TRAVEL--add your travel stories here!

SPAIN...

DISCLAIMER: we can debate the ethics of bullfighting later. For now, just read.

Cantalapiedra is in the middle of Castilia, 25 miles outside of Salamanca. It's farming country. The wife's family still runs a farm there. The town has 1500 residents but countless stories. They also love the language, culture, and sport of bullfighting.
Hemingway once wrote that "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters."
Tito, a gruff 55 year old man from town who is well known for raising the best bulls in the region, offered to show us some bulls that he was preparing for a group of men having a bachelor party. About 10km outside of town, in what’s called a monte, a groups of pine trees on an elevated hill area surrounded by flat Castilian farmland, Tito has some land where he brings a portion of his bulls. The whole scene was pretty run down and dirty, a small bull ring, surrounded on one side by a large raised concrete slab. Underneath the big slab is a room full of old farm equipment, some couches, wooden chairs, and a table that Tito had set up for a party. The ring had various areas of entry and exit—off of one side was a large pen with a big macho bull and a bunch of his women and 1-3 year old children; off another side was a bigger wild area with 4 year old bulls, much too large to take part in the day’s festivities. On another corner of the ring was a group a 5 pens, about 8 feet square each one, and sort of set up like a maze of doors and small rooms. When we arrived, my niece Henar stepped out of the car and immediately started a low level whine. More like a squeak. She has a serious phobia of bulls, so after ten minutes my brother in law Jesus decided to take her home. 11 year old Maddy opted to go also—bad decision, we’d later find out. So, 13 year old Eden and I stayed. Tito moved a big group including the bull and about thirty vaquilla (the 1-2 year olds, “va key ya”) from their pen into the big ring and then through the different doors to push them toward the group of pens to hold them until the bachelor party dudes arrived. This involved separating three to eight vaquillas and then rushing them through various doors which could be closed only by standing atop a brick wall (about 8 inches thick)and pushing a big metal handle that opened or closed a metal door. Rather than just watching, Eden and I jumped in to help, climbing from old concrete slab to old concrete slab to get to the area above the pens. Tito was in the ring yelling at the animals. He got mad at the big bull once and, loose translation, said “you ass hole, you are only good for having sex and eating, you worthless shit. You should crawl back to the bitch that made you.” This was one of those brief moments when I was happy that Eden ’s Spanish was not more advanced. Tito's daughter Ana, about 40 years old, hardened from years of working with bulls and misogynist men and also with a mouth so full of vile language (like father like daughter)that I wonder how she could eat with it, was working in the area between the ring and the other sections…a ring around the bull ring. Ana would tell me which door to close and then would yell for that to happen. She also gave me an eight foot long pole with a metal pointy tip on one end to gently encourage the bulls to move from pen to pen. The coolest thing about this was when the big bull was in the pens. Tito brought him into the big ring because many of the vaqillas won't budge without him So now we had to get him out. He was not for fighting, so we just moved him through, into a pen that led to a short tunnel that led back to his open area. The cool thing was that, since on all fours he still stands about 6 feet tall, the walls on which we stood were only a few feet above his head, so you could really look closely at him, and I could talk a whole lot of smack from a safe position. "You're not so tough," I told him...in English, just in case things when wrong.
After the big daddy bull was through, we had to move two smaller vaquillas out of the maze. They would not move from a corner. I carefully walked to that corner, a brick and reebar ledge, and banged on the metal beside the beasts…nothing. I prodded one hard in the rump and yelled, "go, toro, ale, malo, vete." Nothing. Ana climbed the wall, said to me “a la puerta,” meaning to the door, but really meaning you’re fired weak man, and she walked to a side near the animals, simply yelled, “vaca,” and away they flew through the door and into another pen.
With the right vaqillas in the right pens, Tito then went to start cooking. A small bus arrived with the twenty or so men from the bachelor party. The food was all barbequed, thick pancetta, succulent hunks of chorizo, and a lean pork tenderloin. As Tito would bring a large plate for the party he would walk by us and put a few slices on a plate. At one point, Tito came to ask if I had tried his wine. My affluent "notario" brother in law Jesus, ever willing to display his wealth and generosity, had brought two bottles of perfectly aged Rioja with labels that said his name on them: de la Bodega de Jesus Cuadrado Sexmero. This was very good wine. But this was not Tito's wine. The label on Tito’s two liter plastic bottle of wine had long worn off and originally read “diet coke.” Tito's wine--(they told me where they make it but one side effect of drinking it is that you forget where they make it)--Tito's wine was every bit as good as the rioja. After a couple more rounds of food Tito put his arm around my neck and dragged me to a corner with a large plastic tub full of sangria. Tito makes his sangria with potent, thick cognac, so it’s about 60 to 80 proof. Que viva Espana! Jesus said that Tito was impressed that Eden and I had helped, which is why he was so generous and friendly. Tito told Jesus that he expected us to act like prissy tourists. We appreciated the welcome since Tito is one of the meanest men in Cantalapiedra, and in that town that is some auspicious reputation!
Then the fun began. The bachelors, with one of them dressed in a bright pink bullfighter costume, were from Asturias, not a bull fighting region, which means that they do not have that healthy fear of bulls like the Castilians do. After drinking on the bus and with the meal, they were now drunk. Three brave idiots came into the ring with the first vaquilla, a scared little one year old. She would not fight at all. When one of the guys showed the bull the heavy red cape, it would turn away and only get scared. They chased, the bull ran, and that was it. About five more guys decided now that bulls were sissies and headed into the ring. The second vaquilla was no sissy. He would square up against each guy, focus his whole body toward the guy, and then charge. The level of laughter from Tito and his daughter is hard to describe. These guys finally gained a bit of healthy respect for the noble bull. The respect was about to turn to fear. Tito slapped me on the back, put his hand on my shoulder, pointed to one guy in the ring, and said, “he’s going down right now.” Almost at that moment, the little bull caught sight of the guy Tito had pointed to, headed straight for his chest and wham, he was head over heels, then on the ground, and then limping to the side. Tito was laughing like crazy. They brought in a third vaquilla, a husky one year old named Palomita. She sent one guy to the ground with a massive abrasion on his back, and then knocked another guy right in the chest. He stammered off and promptly passed out. While his friends revived him with water and shade—it was pretty hot and dusty that day—I took my turn in the ring, stepping between one of the little walled entrances into the ring and moving about twenty feet toward the center of the ring. It’s amazing how you can get the attention of the animal with the cape. I stood near the side and held the cape behind me—the cape is thick and heavy, almost like a curtain. When I would show the red side, the bull would stop and stare. Palomita was probably about 15 feet away now, and even at that distance it was daunting to have her look you in the eyes. I tried to kind of mimic what the bull was doing. She would drop her head and lift it quickly, so I did. She huffed, so I did. She turned her head and looked out of only one eye, so did I.
Hemingway spoke of this sharing of space when he wrote, "In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger."
Palomita had not read Hemingway. And she was sick of this game with me so she lowered her head and charged. You’ve seen a traditional pass, with the torero drawing the bull around his body with the cape, right? It's elegant and graceful.With the bull now running headlong toward me, thats exactly what I planned to do.
But I didn’t do that. I ran away and jumped up on the wall like any real man would. But still, it was a cool two minutes of beast to beast face time. Oh yeah, and two of the guys ended up having to be taken to the emergency room with broken ribs..ole!