Madrid
Day 32
After our day yesterday of contrasts - the contrast of mankind´s passions. From the beauty in the artists we´ve gotten to know to the raw reality of the Bullfight and the homeless we are preparing now to go to the north of Spain and Portugal.
Madrid has been an city of intense passions and of long traditions. By travelling the way we are, we´ve seen a side of the life here that we wouldnt´see on tours.
We´ve walked the streets, experienced public transport and the local shops and restaurantes as well as ventured into some of the smaller villages and mingled with the non english speaking spanish natives and tried to communicate the best we can.
In such a short time we´ve experienced so much. A lot that can not be written in here due to time contraints but will remain with us as we continue along our journey.
We´re off to the north of spain now. We´ve checked out of the ¨Riosal¨and are heading for Santiago De Compostela then to Portugal. Unfortunately we´ll miss seeing my art teacher friend who is working in Portugal...such bad timing!!!
But we´re excited. We´re on the move again and don´t know where we´ll stay, or where we´ll go. We´re loving travelling this way. And the more we are together, the more we learn about ourselves and each other. I feel moved. We´re moving as one. As i´ve never done before. I feel very blessed to have such a special time as this time right now. Living for the now.
We haven´t started our Eurail pass yet but will when we get to Seville.
We´ll write from there!!
Love to all!
xxx
Monday, 2 April 2007
THE BULLFIGHT
Madrid
Day 31
It was 4pm and we were looking at the last of the wonderful impressionist artists as well as examining the baroque and cubist era´s of art when we decided we´d better get going.
Tonight was the first bullfight of the season. 1st April 2007. We wanted to see this sport for ourselves, and experience the whole culture of Spain.
So much has been said about The Bullfight. Somerset Maughan writes about it in great detail. The spanish are proud of it and yet don`t publicise it to tourists for fear of recrimination. The Tourist Centre seemed hushed about it. People have their thoughts and ideas about it.
We briskly move out of the museum to catch the metro to Las Ventas where the Bullfight will be held. We wondered how crowded it would be, whether it´d be a replay of the Flamenco from the night before where we didn´t get in.
The train was full and we thought we were on the right track. We were. People seemed excited somehow. The air was brisk. We were clad, once again, in our warm clothes. Thank goodness for my pashmina Annie brought back from Turkey. Instead of being in all black at least i had pink about me, and warmth.
We disembark from the train, and we were right thereª! In the square at the entrance to the Bullfight. PLaza Toros De Madrid. At the Corrida de Toros.
We took the pics, as you do, in front of the bull in the square. Bought our tickets. The best seats. Why not get a good view.
We hadn´t eaten and were hungry. We´d by food there, we thought.
The doors were open for us to go in.
In we go. The arena was old and dark. No food anywhere. Bar in the corner with only alcohol, ´wickey´ in abundance (whiskey). Smokers, pipes and cigars everywhere. Mostly men. Spanish. A few tourists. We enter the huge granite stadium and realise we need cushions because we would just be sitting on granite. Nothing flash. Just a huge arena.
Our seats were right behind the main gates where the matadors came out. Where all the action was. I started to feel a bit nervous. What would we be subject to? We were only 20 metres away from them.
From where we sat in the stalls we could see the royal boxes and the band playing. We waited for the stadium to fill but it only half filled. Seemed to be a sport that only the diehards attended.
The music started. The bull appeared in the stadium. The Corrida. The Bullfight was to begin. The majestic looking animal with what looked like a bow on his back came out charging. He saw the various matadors and charged at them. They were dressed in all different colours and had pink and yellow capes. The bull charged, they showed their capes. Tested by peons. He looked fierce. Nothing to be sorry about as he charged on and ran around the arena.
Next the music starts and a horse appears. There is a picador on the horse and the horse is heavily armoured. It must entrance the bull and make him charge even more. He heads for the horse and his huge horns are thrust into the armour. The horse stands stoic as if he knows he won´t be hurt. His eyes are covered. The bull charges further, agressively and the picador thrusts a long spear into the bull´s back. The lance that makes the bull erupt with blood. The crowd claps if the bull goes to his knees.
The madadors lead the bull away from the attacked horse. More men come with the colourful bandarillas and spear them into the bull´s back. Three lots. They hang out in colours and the bulls bucks and defends himself trying to be rid of these spears that are searing his skin.
One of the matadors dropped his cape and rolled expertly away so the bull would head for this rather than him.
The bull is already dying.
The main matador, dressed in tight white úniform comes out with his red muleta, the red cloth and hugs his fellow matadors. As if he may not live should the bull outwit him.
In artisic form the main matador uses his red flag and teases the bull. Behind the muleta he has a sword. The one that will kill the bull.
When he got a chance, and after teasing the bull with his muleta, he thrust him with his sword in the back of his neck with one thrust and it brought the bull to his knees. He then rolled over.
The crowd goes silly. The matador is revered. The bull lays down. And dies. His legs up. Greg and I were filled with emotion and i couldn´t stop crying. Greg was choked.
We werent ´the only ones. I heard the spanish man next to me start snivelling as well. Really Snivelling. It was sad. Yet it was inevitable. Planned. A sure thing. That the bull would die at a bullfight.
It touched a raw nerve within us. How could we be here watching this? How could be be so transfixed on this oldage tradition and in some way not be able to take our eyes off the action. Getting caught up in the atmosphere, just like at the football. Wanting the end to come with a spectacular result.
The majestic bull was brought to his knees and didn´t have a chance. It was a brutal killing.
He was then tied to the back of four horses and paraded in the arena. Dragged for everyone to see. He was in his glory. People stood up and gave their respect to the brave matador. ´He´d won the respect of his crowd. People honoured the mighty Bull.
After this happened they brought out another bull. He was teased by the matadors and his back pierced by the picador on the horse, but he was saved and was brought back into the arena by a series of other bulls that lured him back.
This was repeated 3 times. The two acts.
One thing we did find humouros and almost like the bull was getting his own back was during the second round, when the second unkilled bull came out and was to be lead back by other bulls, he bucked and decided, no, he was going to stay in the arena. They brought the bulls in to get him 5 times! Finally the bull ringer man had to run along the inside of the arena to get the bull to go back inside. It seemed like the Bull´s revenge.
After the third round, when it was too cold and wet and our raincoats and umbrella´s were drowned and our adrenalin was saturating us, we decided this was the first and last Bullfight we´d attend.
No repeat was needed.
It was extraordinary.
Day 31
It was 4pm and we were looking at the last of the wonderful impressionist artists as well as examining the baroque and cubist era´s of art when we decided we´d better get going.
Tonight was the first bullfight of the season. 1st April 2007. We wanted to see this sport for ourselves, and experience the whole culture of Spain.
So much has been said about The Bullfight. Somerset Maughan writes about it in great detail. The spanish are proud of it and yet don`t publicise it to tourists for fear of recrimination. The Tourist Centre seemed hushed about it. People have their thoughts and ideas about it.
We briskly move out of the museum to catch the metro to Las Ventas where the Bullfight will be held. We wondered how crowded it would be, whether it´d be a replay of the Flamenco from the night before where we didn´t get in.
The train was full and we thought we were on the right track. We were. People seemed excited somehow. The air was brisk. We were clad, once again, in our warm clothes. Thank goodness for my pashmina Annie brought back from Turkey. Instead of being in all black at least i had pink about me, and warmth.
We disembark from the train, and we were right thereª! In the square at the entrance to the Bullfight. PLaza Toros De Madrid. At the Corrida de Toros.
We took the pics, as you do, in front of the bull in the square. Bought our tickets. The best seats. Why not get a good view.
We hadn´t eaten and were hungry. We´d by food there, we thought.
The doors were open for us to go in.
In we go. The arena was old and dark. No food anywhere. Bar in the corner with only alcohol, ´wickey´ in abundance (whiskey). Smokers, pipes and cigars everywhere. Mostly men. Spanish. A few tourists. We enter the huge granite stadium and realise we need cushions because we would just be sitting on granite. Nothing flash. Just a huge arena.
Our seats were right behind the main gates where the matadors came out. Where all the action was. I started to feel a bit nervous. What would we be subject to? We were only 20 metres away from them.
From where we sat in the stalls we could see the royal boxes and the band playing. We waited for the stadium to fill but it only half filled. Seemed to be a sport that only the diehards attended.
The music started. The bull appeared in the stadium. The Corrida. The Bullfight was to begin. The majestic looking animal with what looked like a bow on his back came out charging. He saw the various matadors and charged at them. They were dressed in all different colours and had pink and yellow capes. The bull charged, they showed their capes. Tested by peons. He looked fierce. Nothing to be sorry about as he charged on and ran around the arena.
Next the music starts and a horse appears. There is a picador on the horse and the horse is heavily armoured. It must entrance the bull and make him charge even more. He heads for the horse and his huge horns are thrust into the armour. The horse stands stoic as if he knows he won´t be hurt. His eyes are covered. The bull charges further, agressively and the picador thrusts a long spear into the bull´s back. The lance that makes the bull erupt with blood. The crowd claps if the bull goes to his knees.
The madadors lead the bull away from the attacked horse. More men come with the colourful bandarillas and spear them into the bull´s back. Three lots. They hang out in colours and the bulls bucks and defends himself trying to be rid of these spears that are searing his skin.
One of the matadors dropped his cape and rolled expertly away so the bull would head for this rather than him.
The bull is already dying.
The main matador, dressed in tight white úniform comes out with his red muleta, the red cloth and hugs his fellow matadors. As if he may not live should the bull outwit him.
In artisic form the main matador uses his red flag and teases the bull. Behind the muleta he has a sword. The one that will kill the bull.
When he got a chance, and after teasing the bull with his muleta, he thrust him with his sword in the back of his neck with one thrust and it brought the bull to his knees. He then rolled over.
The crowd goes silly. The matador is revered. The bull lays down. And dies. His legs up. Greg and I were filled with emotion and i couldn´t stop crying. Greg was choked.
We werent ´the only ones. I heard the spanish man next to me start snivelling as well. Really Snivelling. It was sad. Yet it was inevitable. Planned. A sure thing. That the bull would die at a bullfight.
It touched a raw nerve within us. How could we be here watching this? How could be be so transfixed on this oldage tradition and in some way not be able to take our eyes off the action. Getting caught up in the atmosphere, just like at the football. Wanting the end to come with a spectacular result.
The majestic bull was brought to his knees and didn´t have a chance. It was a brutal killing.
He was then tied to the back of four horses and paraded in the arena. Dragged for everyone to see. He was in his glory. People stood up and gave their respect to the brave matador. ´He´d won the respect of his crowd. People honoured the mighty Bull.
After this happened they brought out another bull. He was teased by the matadors and his back pierced by the picador on the horse, but he was saved and was brought back into the arena by a series of other bulls that lured him back.
This was repeated 3 times. The two acts.
One thing we did find humouros and almost like the bull was getting his own back was during the second round, when the second unkilled bull came out and was to be lead back by other bulls, he bucked and decided, no, he was going to stay in the arena. They brought the bulls in to get him 5 times! Finally the bull ringer man had to run along the inside of the arena to get the bull to go back inside. It seemed like the Bull´s revenge.
After the third round, when it was too cold and wet and our raincoats and umbrella´s were drowned and our adrenalin was saturating us, we decided this was the first and last Bullfight we´d attend.
No repeat was needed.
It was extraordinary.
ANOTHER DAY IN MADRID
Madrid
Day 31
Heard from Sam early this morning. Eagles beat Sydney by one point! Huh! What about the Dockers????
We felt good. And wondered whether David had bet a Jacks on the game! :-)
It was a nice wake up call. We also got a message saying when it´s raining in spain, don´t walk on the plane, head for the hills!!
That´s tomorrow!
But for the meantime we´re still in Madrid. Still lamenting after missing the flamenco the night before but hopefull we´ll see one in Seville when we get there, the home of flamenco, we hear.
Off to our favourite breakfast restaurante! Dermontaditos. Wé´re getting the hang of ordering our Desayuno (breakfast) and order ensalada, bolleria (pastry) and nectar de pina (pineapple juice) and panecillos tostatos (toasted buns!). ANd of course cafe - americana! (black coffee)
Today we ordered the panecillos tostatos with tomato. And as we were sitting eating and planning our course of the day...(to go to the Carmen Thyssen collection!) i looked over to see this old grey, dreadlocked woman, dressed in a grey cape, dreadlocked hair, and typical features of the homeless..walk by my side with a glass ashtray.
I thought it was weird and i thought, gee i hope she doesn´t sit by me and smoke in front of us. A fleeting thought. One that i think every time we go to a restaurante here because it seems a large part of the population smoke cigarettes or cigars in the restaurants which feels suffocating.
Next thing. A LARGE thump. What was it? I look at Greg to see him shaking his hand as he is catching his food that was flying in the air. What did he do, i thought, drop his glass? He looked at me with a shocked look and i ask, ¨What´s going on?´ He doesn´t know. I look down at the thick glass ashtray on the floor and look behind me. The woman had thrown it straight across at our table!
The man on the next table is yelling, ¨Has she just thrown that?¨
I charge out of the restaurante to see where the woman has gone. I see her steal something out of a tray a woman is holding in the street and keep walking, slowly somehow, but faster than i. I decide then, as i watched the vendor ignore the woman, that i couldn´t do anything.
I go back into the restaurante to find Greg cleaning up all the tomato paste off his jumper. He´s in shock.
I felt so angry. What did we do to deserve this? The resturante waitress came over with a cloth and offered no exclamation. The people in the restaurante are as shocked as we are.
I ran outside again. She hadn´t moved far. But again, i thought, what could i do? Shake her and ask her why.
No. I realise she resented the person that was eating and we were the targets.
But was there more? A history with tourists. A hatred of men. Who knows, i might be reading more into this. But we did feel like victims.
We left the restaurante and for the first time, felt unsafe in Madrid.
Carmen THysessen collection helped us forget that little episode. Just seeing the wondrous artists and their magnificant works made us realise this city is stooped in a long tradition and a history that we know so little about.
We saw Picasso´s bullfight. And we saw Dali´s portrait of Picasso. The latter made us laugh. We saw the first italian artists from the 13th century and realised we were people from a land so young. Australia and it´s 3 centuries compared to more than 800 years of pictorial history.
How could we even begin to understand the attitudes here?
On thing is, we´re trying.
And tonight, we go to the traditonal spanish bullfight.
Day 31
Heard from Sam early this morning. Eagles beat Sydney by one point! Huh! What about the Dockers????
We felt good. And wondered whether David had bet a Jacks on the game! :-)
It was a nice wake up call. We also got a message saying when it´s raining in spain, don´t walk on the plane, head for the hills!!
That´s tomorrow!
But for the meantime we´re still in Madrid. Still lamenting after missing the flamenco the night before but hopefull we´ll see one in Seville when we get there, the home of flamenco, we hear.
Off to our favourite breakfast restaurante! Dermontaditos. Wé´re getting the hang of ordering our Desayuno (breakfast) and order ensalada, bolleria (pastry) and nectar de pina (pineapple juice) and panecillos tostatos (toasted buns!). ANd of course cafe - americana! (black coffee)
Today we ordered the panecillos tostatos with tomato. And as we were sitting eating and planning our course of the day...(to go to the Carmen Thyssen collection!) i looked over to see this old grey, dreadlocked woman, dressed in a grey cape, dreadlocked hair, and typical features of the homeless..walk by my side with a glass ashtray.
I thought it was weird and i thought, gee i hope she doesn´t sit by me and smoke in front of us. A fleeting thought. One that i think every time we go to a restaurante here because it seems a large part of the population smoke cigarettes or cigars in the restaurants which feels suffocating.
Next thing. A LARGE thump. What was it? I look at Greg to see him shaking his hand as he is catching his food that was flying in the air. What did he do, i thought, drop his glass? He looked at me with a shocked look and i ask, ¨What´s going on?´ He doesn´t know. I look down at the thick glass ashtray on the floor and look behind me. The woman had thrown it straight across at our table!
The man on the next table is yelling, ¨Has she just thrown that?¨
I charge out of the restaurante to see where the woman has gone. I see her steal something out of a tray a woman is holding in the street and keep walking, slowly somehow, but faster than i. I decide then, as i watched the vendor ignore the woman, that i couldn´t do anything.
I go back into the restaurante to find Greg cleaning up all the tomato paste off his jumper. He´s in shock.
I felt so angry. What did we do to deserve this? The resturante waitress came over with a cloth and offered no exclamation. The people in the restaurante are as shocked as we are.
I ran outside again. She hadn´t moved far. But again, i thought, what could i do? Shake her and ask her why.
No. I realise she resented the person that was eating and we were the targets.
But was there more? A history with tourists. A hatred of men. Who knows, i might be reading more into this. But we did feel like victims.
We left the restaurante and for the first time, felt unsafe in Madrid.
Carmen THysessen collection helped us forget that little episode. Just seeing the wondrous artists and their magnificant works made us realise this city is stooped in a long tradition and a history that we know so little about.
We saw Picasso´s bullfight. And we saw Dali´s portrait of Picasso. The latter made us laugh. We saw the first italian artists from the 13th century and realised we were people from a land so young. Australia and it´s 3 centuries compared to more than 800 years of pictorial history.
How could we even begin to understand the attitudes here?
On thing is, we´re trying.
And tonight, we go to the traditonal spanish bullfight.
A WEIRD DAY
Madrid
Day 30
What a day..
Felt aching all over from standing at the gallery and walking so far! We really were slow this morning deciding what to do and eventually decided to not decide for a while! Until we decided it was a gorgeous day, why waste it, and why not try to get to Avila...(again, 3rd time lucky!)
So, off we go! But we had to eat first! We found óur´ restaurante to have breakfast, one we´d been to before and one that had an American menu. Dermontaditos. (We used the menu to tranlate spanish words to english and we´re doing ok with it now!) We ordered ensalada. pantos, tapas.
Then! We got a text from Andy Pans. Dockers lost! Ohhh...............
It actually made my day to hear from him even tho he was the giver of BAD news!!!
We got to the ¨myer´of Madrid - El Corte Ingles) and bought some fruit and chocolate for our journey (sorry about the writing in here, i´m finding it hard using a spanish keyboard and also spànish commands!)...anyway, we lined up for AGES, listening to Neil Diamond of all things (Cracklin Rose!) and finally got through. The check out girls here sit on chairs and don´t scan all the items, they punch all the codes in which makes it quite a sufferable experience to just buy a couple of items.
Off to the Metro! We got on the wrong line and missed Avila! We´re thinking that maybe we werent ´meant´´to go there!!
So...we went back ´home´! Along the cobblestone streets. Passing windows full of cured hams and baby piglets ready for cooking. Windows of chocolates (easter coming up and holy week now here), bars, people, beggars on the street with no arms, no legs, no hope. Golden horse that moves when someone puts money into his tin. Children in prams. Thin people everywhere. Lovers. People. Food. The feeling the place has been here, and open, forever.
Home is our hostal. A 4m x 4m stone room with a corner shower and sink. No toilet. Massive wooden double doors leading out into the street. Caste Mayor. Sounds echo from the outside world. Screams. Singing. Dogs barking.
We pass a magazine stall which sells only spanish newspapers and magazines. We endeavour to find an english paper to read for the afternoon because the tv is all in spanish. (CNN can only be found at hotels, not hostals). After searching we find Marie Claire. The only English magazine!
Spent the afternoon reading. Greg with his Lonely Planet, plotting! We were to go to the Flamenco dancing in the evening so rest was good! Wé´d checked out the Flamenco situation the night before. He said book from the hotel. The hostal said we didn´t need to (were they evading having to book for us?). We didn´t book.
That night we went to the Flamenco House. Next door to where we stayed for our first 3 nights here, The Regente. We went throught the maginficant door to a man asking, ¨Reservationo?¨No we said. He then shut the door in our face!
Is there a sense of hostility here? What is that all about? The impatience. The lack of lateral thinking. There doesn´t seem to be other options. Like, ¨We´re open tomorrow come back then!¨It´s just plain no and shut the door.
We walked the town. The air was fresh. 10 degrees celcius. We tighten our scarves and put on our gloves. It feels cold. The streets seem darker. The prostituesa are about. Ít´s 10pm and we havnen´t had dinner.
Finally we find a restaurante. Smoke everywhere. And order paella and Vino Tito (red wine)
It was one of those meloncholic weird days. Did we feel the subtle traces of racism? The intolerance for tourists? A city built on tradition and a suppressed spirit.
We felt rather alone as we stumbled back to our little home. But we had each other.
Day 30
What a day..
Felt aching all over from standing at the gallery and walking so far! We really were slow this morning deciding what to do and eventually decided to not decide for a while! Until we decided it was a gorgeous day, why waste it, and why not try to get to Avila...(again, 3rd time lucky!)
So, off we go! But we had to eat first! We found óur´ restaurante to have breakfast, one we´d been to before and one that had an American menu. Dermontaditos. (We used the menu to tranlate spanish words to english and we´re doing ok with it now!) We ordered ensalada. pantos, tapas.
Then! We got a text from Andy Pans. Dockers lost! Ohhh...............
It actually made my day to hear from him even tho he was the giver of BAD news!!!
We got to the ¨myer´of Madrid - El Corte Ingles) and bought some fruit and chocolate for our journey (sorry about the writing in here, i´m finding it hard using a spanish keyboard and also spànish commands!)...anyway, we lined up for AGES, listening to Neil Diamond of all things (Cracklin Rose!) and finally got through. The check out girls here sit on chairs and don´t scan all the items, they punch all the codes in which makes it quite a sufferable experience to just buy a couple of items.
Off to the Metro! We got on the wrong line and missed Avila! We´re thinking that maybe we werent ´meant´´to go there!!
So...we went back ´home´! Along the cobblestone streets. Passing windows full of cured hams and baby piglets ready for cooking. Windows of chocolates (easter coming up and holy week now here), bars, people, beggars on the street with no arms, no legs, no hope. Golden horse that moves when someone puts money into his tin. Children in prams. Thin people everywhere. Lovers. People. Food. The feeling the place has been here, and open, forever.
Home is our hostal. A 4m x 4m stone room with a corner shower and sink. No toilet. Massive wooden double doors leading out into the street. Caste Mayor. Sounds echo from the outside world. Screams. Singing. Dogs barking.
We pass a magazine stall which sells only spanish newspapers and magazines. We endeavour to find an english paper to read for the afternoon because the tv is all in spanish. (CNN can only be found at hotels, not hostals). After searching we find Marie Claire. The only English magazine!
Spent the afternoon reading. Greg with his Lonely Planet, plotting! We were to go to the Flamenco dancing in the evening so rest was good! Wé´d checked out the Flamenco situation the night before. He said book from the hotel. The hostal said we didn´t need to (were they evading having to book for us?). We didn´t book.
That night we went to the Flamenco House. Next door to where we stayed for our first 3 nights here, The Regente. We went throught the maginficant door to a man asking, ¨Reservationo?¨No we said. He then shut the door in our face!
Is there a sense of hostility here? What is that all about? The impatience. The lack of lateral thinking. There doesn´t seem to be other options. Like, ¨We´re open tomorrow come back then!¨It´s just plain no and shut the door.
We walked the town. The air was fresh. 10 degrees celcius. We tighten our scarves and put on our gloves. It feels cold. The streets seem darker. The prostituesa are about. Ít´s 10pm and we havnen´t had dinner.
Finally we find a restaurante. Smoke everywhere. And order paella and Vino Tito (red wine)
It was one of those meloncholic weird days. Did we feel the subtle traces of racism? The intolerance for tourists? A city built on tradition and a suppressed spirit.
We felt rather alone as we stumbled back to our little home. But we had each other.
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