Death in the Afternoon

The Bullfight, 2006

In the thick August heat in Pontevedra, Spain, we climbed the stone steps of the stadium built not for General XXL. Programs served as fans in the humid haze of the partially covered bullring. The sol or sombra seats marked the difference between baking and sweating. But the sun did not quell the rousing chants and songs of the peñas (bullfighting drinking clubs—God bless the Spanish), as the stadium's colorful audience took on a blurry, slow-motion-stop-start feel of a Wong Kar-wai film.

Frenetic motion created a living, breathing, impressionist blur

Something strange happens when an entire city awakens from siesta and converges on a bullring. I had read Hemingway's detailed account of the spectacle, but even he admits nothing quite prepares you for the real thing. This was my first time in Spain. Fires raged in the hills from northern Portugal to Galicia; the smoke marred our scenic drive (a couple of weeks later in St. Louis, I saw a blurb in my hotel copy of USA Today indicating that several arsonists had been arrested for starting these fires simply to clear the land).

We had filled our bellies with one of the best meals I might ever have: flavorful shrimps fresh from the sea, white fish with clams in a cream sauce, and a mix of dark chocolate and soufflé. And wine, of course. The restaurant was a blend of old and new. From the outside, it looked like a traditional stone villa with grapes dangling from the trellises above. The sun was bright. It bleached the pavement, which threw the light back at us at tricky angles. The entrance submerged us in darkness until we came upon a sleek, modernist white space that served as the dining area. An entire wall of glass opposite the entrance framed a remarkable view of the green valley spilling into the bay below. The stainless steel kitchen, also enclosed in glass, held an efficient and suave staff singeing soufflés, slicing vegetables, and sautéing seafood. We had a table in the middle. The mellifluous tones of Portuguese and Spanish filled the room, adding to the beautiful confusion.

After lunch, we wandered through the narrow streets of Pontevedra. All shops had shutters closed for the siesta. We passed old churches and buildings whose walls bore faded red stains of wine wars past. We took a break in the dark bar of a hotel to cool off. I wanted to jump into the ocean. But it was time. The sun had taken on a different hue, and we headed for the stadium. The sound of our shoes against stone echoed down the quiet streets; we were the only party around. But soon, more and more people emerged from houses and headed in the same direction. The bright shirts indicating various peñas left bars amidst hearty laughter. The energy grew in proportion to the crowd.

Just outside the stadium. Note the orange-shirted "La Mafia" peña

Another peña preparing for the festivities

I can say without exaggeration that I was probably the only Asian person in the entire city. People stared. I was taller than many of them. We arrived at the stadium.

The view upwards upon entering the arena

The toriles can be seen behind the barrera

If you want to know about veronicas (so named after St. Veronica for the way the cape is held in both hands) and suertes and the cuadrillas; how to properly place the banderillas; why the biggest and scariest bulls go to Bilbao; what to look for with la muleta or the technical aspects for killing recibiendo, read Death in the Afternoon. It is the best account written in English on the art of bullfighting, and almost everything still applies except for the thing with the caballos. That practice no longer occurs. I don’t think I could stomach it.

As Hemingway wrote, there are some experiences, like mountain skiing or sexual intercourse or tasting exquisite chocolates (this last one is my addition), that can never be made to come true on paper. I remember the jolt I felt when the first bull, 500 kilos of power, charged out of the toril. Photographs, videos, and even a 485-page tome written by one of the most influential, lucid writers of the twentieth century just won't do.

We saw two of the most popular matadors in Spain today, Julián López (“El Juli”) and David Fandila Marín (“El Fandi”), along with my favorite: the boyishly cute Sebastián Castella. He does this great opening maneuver in which the first pass is done backwards. I waved my white handkerchief for him alone. Read the dictionary entry for nalgas in DitA. Castella fits the bill. He has this irresistible fey quality—in both meanings of the word—which I suppose all matadors possess due to structural requirements alone (unless you are Juan José Padilla).

I spent hours studying taped bullfights late into the night, including the goring of El Juli. Prior to watching Spanish bullfighting news and clips from the encierros de Pamplona, I looked at old black-and-white photographs of matadors like Luis Freg in the hospital with cornadas. I read about El Gallo, Juan Belmonte, and the great Joselito. I had discussions with bullfighting aficionados. It was quite an education. Olé!

El Juli

El Fandi

El Hottie

The spirited crowd does the wave (about 8 rounds!)

To the peñas, the flossy El Fandi can do no wrong

Sebastián summons el toro