I don't think we're in Ohio anymore...

That’s what I thought to myself en route to Toledo, in the train, as we sped past rolling hills like the massive rounded waves of the open ocean, frozen into place. They were tinted crimson here on the crests of some, and there in the troughs of others, with carpets of May poppies. The other parts of the hills were covered with golden-green wild grasses, offset by the silvery sage color of the olive trees in the middle distance.

The train station was also a far-cry from the Toledo Amtrak station, to be sure. We were greeted by a station of painted tiles and carved wood, in a sort of baroque Islamic style. The station was situated at a slight distance from the town, which itself is perched on a high-hill carved out from the red rocks by a rapid river. As Daddy and I walked up, up and up toward Toledo, we walked through hedges of rose bushes in full bloom, fields of wild snapdragon, hollyhocks, sweet peas, and some vibrantly purple flower that grew in abundance and that I’ve never seen before.

With great satisfaction, our visit to Toledo permitted me to understand, at long last, the formerly mystifying expression: “holy Toledo”. It certainly came from the fact that Toledo was for a couple of centuries (I don’t retain dates well) the heart of the Catholic church in Spain. Before that, though, it was a sort of capital for the Visigoths, as well as apparently being a vital foothold for the Muslims in Europe during the Islamic presence in Spain. During that time it was also an important center of Jewish life and culture in Spain.

Both tellingly and sort of sadly there are few traces of anything left, religiously speaking, other than Catholicism. That being said, though there are “few” traces, there “are” traces of both the Jewish and Islamic presence, and I suppose for me that was the most interesting thing. With each press of my foot to the cobble-stoned streets, I was aware that I was probably walking on the same sacred stones that had witnessed the ebb and flow of so many distinct cultures over the centuries. The concept of erasure was also very striking to me—each culture that had come before was ‘erased’ by the next: the mosques and synagogues were largely turned into churches, and so convincingly that I had to search for the remains of what had existed before them. I suppose this is true of most, if not all places—the winners win, and install themselves with force, establishing their culture by obliterating aspects of others. But I have yet to determine why this notion was so much more powerful to me in “holy Toledo” than in other places I have been.

Chocolate Con Churros

A young Chinese man walks into the café where I am writing. Everything he is wearing (I am quite sure) is made of acrylic, which stands out stiffly from his deflated frame. When he walks, he makes rapid, high-pitched “hweet hweet” noises from the rubbing together of all of his many acrylic surfaces. In his hands he holds a Madrid guidebook written in Chinese.

The café is full, both at the small, square tables and at the bar. Everyone is Spanish except for me, and now this young man in acrylic. After he passes under the arched entrance, he stands there, stupefied, watching the Spanish customers drinking, smoking, eating, talking. His eyes are opened wide and his lips are slightly parted. It is the same expression I see on the faces of the children watching the puppet shows in the Retiro park. And, like those children, this man seems pleased with the spectacle before him.

Just as his lips begin to curl into an almost imperceptible smile, he is jostled by one of the harried waitresses. She looks at him with annoyance and barks, “que quieres?” He looks at her without answering, so she repeats in English, “what do you want?” From his white acrylic pocket he removes a folded magazine clipping. Carefully opening it, he points to a picture and says, each syllable separated, staccato-like, “cho-co-la-te-con-chu-rros.” As her hands full of dirty dishes and mugs, she points with her chin in the direction of the bar then waddles off quickly and duck-like to the kitchen. The young man follows her with his eyes.

When the chocolate con churros are delivered, he examines them with the great care of a forensic scientist, holding a churro up to the light, turning it slowly to better study it. When he at long last begins to eat, he chews so slowly, and with such satisfied purpose that the rest of the customers at the bar exchange amused and slightly condescending looks. He sees them but doesn’t seem to care and continues to enjoy his snack in all happiness. When finished, he methodically places his coins one by one on the counter in payment, puts on his backpack, and walks out of the café.

My table is by the door. As he walks past, I see the faint smile on his face before he disappears into the crowded street.

San Isidro

Though I don’t have any particular story to unite these images, I think most of them are quite lovely (worth sharing anyway). They are from the festival of San Isidro, which just finished recently. For those of you who aren’t Catholic, here is what I learned—each city, or profession (and probably countless other things) has a saint/patron saint. Madrid, for example, has a patron saint called “Saint Isidro.” This saint has its special season of celebration, marked by nearly two weeks of processions, concerts, plays and cultural displays, all of which culminate in fireworks. “All major ‘fiestas’ in Spain finish with fireworks, Sara!” That’s how one of my professors, Pilar, responded when I wondered out loud how the fireworks were related to the Saint. From what I understand, it’s probably like Jesus, the Christmas tree and their relationship to one another.

One of the especially charming things about San Isidro is that she brings about the coming to Madrid of people from various pueblos in their regional traditional dress. Many of the Madrileños were dressed in traditional dress as well, and the little ones were so cute (jolis à croquer, je ne te dis pas) that I couldn’t help myself from following them around to take pictures. The girls each wore a big red carnation bobby-pinned at the hairline, at the upper-limit of their foreheads, and wore triangular scarves that they tied under their olive-hued chins. The boys were dressed much like the little newspaper sellers in the 1920’s Chicago streets, complete with tiny bowler hats and neck scarves.

The second thing that endeared me to San Isidro was the classical concert held by the lake in the Retiro (played by a French orchestra), accompanied at the finale by fireworks. I enjoyed both the concert and the fireworks immensely, even though I had to wait for two hours amongst a family of pushy, pumpkinseed-spitting smokers in order to enjoy the spectacle.

So fireworks and children—this is what I understood of San Isidro. Other than that, what this Saint does/did, or why they celebrate in the particular way that they do, I haven’t managed to understand with my limited Spanish. If anyone knows, I would be very pleased if you could explain it to me.

Open Debate

(picture is of a "course camarguaise" in the south of France. The goal is to remove ribbons/strings that are tied around the bull's horns...without getting stabbed by the bull, of course. Pretty sure you lose points for that.)

Any of you who read the occasional comments that people leave on my entries may have noticed that someone left one recently expressing disagreement with my view on the Spanish variety of bullfighting. When I saw this comment, I thought initially that I would just let it be, as after all I write this blog for you, my family and friends, and not for anyone else. But the comments made irked me, and here's why--I demand precision in everything. I demand it especially of myself, a little of others, but always always demand it if it is a question of argument or debate. So if anyone is going to leave comment on what I've said in a chastizing manner, I would appreciate some precision. A comment of any form loses credibility when the issue is NOT addressed (in this case, the failure to address the torturing of bulls) and in which assumptions are made.

All of my personal annoyances aside, the most important thing is that this subject of Spanish bullfighting is extremely interesting. This particular debate raises facinating general questions about who the "we" is in any culture and what value to attach to "tradition" of any variety. My response is below, filled with some interesting facts about bullfighting, inserted in italics after the comments that were left on my page.

****I REPEAT: my comments are in italics. The rest are not.****

"El Toreo" is an art, for sure, but it's even more than that. It's like a challenge between the man and the animal.

Yes indeed. It’s “like” a challenge, because it isn’t a real challenge. Firstly,it has been suggested and supported by many sources that the bulls are compromised before they entire the ring (The following, for example, is from Luis Gilpérez-Fraile, La vergüenza nacional [The National Shame], Madrid: Penthalon Editions, 1991:
“Before entering the arena, the bull has been locked up in the toril, a dungeon wherein he has been subject to a number of horrendous brutalities: he has been beaten and battered, crushed for a night with sand-packs, his horns have been painfully lopped and truncated. At the end of that protracted torture, his feet are washed with thinner in order to make him restless while his eyes are covered with vaseline in order to impair his already very deficient eyesight. Then he is hit and jabbed with pinching instruments in order to make him enter the ring. The beast tries to escape. He only sees bright colours. Then the faenas begin. He is subjected to three `picas'.<1>Foot note 1_1 Each pica is a spear or lance ending in a piercing steel blade of 10 cm, followed by one or two disks. Most often the disk or disks enter the skin of the bull, opening a huge, bulky gap of 40 cms, breaking the bull's inner organs and causing internal haemorrhage. The bleeding is such that quite often blood outpours not only through the wounds but also through the animal's mouth. Then he is subject to the darts, also of piercing, cutting steel. Some darts end in a blade of 80 mm (these are called `punishment darts', to be fastened to the animal if he has been able to avoid one of the three picas); the other darts are a little shorter. The blades of the darts (bandelillas) are steel harpoons which provoke a harrowing pain to the bull with his every movement. The bull is subjected to being stabbed with darts many times until he is sufficientl y weakened. He is already dying when at last he is pierced with the sword. The sword may fail to dispatch him, and the puntilleros butcher him with a stab (puntilla), in a ruthless prolonged series of attempts. Sometimes, when the bull has learnt to escape from the picas, he is pushed to a hidden backyard (the chiqueros) wherein he is stabbed, pricked, bled and tortured.”

If anyone has personally worked behind the scenes in a bullring and can swear to me that none of these things are true, please speak up. That will not change, of course, what I had in mind for the "secondly" part: the fact that the bull is not given any possible chance of a fair challenge as he is first (before being 'challenged' by the main matador with his sword) badly wounded by many armed men. But still, if anyone knows these other tortures to be currently false or exaggerated, please let me know.

You have to know that the bulls live 4 or 5 years before they die in the bullring. Until that day, thet are the best of their owners's houses. They are their pride. Many livestock farmers really love their bulls, fuss over them, and fell pain for giving them to death. But it's their destiny. Their lifes are written from the moment where they are born.

Again, that’s wonderful that the bulls have such lovely lives, but the main point is still not addressed: why are they tortured? Why can’t the art and the challenge take place by either a) killing the bull after the spectacle in a swift manner (such as in Portugal) or do away with the killing all together (as in the French “course camarguaise”)? And is the bull’s destiny to be tortured before his death? I can't see the logic in this destiny argument at all. Why is it a bull's destiny to be stabbed and bled to death, but not the destiny of a horse, a cat or a dog?

We eat chickens (or fishes, or lambs, never mind) that were born to be killed and eaten by people like me and you. Not only killed, even eaten. And I'm sure that no one of you cry for it.

The usage of “we” here is patently incorrect: in this case, “we” do not eat animals. I do not and have not for most of my life. Secondly, there are strict regulations in the United States and Europe regarding how animals must be killed. For example, from an article on beef regulation in Europe: “Current European Union regulations on killing cattle for food ordain that the animals should have a painless, instantaneous death (the animal having previously been painlessly rendered unconscious, which has brought about the famous or infamous issue of canonic slaughtering according to the precepts of some religious fundamentalists); and that a number of prescriptions be complied with as regards the raising and transport of the animals in order to secure a minimum of welfare.”

Assumptions are also made here about my reactions to animals: I do get teary when seeing the wretched dens of misery and filth that most chickens live in in the United States for example, am filled with nausea and disgust when seeing the hundreds of cow carcasses in the Rungis market in Paris. But again, I repeat that these animals are NOT under any circumstances subjected to the pre-death torture that the bulls in Spanish bullfighting are subjected to. Secondly, the “we” that it seems is being used here to define the Spanish is a bit questionable as well since

1) bullfighting is banned in Catalonia, which is still Spain and
2) according to scholar Lorenzo Peña, “Most Spaniards dislike the fiesta (the Madrid bull-ring has a capacity of some 23,000 spectators; it is seldom completely full; the Madrid area has a population of almost 5 million people). Despite the heavily subsidized publicity offensive of the taurino lobby (with TV broadcasts by all channels which make it almost impossible not to watch them unless you refrain from watching TV altogether), such occasional polls as have been exceptionally allowed (the subject being taboo) show that only about 10 to 15 percent of Spaniards do really enjoy the fiesta, with an additional 20 percent looking upon it as `normal', while the majority never watch such shows or dislike them. A sociologist named Prof. Amando de Miguel, has published the results of his survey in the pro-taurino monarchist newspaper ABC, on 17-03-1996: 35 percent of Spaniards never watch corridas; 33 percent declare they dislike them altogether; 19 percent enjoy them `a little' ; 13 percent enjoy it `very much'.


Sometimes, unusually, if the bull has involved bravely, its life is forgiven and die in the country, free...

I understand that the spectacle is quite grotesque if you don't know the meaning of the different things which take place in it. I advise to read before write, and try to understand some basic things about our main tradition.

Again, these assumptions: I’ve read a great deal on this subject and only agreed to go to a bullfight at all to see firsthand if there was something that I was missing. Now, if there are “basic things” about this “main tradition” that I have missed here, I am eager to hear what they are, because presently I have not been provided with any compelling argument in support of bullfighting. In fact, my one and only complaint has not been addressed, which, as I've already made abundantly clear, is this: WHY is the torture of the bull necessary? Additionally, just because this variety of bullfighting is the main tradition of some, not all, Spanish people, does not make it something good or worthy of being revered. For example, in gladiator days, crowds watched and cheered as humans were torn to bits. That was a tradition, but was it a good one? No. In some countries, it is a tradition for young women to be “circumcised” in most cases against their will, causing most of them to be mutilated and in pain for the rest of their lives. Is that practice to be upheld and protected in the name of tradition? I think not. And for an example from the United States, proponents of slavery often argued in its defense on the basis of the master and slave relationship being a “tradition” that deserved preservation and respect. Of course that was false, and the tradition was abolished, for the undeniable betterment of society.

All of that is to say that it makes no difference in this particular discussion whether anyone calls this variety of bullfighting a “tradition.” Traditions can be bad or good and sometimes require change, as I believe, until persuaded otherwise, that this one does.

Please won't you *not* be my neighbor

Since the first of May, nothing has been the same in the apartment. I find that I miss my next-door meatball to whom I never spoke, and I definitely miss the two girls who used to be here. The beautiful Italian was also nice to have around. Their departure at the beginning of the month wouldn’t have been so tragic if they had been replaced by equivalently interesting or nice people. Instead, we now have one absurdly tall, skeletal Swede whose eyes protrude alarmingly out from his head and who slinks around much too noiselessly; we have a tall German man, also frighteningly skinny, who dresses only in black cotton, with the exception of his steel-toed combat boots; we have an American girl from Los Angeles who came to stay here for vacation--though she doesn’t know anyone and doesn’t speak Spanish and doesn’t take classes—and who disinfects her hands 3 or 4 times in the course of a conversation of the same length in minutes. We also have a Colombian couple in their fifties. The husband apparently has some vision problems as he leaves the bathroom covered with pieces of his shaved off beard and dribbles of urine on the toilet. I find this most unpleasant, though he and his wife are otherwise friendly people.

However, the last new tenant is my least favorite of all. He looks quite a lot like Lieutenant Dan from Forest Gump, though in that dirty, angry hippy phase post leg-loss. I forgot his real name because in my head he is Lieutenant Dan (actually, more like “lootinint day-yan”). He is from Nebraska and eats nothing but white bread, pork products and beer (his refrigerator shelf is right above mine). Lt. Dan’s diet is reflected in the most unfortunate way in his skin, which is excessively greasy, large-pored, and ruddy. He has hair growing chia-pet like from everywhere and he smells so sweaty that you can detect his odor walking a half a block behind him. All of this would be….less awful if he had a better personality. Lieutenant Dan introduced himself in the following way “Hi I’m Lieutenant Dan, from Nebraska, though I did my graduate work at Harvard.” What?! I found that to be both tacky and a pathetic attempt at arrogance. It was at that very moment that I began to see all of the pores on his face and the hairs on his neck. I might not have noticed them if he hadn’t been so arrogant. No, I would definitely have noticed them, but maybe they would have bothered me less. Anyway, I also dislike the way I run into him every evening when I’m coming home from class—he has a sneaky, cackling way of laughing, an insulting habit of not looking at my eyes when he speaks to me, and he follows me up the four flights of stairs even though I know he usually takes the elevator. Today, to avoid him, I dilly dallied at the university with some students, then walked half the way home. I arrived 40 minutes later than usual, only to find him smoking on a bench in front of our building. He threw his half smoked cigarette on the ground and followed me in the building.

I dislike him and his serpentine ways…

Madrileño Morning, cont'd

I haven't been doing a very good job of writing here recently, so I'd forgotten all about the Madrileño morning photos. Here is the information on that, as I wrote the day I took the pictures (see previous post called Madrileño morning):

I am seated on the sunny patio of a café. It is 9 o'clock on a Saturday morning. I am mainly alone in the café, and the street is quiet but for a group of young Madrilenos (likely just a tad older than me) who clearly have yet to go home from their night-long fiesta. It is also clear from the volume of their voices, their stumbling, their raucous laughter and the large glass bottles of beer they carry that they are quite drunk. I am annoyed by them and want them to go home, or at the very least just to go away.

But they don't go away. They talk and laugh and drink and suddenly one of the young men begins to sing. His voice is acrylic and strong and resonates off the tiled square, off the walls of the buildings and sends chills down my spine. Soon, two bald, pot-bellied men come to the windows of their apartments several stories above the square to listen, leaning on their elbows as they watch the singer. He is singing some kind of flamenco song, but he isn't exactly singing--he is forcing those strident, melancolic notes out from the bottom of his chest. They are beautiful, but sound very painful, as if they are beating their way out of him. From where I sit, I can see his face redden and his chest heave with the effort of his song. The young man's song is something about a girl named Lucia, her eyes, the moon and the singer's heart. The street is filled with nothing but the sound of this young man's exquisite plea to Lucia for several long and lovely minutes.

His friends had all been gathered tightly around him as he sang, but one of the girls begins to do a flamenco dance at a little distance from the group. She raises her arms delicately over her head and stamps her feet to the rhythm of her friend's voice. After a moment she stumbles and falls over, scraping her hand, and they seem to remember all at once that they are drunk and without sleep. The music and dancing stops, they trip and meander their way out of the square and down the street and as I watch the impromptu concert grow smaller in the distance I think to myself, "what a wonderful way for me to begin a Saturday morning."

La Corrida

(Photos are self explanatory, no? I want only to point out that that horse you see is the one that gets shoved around by the bull. That coat he's wearing is his protection. Also, the photo of me and Daddy was taken before the bullfight, so we look quite happy. Actually, Daddy looks happy and I look horrid. But I like the expression on his face, so I thought it best to swallow my pride and post it anyway
: )

Daddy insisted that we go to a bullfight. And so we did. I can now say with authority that it is without question the most inhumane display of barbarism that I have ever witnessed and quite a putrid relic of gladiators days. In my view la corrida has no place in today’s world, or at least not a corrida with swords and killing. I’m quite sure that the “art” could be achieved and appreciated without the slow slaughter. Oh it was hideous.

There was a vociferous Spanish spectator next to us who, when the matador’s sword wouldn’t penetrate the bull’s body, bellowed with disgust, “No es así! Muy malo! Muy malo!!!” (not like that! Very bad! He muttered other things as well, but those were the only ones I could make out). He pitched the casings of his pumpkin seeds to the ground with gusto following each exclamation. Listening to him I was marked by the notion of there being a correct way to bleed a bull to death in this arena. Noticing my disgust, and taking advantage of daddy’s bathroom absence, he said, “oye, chica—it’s not “let’s go watch a bull die”, but art. This is art. And there’s a right way to do it.” (that was in Spanish, but I don’t know really exactly how to write what he said).
“De acuerdo,” I said carefully, “pero el torro va morrir, verdad? Entonces…” (okay, but the bull is going to die, right? So…) Before I could struggle through another sentence he had interrupted me and was repeating this business about it being art. I was unconvinced.

One very mildly positive thing I can point out is that I gained greater perspective on two commonly used expressions during the bullfight:

The matador spent many minutes doing a sort of tango with the bull and a crimson cape. Apparently, he was more or less hypnotizing the bull. In the end, the doomed creature charged into the swords that killed him because he ran toward the only thing he saw: the red. Hence the expression “seeing red.”

In the first part of the spectacle, before the matador is alone with the bull in the ring, a man enters, mounted on a sort of armored horse, with a long, thick javelin at his side (a thick round sword at the end). This horseman then stabs the bull from his perch. Subsequently the enraged bull charges at his attacker, jabbing his horns up into the underbelly of the (gagged and blindfolded) horse. The entire horse and rider are lifted up off the ground by bull’s head. And so I came to understand the meaning of “bull headed.” [PS this was a particularly horrific part of the bullfight. I couldn’t understand, though it was gagged, why the horse didn’t make any noise. I could see its hooves trembling in fear or pain, but it never made a noise. On the other hand, my pumpkin-seed gobbling, beer guzzling neighbor made lots of noise scoffing at my pity for the horse. He explained that before, until some years ago, the horse entered the arena unprotected. And so, in this way, it went without saying that part of the bullfight involved watching a horse get gored to death by the bull]

Also, watching the matador strut around the arena, chin tucked under, pelvis thrust forward arms spread back, recalled images of bullfighters from old Warner Brothers cartoons. The cartoonists were extremely accurate in their depictions of the facial expressions and movements which, to me as a child seemed absurdly, impossibly dramatic. And yet, no….

In all seriousness, I must say this:
I couldn’t have imagined I would have to blink away tears for the death of an animal
until I heard a 600 kilo bull bleating for mercy
as blood streamed from his mouth,
as the stadium cheered and applauded,
as the beaten animal finally collapsed,
twitching in a mass of wet, blackened sand.

This is what I carried with me out of the arena.

The Hallway

A picture to go with the description (see the "Mi casa" entry).

Swedish Update

It seems that our Swede has captured the interest not only of the apartment mates here in Madrid but of everyone who has read about him. I thought you all should know that Meatball has left the building. I even have his room now! It's nearly twice as big as my old one, and much more soundproof. I don't hear the neighbors as I did before, which makes it both easier to sleep and more difficult to find funny things to write about.

I spoke to Married with Children before he left, as I ran into him in the lobby of the building while he was waiting for his taxi.

"Are you leaving?" I asked.

"Yes. I am happy to go home." He smiled (this being the first time) and went into the street.

For the record, mainly in response to May's hilarious comment, he ate all varieties of meatballs. He ate Italian looking meatballs, meatballs in cartons written in Spanish, and on one occasion, I saw (in the wastepaper basket in the kitchen) an empty carton of Swedish meatballs from Ikea : )

Madrileno Morning

A story will follow this picture, though likely not today. I am leaving for Toledo with Daddy in a few minutes. And no, not Toledo Ohio (though Daddy did ask a man at the tourist office, jokingly, if it looked the same as Toledo Ohio. If it did, he said, there was no point in going since he spent many years in there and didn't care to go back).