Feeling a bit better Sunday, I decided to go into the center of town with my host family. It was the holiday for the "Virgen de la Angustia," the patron saint of Granada. The name translates to the "Virgen of Anguish" - you can't get more Catholic than that.
On this day, the people who live in the Sierra Nevada region of Las Alpujarras come to Granada for the weekend to sell their fruits, nuts and pastries. The market reminded me of the Madison farmer's market, which made me miss home... until I tried the torta. If I was promised this cake in abundant quantities for the rest of my days, I would gladly stay in Granada forever. This cake was something to write about. Thin, flaky, golden cake filled with rich, oozing chocolate, one day a year. Naturally, I had six pieces of it. When in Spain, eh?
After the market, we went out for lunch. The sandwich shop was hidden away in a narrow, dark alley, without a sign to announce its existence. The place was just one small room, a literal hole in the wall, pouring yellow, warm light into the alley. Pig legs dangled overhead and the menus hung on the walls above the counter, looking as if they'd seen the rise and fall of the Spanish empire from their hooks. The room was hot, packed with Spanish people yelling their orders at the counter. We were squeezed shoulder to shoulder, double-fisting steaming, greasy, meaty sandwiches and bottles of Coke. This place was gritty and unapologetic and I loved it. When I asked Paqui, my host mother, what it was called, she simply shrugged and said "We always go here." I made note of where it was.
After lunch, I met my friend Tom to go to a bull fight. I guess I expected it to be disturbing...but oh was it disturbing.
The bull runs out, already stabbed once to make sure the audience gets a thoroughly ticked off bull, a good show. Next come the Spanish version of rodeo clowns to swish their capes tauntingly at the bull. I too would be agitated if some flamboyantly dressed, twirling men trapped me in a sand pit and came at me with a cape.
Then, the fun ends and the stabbing begins. The men on horses go first, thrusting six foot lances at the bull and violently ripping them out again. Blood poured out of the bulls, spewing into the air like a fountain. Tom and I learned to groan and avert our eyes when the horsemen came out to wreak havoc upon the bulls.
The matador then takes over and the stabbing becomes increases. But from here on out it is more of a dance than anything. The matador gracefully leads the bull around and around, tiring it out before its final moments. When they have exchanged a long enough farewell, the matador thrusts his sword into the Bull's spine. One bull had the audacity to take a poop in the middle of the fight, as if to give the matador one last, grand "screw you." At that moment, I wasn't sure who to root for, the bull or the man.
I understand that this is a part of Spanish culture and that it is something about which I know nothing. I am not offended by what I saw, but I don't think I will be going back. Seeing four bulls die slow, moaning deaths is enough for a while.
I just have this to say. If I had the misfortune of being a bull, I'd rather go down in a frenzy of color and culture and glory than in a packed slaughter house, waiting to become a Big Mac.
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