sod this for a game of soldiers." The list of rides "baja revision" was upsetting. All we could see was a little caterpillar train stuffed with howling Spanish infants and a few swing sets. But the Erasmus spirit (summed up by the motto "Fuck it! Let's just see what happens!!!") came to the fore and we happily spent our €24 to go in and if we had to take sixty rides on La Orugita Feliz" to get our money's worth, then by thunder So. Be. It...
Happily for us once we had successfully navigated away from the kiddies end of the pool we were faced with the thrilling prospect of as much high adrenaline, high octane, high rise rollercoasters as we could wish for. We decided that easing ourselves in, realising that neither of us had so much as seen a rollercoaster for some years, keeping things in perspective and so forth was a goddamn waste of time so we lauched ourselves at The Tarantula and a queue time of ten minutes tops. We were strapped in, we were given a desultory safety test and then the jerk of the chain starting brought us back to reality...
There are few times when some seconds of movie footage are enough to sum up a day of human experience but I want you to search your not-too-distant past and find your memories of Finding Nemo. I want you to find Crush the turtle surfing the East Australian current. And now I want you to fix that in your mind as the whole of our day at the theme park can be summed up by myself and co screaming "RIGHTEOUS, RIGHTEOUS!" as we were chucked around upside down, inside out, shoeless at points, barely secured at others and always queueing up for more. As we were fond of observing, "This shit ain't natural!"
But wonderful as these last few days have been I did promise some Spanishness for we all know that Alton Towers, Cambridge and, shucks, any town in the UK and Ireland could provide us with those activities if not the wall-to-wall sunshine. So I decided on a whim yesterday to go and see my first bullfight.
Las Ventas is the ring in the centre of Madrid where the bullfights are held and seeing as I couldnt find anybody to go last minute I headed off by myself. Word to the wise people, should you ever be tempted. Do not buy tickets from scalpers outside the taquillas. They are rarely sold out and a ticket at €4.90 gets you in the nosebleed seats in the shade, but believe me, you get the best views from there...
I wondered about what I might see. Any readers of a sensitive disposition may want to skim down a few paragraphs. I'll let you know when it's stopped but I pride myself in giving you a birds eye view of whatever I happen to be doing (within reason like) and don't wish to cause unintentional offence (my best offence is always intentional) with unforewarned graphic descriptions of a bloodsport. Any of you still with me? Of course you are, you handsome devils, let's get down to business...
The first thing I must note is that despite myself and my knowledge of importance of animal rights and a vague wish to ban the thing, I enjoyed the whole spectacle. Whereas a few friends I know have left, have refused to stay, have found it distasteful and a few refuse to go entirely I must say that from my position among copius aficionados I found myself getting into the thrill of the whole thing and stayed to the end, cheering and watching with an avid eye.
The matadores it should be noted first are three colourful chaps who's job it is to get the bull in the right position and entertain the crowd while the picadores are the main attraction. They are beautifully dressed men on horses who's job it is to spear the bull and finally kill it to claps and whistles from the crowd.
The matadores pop out from behind screens and taunt the bull with a gold and pink cape. The picador rides into the centre. He is not dressed in those silly pink knee highs, that odd cap, those elaborate shoulder pads. Ladies; he is dressed in black boots, he has a calf length emboidered coat - maybe blue and silver or black and gold. He wears a white ruffled shirt and grey breeches. His hair is immaculate and he is fit as. He appears in the celebrity pages of Hola which all of you recognise as Hello magazine. Men; he can wield a sword, he can ride like a demon, he throws a spear like a pro within inches of sheer animal fury and he jumps off the stallion at the end and faces a raging, dying bull head on. The women throw their scarves into the ring at the end as he runs round victorious and he kisses them and throws them back to his screaming fans. Anyway, you get the idea. You either want to be him or shag him...
As unaware of the celebrity status of the picadores so was I unaware of the formula of the fight itself. Each of the three separate stages is denoted with a loud fanfare, very Spanisha and full of machismo. The first are the long spears...
The picador is on his horse, I witnessed Rui Fernandes who made it look like an art form. The horse always puts on a show. It pauses, it shakes a leg at the bull. It jumps back and forth, some feat on four legs, and generally prances around with great dexterity, spinning and stamping his feat and just keeping out of range of the bull. Meanwhile the picador is aiming a feathered spear just above the bunch of muscle at the bull's shoulder. This is the tercio de varas, the first stage. He holds the spear at the top in his fist and when he strikes the bottom sinks into the animal with a shrriikkkk sound and lodges. This allows the body of the spear to be pulled away revealing a flag with which the picador taunts the bull. He leans over the horse, catching the horns, pulling both animals round and round.
These charges carry on, the second stage, the tercio de banderillas is two rosettes which need plunged in at close range. By this stage the flank of the bull is covered in bright red arterial blood. I never knew you could see it. The bulls are black as night and fine specimens and one assumes the blood will be inconspicuous, blending in with the animal's own colour. But you can see the stain progress as more and more spears enter.
The crowd are not silent during this spectacle. As the picador lines up to charge with the spears a rhythmic clapping starts up. The arena is flooded with the shak-shak-shak of thousands of people spurring the charge. And when Fernandes steered his steed with his knees, holding two spears one in each hand, reared up and plunged them into the bull's flank with one thrust the crowd went wild. The non-existent roof nearly came off the place.
The third and last stage, the tercio de muerte involves the picador leaping from his horse and getting up close and personal. He is handed a small red cape, the muleta and the sword, his estoque. Rui Fernandes, the best we saw, leapt from his horse and run to the bull, arms ourspread, feinting with his shoulders, crying "Venga, Venga!" the internationally recognised stature for what we Northern Irish call, "Come on then, big lad!!"
He spread his arms high, he slapped the bulls horns. By this stage the creature was swaying and thrashing it's horns more from desperation than intent. Still incredibly dangerous. But Rui feinted once, twice and in one smooth movement drew his sword from the depths of his cloak, struck the estocada right into the shoulder and with a jerk the toro hit the floor dead as a doornail.
It was so fast the crowd had to take a moment to process. But once they did the noise would have risen the stadium from its foundations. He ran around the ring, he retrieved his horse and victory-lapped. He threw his arms above his head, he extended his arm to each segment of the arena in turn and we all cheered in turn, each more loudly than the last.
And then suddenly every Spaniard around me had taken out a panuelo; a white handkerchief and were waving it like the French surrendering. Gazing around the stands was magnificent; white cloth flashed, people cried out, they chanted "Fernandes, Fernandes" and I later found out that when a bullfighter has done exceptionally well the crowd will wave white to signal they wish for him to be awarded the oreja; the ear of the bull he has slain to prove his prowess.
And then the body of the bull is dragged across the arena and out by a team of jingling ponies. And they say the fight is a match between equals but of six bulls that day all left a drag mark behind to be trampled over by their unwitting successors. And it is cruel, and who can call it a fair fight, but that day I admit there were points where I cheered and clapped with everyone else for Rui Fernandes resplendant in his blue and silver on his black stallion...
But there we have it; a bird's eye bullfight, now you know and PEOPLE OF SENSITIVITY, IT'S OVER!! What is also over is this penultimate blog and I must away with me. but not before I admit that at one stage I left the writing to go have a picnic at Templo de Debod ,an honest-to-Ra Egyptian temple gifted to Spain to perserve it from destruction during the building of the Aswan Dam. There I sat and watched the sunset over the city and we had crisps, and cake and cava and Sangria and Tinto de Verano and said goodbyes to some lovely people and of course got a wee, wee, wee bit pissed...Prizes to anyone who can point out which bit of the blog I wrote sober!
Not long to wait now, for the last ever Madrid; A Cautionary Tale is a-published this 12th of June, tomozza! Or today in fact, seeing as how tis twenty to twelve GMT! Come one, come all. Bring your friends, family and significant others! And we'll end this Yah Abroad with a bang!
xo
Anywho, I am not long for this peninsula and have already had to assure the panicking staff at Santander that I was not running away with fistfuls of money to hide under my mattress because of their dire financial outlook, that closing the account was an inevitability and that I only had €3.45 in there and it was hardly going to be the straw that broke the camel's back. This was, of course, only after the manager had pleaded any other way but leaving the bank and I, gazing at him thoughtfully, considered that if he had a room with a dozen bottles of Cristal, a pole and a jacuzzi in the back then I wouldn't withdraw thousands from their bank. Kept my word, sort of...How was he to know I didn't have thousands in there? Sterling service, in the most sincere sense of the word...
The last week demanded many things of poor Erasmus students, but what we demanded from it was no less than the best Madrid had to offer! The sounds, the sights, the tastes, the smells! Maybe not so much the touch for if you give Spaniards an inch they take a mile!
But yes; the full Spanish experience. Which started oddly enough with the celebration of Her Royal Majesty's Jubilee at the flat of a very dear friend. Complete with Pimms, red/white/blue balloons and dress code and a thousand boats floating past on the Thames brought to us by BBC World News. The afternoony tea was a wonderful success; the scones and cream and egg and cress sandwiches were a delight and I found myself saying words like "tremendously" instead of very and "fiddlesticks" instead of "fu...you get the picture."
Naturally my Irish passport was weeping gently in the corner at this appalling display. Where was my sense of decorum; what of the atrocities perpetrated by the Sassenach upon my people? What did the hunger strikers die for? Did Eamonn de Valera fight tooth and nail for? Did Gerry Adams...make a load of speeches for? Fortunately that night Michael Collinns himself came to me in a dream...
"Who's lookin' strong in the All Ireland this year then?"
"Mr Collinns! Thank goodness you're here; I am beset by doubts! Will I be soiling the honour of my native land if I go celebrate the reign of an English monarch tomorrow"
"Will there be sandwiches?"
"I...ah, Yes. Yes there will but what does that have to do with anything?"
"We'll put it this way; sometimes you're gathering to declare the supremacy of a foreign despotic monarch, rattling sabres and frothing at the mouth. Sometimes you pop round to a friend's to have a gander at the TV. The difference is usually sandwiches."
"Oh."
So that was that and Saturday teatime we were all in front of the TV listening to BBC English, demanding more shots of the Duchess of Cambridge, consoling ourselves that she was far too skinny and having more jam and cream on her behalf and generally falling over laughing at the attempts of artists on the bridge to portray the flotilla. Good banter.
The next mission was to get out into the scorching sun as much as we possibly could, with the aim of topping up a Yah Abroad tan, ignoring the 40 degrees celsius. Ah, but it'a dry heat, as many are fond of asserting. So we decided to go to the park. The Parks plural. And have what was basically a triathlon. You heard that correctly. Or read...comme si comme ca.
Anyway what I's trying to say is that Saturday we ended up in Retiro, as Ratty in Wind in the Willows puts it, "Simply mucking about in boats." We took a little four seater row boat out onto the little lake, the Estanque, being Cambridge students got a little too into it and at one stage were attempting to race a rowboat full of pensioners with two of us acting as a cox (oooh errr Matron) screaming "Stroke, Stroke! More from Aileen! Get it turned!"
The water was a very murky green and when we finally settled down into a more suitable pace we were able to glide past the magnificent and fairly huge monument to King Alfonso XII which features granite pillars and himself rearing up on horseback. Little golden fish swept away from beneath our oars and the sunlight shimmering up from the white of the inside of our boat made every photo a glorious hipster's dream, forget Instagram.
But was this lark enough for us? What never? No never? Hardly ever! Sorry, HMS Pinafore crept in there. We were most assuredly not tired of park related transport (did you see what I did there? Genius) and so Sunday found us treking out to Parque Juan Carlos I where, as citizens of Madrid we were able to rent out bicycles fo' free. FREE! We paid nada to be able to zip around an almost empty park, which had been made for cyclists. The slopes were long and gradual and the uphill steep but over in a moment. There may have been a few Saving Private Ryan moments where I begged to be left behind, but our collective will is strong!
We brought a lovely picnic to have and enjoy; and spent a good hour taking cheesy pictures and being fascinated by the wee baby turtles in the lakes and fountains. The sky was clear and we were lookin' a tan to take back to home along with our measly baggage allowance. As I type our life is packed up in the hallway, waiting for us to lug it down the road to the charity shop manana and I'm struggling to remember how I got all this shit here in the first place. But cease and desist!
After the parks and picnics yours truly was in the mood for something more adrenalin fuelled. Something that allowed you to forsake the illusion of safety and be terrified out of your wits. Something like...rollercoaster. Madrid's Parque de Atracciones" to be exact. And thankfully I was not alone in the wish for the endeavour!
So two intrepid explorers stood in front of the Park's entrance, sun beating down, on a Thursday morning and thought "Sod this for a game of soldiers." The list of rides "baja revision" was upsetting. All we could see was a little caterpillar train stuffed with howling Spanish infants and a few swing sets. But the Erasmus spirit (summed up by the motto "Fuck it! Let's just see what happens!!!") came to the fore and we happily spent our €24 to go in and if we had to take sixty rides on La Orugita Feliz" to get our money's worth, then by thunder So. Be. It...
Happily for us once we had successfully navigated away from the kiddies end of the pool we were faced with the thrilling prospect of as much high adrenaline, high octane, high rise rollercoasters as we could wish for. We decided that easing ourselves in, realising that neither of us had so much as seen a rollercoaster for some years, keeping things in perspective and so forth was a goddamn waste of time so we lauched ourselves at The Tarantula and a queue time of ten minutes tops. We were strapped in, we were given a desultory safety test and then the jerk of the chain starting brought us back to reality...
There are few times when some seconds of movie footage are enough to sum up a day of human experience but I want you to search your not-too-distant past and find your memories of Finding Nemo. I want you to find Crush the turtle surfing the East Australian current. And now I want you to fix that in your mind as the whole of our day at the theme park can be summed up by myself and co screaming "RIGHTEOUS, RIGHTEOUS!" as we were chucked around upside down, inside out, shoeless at points, barely secured at others and always queueing up for more. As we were fond of observing, "This shit ain't natural!"
But wonderful as these last few days have been I did promise some Spanishness for we all know that Alton Towers, Cambridge and, shucks, any town in the UK and Ireland could provide us with those activities if not the wall-to-wall sunshine. So I decided on a whim yesterday to go and see my first bullfight.
Las Ventas is the ring in the centre of Madrid where the bullfights are held and seeing as I couldnt find anybody to go last minute I headed off by myself. Word to the wise people, should you ever be tempted. Do not buy tickets from scalpers outside the taquillas. They are rarely sold out and a ticket at €4.90 gets you in the nosebleed seats in the shade, but believe me, you get the best views from there...
I wondered about what I might see. Any readers of a sensitive disposition may want to skim down a few paragraphs. I'll let you know when it's stopped but I pride myself in giving you a birds eye view of whatever I happen to be doing (within reason like) and don't wish to cause unintentional offence (my best offence is always intentional) with unforewarned graphic descriptions of a bloodsport. Any of you still with me? Of course you are, you handsome devils, let's get down to business...
The first thing I must note is that despite myself and my knowledge of importance of animal rights and a vague wish to ban the thing, I enjoyed the whole spectacle. Whereas a few friends I know have left, have refused to stay, have found it distasteful and a few refuse to go entirely I must say that from my position among copius aficionados I found myself getting into the thrill of the whole thing and stayed to the end, cheering and watching with an avid eye.
The matadores it should be noted first are three colourful chaps who's job it is to get the bull in the right position and entertain the crowd while the picadores are the main attraction. They are beautifully dressed men on horses who's job it is to spear the bull and finally kill it to claps and whistles from the crowd.
The matadores pop out from behind screens and taunt the bull with a gold and pink cape. The picador rides into the centre. He is not dressed in those silly pink knee highs, that odd cap, those elaborate shoulder pads. Ladies; he is dressed in black boots, he has a calf length emboidered coat - maybe blue and silver or black and gold. He wears a white ruffled shirt and grey breeches. His hair is immaculate and he is fit as. He appears in the celebrity pages of Hola which all of you recognise as Hello magazine. Men; he can wield a sword, he can ride like a demon, he throws a spear like a pro within inches of sheer animal fury and he jumps off the stallion at the end and faces a raging, dying bull head on. The women throw their scarves into the ring at the end as he runs round victorious and he kisses them and throws them back to his screaming fans. Anyway, you get the idea. You either want to be him or shag him...
As unaware of the celebrity status of the picadores so was I unaware of the formula of the fight itself. Each of the three separate stages is denoted with a loud fanfare, very Spanisha and full of machismo. The first are the long spears...
The picador is on his horse, I witnessed Rui Fernandes who made it look like an art form. The horse always puts on a show. It pauses, it shakes a leg at the bull. It jumps back and forth, some feat on four legs, and generally prances around with great dexterity, spinning and stamping his feat and just keeping out of range of the bull. Meanwhile the picador is aiming a feathered spear just above the bunch of muscle at the bull's shoulder. This is the tercio de varas, the first stage. He holds the spear at the top in his fist and when he strikes the bottom sinks into the animal with a shrriikkkk sound and lodges. This allows the body of the spear to be pulled away revealing a flag with which the picador taunts the bull. He leans over the horse, catching the horns, pulling both animals round and round.
These charges carry on, the second stage, the tercio de banderillas is two rosettes which need plunged in at close range. By this stage the flank of the bull is covered in bright red arterial blood. I never knew you could see it. The bulls are black as night and fine specimens and one assumes the blood will be inconspicuous, blending in with the animal's own colour. But you can see the stain progress as more and more spears enter.
The crowd are not silent during this spectacle. As the picador lines up to charge with the spears a rhythmic clapping starts up. The arena is flooded with the shak-shak-shak of thousands of people spurring the charge. And when Fernandes steered his steed with his knees, holding two spears one in each hand, reared up and plunged them into the bull's flank with one thrust the crowd went wild. The non-existent roof nearly came off the place.
The third and last stage, the tercio de muerte involves the picador leaping from his horse and getting up close and personal. He is handed a small red cape, the muleta and the sword, his estoque. Rui Fernandes, the best we saw, leapt from his horse and run to the bull, arms ourspread, feinting with his shoulders, crying "Venga, Venga!" the internationally recognised stature for what we Northern Irish call, "Come on then, big lad!!"
He spread his arms high, he slapped the bulls horns. By this stage the creature was swaying and thrashing it's horns more from desperation than intent. Still incredibly dangerous. But Rui feinted once, twice and in one smooth movement drew his sword from the depths of his cloak, struck the estocada right into the shoulder and with a jerk the toro hit the floor dead as a doornail.
It was so fast the crowd had to take a moment to process. But once they did the noise would have risen the stadium from its foundations. He ran around the ring, he retrieved his horse and victory-lapped. He threw his arms above his head, he extended his arm to each segment of the arena in turn and we all cheered in turn, each more loudly than the last.
And then suddenly every Spaniard around me had taken out a panuelo; a white handkerchief and were waving it like the French surrendering. Gazing around the stands was magnificent; white cloth flashed, people cried out, they chanted "Fernandes, Fernandes" and I later found out that when a bullfighter has done exceptionally well the crowd will wave white to signal they wish for him to be awarded the oreja; the ear of the bull he has slain to prove his prowess.
And then the body of the bull is dragged across the arena and out by a team of jingling ponies. And they say the fight is a match between equals but of six bulls that day all left a drag mark behind to be trampled over by their unwitting successors. And it is cruel, and who can call it a fair fight, but that day I admit there were points where I cheered and clapped with everyone else for Rui Fernandes resplendant in his blue and silver on his black stallion...
But there we have it; a bird's eye bullfight, now you know and PEOPLE OF SENSITIVITY, IT'S OVER!! What is also over is this penultimate blog and I must away with me. but not before I admit that at one stage I left the writing to go have a picnic at Templo de Debod ,an honest-to-Ra Egyptian temple gifted to Spain to perserve it from destruction during the building of the Aswan Dam. There I sat and watched the sunset over the city and we had crisps, and cake and cava and Sangria and Tinto de Verano and said goodbyes to some lovely people and of course got a wee, wee, wee bit pissed...Prizes to anyone who can point out which bit of the blog I wrote sober!
Not long to wait now, for the last ever Madrid; A Cautionary Tale is a-published this 12th of June, tomozza! Or today in fact, seeing as how tis twenty to twelve GMT! Come one, come all. Bring your friends, family and significant others! And we'll end this Yah Abroad with a bang!
xo
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