Shrugging his shoulders forward arrogantly, the matador reached up to smooth his black hair, then trained his stare at the bull. His chin in the air- Jesus Fernandez Fiestas-aka “Yiyo” was by far the crowd favorite at The Plaza de Toros. They cheered Ole! when he flipped the cape, waved white handkerchiefs when he killed a bull with one plunge of the sword.
The torreo began at 5p.m. on a chilly Sunday, the day of Festivad de las Angustias, in honor of Granada’s patron saint, La Virgen de las Angustias. Before I could even make it to the ticket office, an elderly man approached me, saying his $60 ticket was the cheapest I would find. A young woman shoved him aside, waving a ticket at me for $40. I finally gave a harsh, NO! and found a $20 seat.
I sat on a bench, waiting for the start, and quickly made friends with Paloma, a girl from Chile on vacation in Granada. Since we had both come alone, we decided to sit together.
The torreo opened with much fanfare, horns from the band, horses and about eight men, not all matadors. Only the man who is alone in the ring with the bull is a matador-literally translated-a killer.
This spectacle is not for the weak of heart. The beginning is beautiful, with the bull charging about four men, their sweeping capes making shapes like a flamenco dancer’s skirt. Then comes the man on the horse, who deals a swift blow to the bull with a long spear. One time, a particularly hearty torro knocked over the horse-who was blindfolded and wearing a type of armor. Thank God, because the horses really get rammed-the matadors are never touched.
Next is a series of spears, some red and yellow in honor of Spain, other green and white to represent our province of Andalusia. Driven in to the back of the bull by various men, the points slowly kill the animal. Then it’s time for the matador. When he enters the ring, he dramatically throws his hat in the clay. At first his capes are yellow and pink, but when it’s time for death-the sword comes out, as does the red cape.
I’ll leave out the graphic part, but the majority of the American girls in attendance started to cry, and many left the plaza. It definitely was gruesome, and bull after bull was pulled through the dust on its way out.
But to get past the blood, I studied the matador’s movements. Sharp yet graceful, confident yet always within inches from being gored. I saw one bull flip completely head over heels because the matador spun the cape so fast. And I swear they are sewn in to those outfits.
Yiyo had a unique style, shuffling his feet, raising on his toes. He taunted the bull, sidestepping and calling out short, staccato phrases to the torro. When the bull charged, he would stand still, moving only his arms. He loved to raise his hands to the crowd, and do that shoulder shrug that said, “Hmph. I told you I was the best.”
At the end of six matches, the matadors paraded around the plaza, and spectators threw down items they wanted thrown back. One man relinquished a hat, another a shirt, a woman her red high heel. The winner-Yiyo of course-is presented with the bull’s ears-orejas-and enjoys a good 10 minutes of applause and shouts.
I don’t think I will go back to the Plaza. Here I was in a Coloseum shaped structure, feeling like an ancient Roman, watching the gladiators massacre each other. I tried to rationalize that it was an animal, not a human. But still, hearing and seeing everything is quite macabre, and I feel a little guilty for going. But it is part of the culture, and if the little 6-year-old in front of me could handle it, so could I.
The torreo began at 5p.m. on a chilly Sunday, the day of Festivad de las Angustias, in honor of Granada’s patron saint, La Virgen de las Angustias. Before I could even make it to the ticket office, an elderly man approached me, saying his $60 ticket was the cheapest I would find. A young woman shoved him aside, waving a ticket at me for $40. I finally gave a harsh, NO! and found a $20 seat.
I sat on a bench, waiting for the start, and quickly made friends with Paloma, a girl from Chile on vacation in Granada. Since we had both come alone, we decided to sit together.
The torreo opened with much fanfare, horns from the band, horses and about eight men, not all matadors. Only the man who is alone in the ring with the bull is a matador-literally translated-a killer.
This spectacle is not for the weak of heart. The beginning is beautiful, with the bull charging about four men, their sweeping capes making shapes like a flamenco dancer’s skirt. Then comes the man on the horse, who deals a swift blow to the bull with a long spear. One time, a particularly hearty torro knocked over the horse-who was blindfolded and wearing a type of armor. Thank God, because the horses really get rammed-the matadors are never touched.
Next is a series of spears, some red and yellow in honor of Spain, other green and white to represent our province of Andalusia. Driven in to the back of the bull by various men, the points slowly kill the animal. Then it’s time for the matador. When he enters the ring, he dramatically throws his hat in the clay. At first his capes are yellow and pink, but when it’s time for death-the sword comes out, as does the red cape.
I’ll leave out the graphic part, but the majority of the American girls in attendance started to cry, and many left the plaza. It definitely was gruesome, and bull after bull was pulled through the dust on its way out.
But to get past the blood, I studied the matador’s movements. Sharp yet graceful, confident yet always within inches from being gored. I saw one bull flip completely head over heels because the matador spun the cape so fast. And I swear they are sewn in to those outfits.
Yiyo had a unique style, shuffling his feet, raising on his toes. He taunted the bull, sidestepping and calling out short, staccato phrases to the torro. When the bull charged, he would stand still, moving only his arms. He loved to raise his hands to the crowd, and do that shoulder shrug that said, “Hmph. I told you I was the best.”
At the end of six matches, the matadors paraded around the plaza, and spectators threw down items they wanted thrown back. One man relinquished a hat, another a shirt, a woman her red high heel. The winner-Yiyo of course-is presented with the bull’s ears-orejas-and enjoys a good 10 minutes of applause and shouts.
I don’t think I will go back to the Plaza. Here I was in a Coloseum shaped structure, feeling like an ancient Roman, watching the gladiators massacre each other. I tried to rationalize that it was an animal, not a human. But still, hearing and seeing everything is quite macabre, and I feel a little guilty for going. But it is part of the culture, and if the little 6-year-old in front of me could handle it, so could I.
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