Sunday at the Bull Fights

Last Sunday I spent my last day I Barcelona at a bull fight. I have never been to one before and I wanted to see what it was like. It seems to be a dying tradition and I don’t know if I will ever have a chance to see one again. Barcelona is in Catalonia, a region in the northwest corner of Spain not known for bull fights. In fact, most citizens are against the fights citing animal cruelty as the reason why but there is still a large enough group of supporters to keep the fights going.
I didn’t go to watch animals die. I went to experience the culture and to feel the atmosphere I have read about in books like Fiesta which talks about the tradition and skill that is involved with bull fighting. I don’t know much about bull fighting, but I know I didn’t see what I came for. It was a cloudy day and threatening to rain so not many people showed up. The stadium was a large ring but only about a fifth was occupied split between Spaniards and tourists.


The Stadium

The fights are split by three matadors and they each get two bulls, so six overall. They don’t just come out straight away to face the bulls however; there is a process. First they tire the bulls out. The bull comes storming into the ring with all the energy you expect and runs around the ring trying to gorge a series of matadors who call them over before jumping behind a barrier just before the bull can get them. Then the bull rushes across the ring, only to be thwarted again. Next two horses come out covered in armor and blinds with men on top with long spears. The bull charges the horses constantly trying to throw the horse over while the man on top drives the spear in to the bulls back. Next three men come out with two swords each and when the bull comes at them, the men jump aside and stick the bulls with the swords in the back. After all of this, the main matadors come out and lead the bulls around with their capes, trying to get the bulls as close to them as possible. This is where the glamour of the sport is supposed to be. When the bull is worn down enough and the crowd is ready for the kill, the matador drives a sword into the bulls back above the neck, thus killing it, or at least that is what’s supposed to happen. A good matador kills the bull in one try but none of the matadors I saw did this. I don’t think they were very good matadors. In fact, I was kind of rooting for the bulls.

OLE!

Soon after the show started it started pouring. Everyone moved up under cover to watch so the place looked empty. There weren’t enough people there to create the buzz of energy I came to see and I was surrounded by Americans who had no clue what was going on. The bulls never won and it always ended the same way. My friends had been to a fight in Madrid and loved it. They had it all. The place was packed, the crowd went wild and the bull gorged the shit out of some dude. That is what I kind of wanted to see but didn’t.
When the bull dies two donkeys come out to drag the dead animal away. After one of the bulls I went downstairs to see what they did with it. I found the garage they bring them to by following the blood and soon a lifeless cow was dragged past me by its hind leg. The butchers brought it in to a garage where there were the three previous bulls hanging now without heads or skin. At least they use the animals for something useful afterwards. One of the butchers tried selling us a horn for ten Euro but I didn’t think it would pass through security in my carry-on bag so I didn’t buy it.
The fight didn’t live up to my expectations but I am glad I saw it. I actually thought it would be more gruesome then it actually was. I had heard stories of blood everywhere and final death screams by the animal but I didn’t see any of that. We stayed for five of the six bulls because the people I was with were bored. I didn’t really mind leaving. A couple hours later after 19 days on the road I boarded a plane bound for Ireland and now I am back. Time for finals.

Go get him!