Given that both my parents and Adam's family overlapped in Madrid for a weekend, we took the opportunity to immerse ourselves in a wide range of Spanish "cultural" experiences -- some adventures were more fierce than others, but all were beautiful and impressive in their own right.
Topping the beautiful list is Toledo. After a quick 30 minute train ride, we arrived in the holy city to poke around for the day, admire the cathedral, bask under the blue skies, and enjoy some roast suckling pig. Although it was my third day trip to Toledo, the walled-city never ceased to amaze me.
The evening's entertainment brought a flamenco spectacular at Las Tablas. The musicians came from a mix of Andalucian towns, and one guitarist hailed from Brazil! The trio of dancers fervently stomped their feet, but it was the final dancer, a petite man, who was truly beastly. He pranced on his heels and routinely made ever-so-sexual eye contact with a lucky someone in the audience. [His sweat radiated from his small tuft of hair in the front, and our front row seats gave us the privilege of soaking up some beads!]
The beauty didn't end there. We spent Sunday afternoon in the Parque del Buen Retiro admiring the lush grass and winding trails that lay hidden among the majestic Palacio Cristal and Estanque. Although we didn't get a chance to rent a rowboat, we found ourselves entertained by the sheer beauty of the park and the handful of magicians that dotted the larger paths.
You may be wondering where the remaining beastly portion of the weekend lies. For this half, we traveled to Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas for a corrida, or bullfight. We came in to the stadium with an open mind (and left after the third bull died with a resolution to never return again). To say the bullfight was "unique" or "novel" would be an understatement; it is unlike anything I had ever experienced. It has been compared to art, to a game (although the winner is predetermined), and to an evening of opera. Some find it cruel and inhumane, while others are able to justify their attendance. To be honest, I still don't know where I stand (however, the young girl throwing up as we left had certainly made up her mind).
By the second "fight," I had picked up on the routine of the extravaganza as carried out in distinct thirds by the matador and his entourage (picadors mounted on horseback and banderilleros holding flags). Each fight had its distinguishing characteristics - in the second fight the bull stepped on the matador's foot (ouch!) and the torero in the third fight unsuccessfully attempted to kill the bull five times (at that point the audience started hissing at the matador and cheering for the toro ... and we decided to call it a day). For more pictures and stories, feel free to ask me when I get home, but I'll spare everyone else the details...
To dismiss the bullfight as grotesque would be unfair. The event had its moments of beauty -- the bullring itself is meticulously kept, the matador's costumery is intricate, and the ceremonial music and processional are enjoyable, as well.
At any rate, I'm curious to read Hemingway's take on the ordeal in Death in the Afternoon.
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