Part Two: Madrid le encantan dulces y perritos (hot dogs)

Madrid is warmer than Barcelona (note the distance from the coast). There are far more people around than I anticipated too—just loads of people filling the plazas and streets.

Guernica is neat (mostly because I realized how big of a deal it is or whatever). La Sofia Reina is excellent overall (and it was free because it was Sunday!).

El Parque Retiro is brilliant. It is absolutely enormous. It has a pond with a grand memorial in front of it (loads of people row on the pond but clearly have no idea how to row… quite humorous). We spent a lot of time there relaxing and people watching. There were quite a few darling little children and cute little puppies playing. Lauren and I went on the swings for a bit. We even jumped off and such. It was a nice taste of childhood.

Later, we witnessed a bullfight at Las Ventas (apparently one of the premier arenas in the world). We met our two roommates from the hostel (both doing a semester in Paris, one originally from India doing university in an international school in Hong Kong, the other from Amsterdam with roots in Turkey). While we were in line for tickets the people behind us, from Canada, started talking to us and we invited them to join our group. Then one of our roommate’s friends joined and brought several others with her. We bought tickets for eleven people. It was quite the group.

The fight was an interesting cultural experience, though certainly strange and a bit challenging. It was certainly difficult to watch the first bull die—I was surprisingly disturbed by it, though it wasn’t quite scarring (thank you, media!). After six bulls and three matadors (each taking turns fighting a bull), I learned to appreciate a bit more the art of the fight. The steps of the dance of the matador as he approaches the bull and the anger and aggression of the bull as he tries to defend himself is [perhaps euphemistically put] a celebration of the power of nature, the courage of man, and the intimate but volatile relationship of the pair. The fight is personal. It’s difficult, exciting, and expressive. A praised matador will make the bull look fierce and forceful, himself courageous and beautiful. In the end, the talent of the matador is shown in the mercy of his execution of the bull: a decisive kill earns the respect of the crowd as they stand with a shout of “olé!” in honor of the matador and remain standing out of respect for the bull.

Several bloody and hot (but [quasi]artistic and inexpensive hours later)

I enjoyed my intensive cultural experience.

…or at least it was extraordinary enough an experience that I enjoy having it.

(F.Y.I. Bullfights are being outlawed in the near future in at least Barcelona.)

After the fight we went out for dinner at a little café. I tried Spanish meatballs, Spanish tortilla (a potato cake), and paella. I’m not a fan of seafood, which was proven again in my distaste for the paella. As we headed home, we splurged on a container of ice cream eaten quickly once back at the hostel, which concluded the night.

Perfect.

Beaches in Barcelona, Matadors in Madrid—what will Seville bring?