Jared T. Miller • Spain
El Jueves from Jared T. Miller on Vimeo.
I’ll be honest–I was looking to give my Spanish-speaking skills a test-drive on this one.
I had heard about Calle Feria from a few friends, on separate occasions. That’s the name of the street–Feria, or fair in Spanish–and being filled with old cameras, odds-and-ends, and generally, life, it seemed a good and visually interesting place to ask someone Spanish, in Spanish, about was going on.
I got a great response from David Alfonso Gonzalez, a young native Sevillan who recounted the history of the fair for me. It’s practically as old as the city is (at least when it changed hands to Catholic rule), and was instrumental in reviving the city. The “plazas de abastos” he talks about were food markets, serving up typical Andalusian fare (probably not too far from your own mental image of medieval fairs, since this market was founded about a century before the Bubonic Plague hit). Now, there’s everything, people drinking outside at bars and people-watching while tourists and natives alike dig for gold among the piles of surprisingly diverse goods.
It’s a great little part of the city, bustling with people though the streets surrounding it are quiet early on a Thursday morning, and I’d suggest it even to the passive street-fair enthusiast (like me). You get a good vibe watching people laughing as they drink their mid-morning glasses of wine and beer, vendors talking their customers into buying some junky Transformers toy, and the generally oddball stuff they have there (posters of Franco!). Best of all, it’s not particularly flooded with tourists–at least not American ones.
Even if you’ve seen it all in art history textbooks before, seeing Italian art in its home country is an incredible experience.
In that, I include the ancient Roman stuff too–the architecture, if not because of its historical importance, should qualify as art because of the extremely beautiful way it was constructed and the aesthetic feel it gives to its namesake city.
Going to Italy fit my “travel now, while you still have the cash” philosophy especially well; at times, it’s hideously expensive (unless you stay in the “Twin Cities” hostel like we did, resplendent with Minnesota Vikings memorabilia, and made all the more awesome by the absence of any explanation of why any Italians are fans of the Midwest), and it’s got the best art in the world–or at least is the home of some historically significant work (and the inspiration for most of it).
Another reason it fits the philosophy: working in South Africa this spring left me with the feeling that, should I have the opportunity to travel or work abroad in the future, doing so in a developing nation is a lot more dynamic (save for collapsing European currencies) than the well-established democracies we know and love. That’s not objectively true, but it’s my own personal choice to spend time (in the future) in those areas–so spending a long weekend in Italy meant catching up on all the art I could find the time to see.
From the moment I stepped out of the subway station outside the Coliseum, I was stunned. No matter where you look, you’re surrounded by architecture older than you can possibly imagine in the moment. It’s an overwhelming feeling; look to your left, and there’s the Coliseum, where precursors to the Olympic games, Spain’s favorite bullfighting, and even mock naval battles were held. Look to your right, there are the ruins to the Old City. And behind you are even more ruins, the city creeping its way up the hill carefully constructed around less-important ruins and way-important piazzas.
And then there’s the art. First came the Sistine Chapel. Lines were crazy that day and I had my priorities, but the Vatican Museum was wonderful–several important works inside a palacial monument to Christianity. I found myself remarking that day that without the aid of the church (and the [un]questionably corrupt Popes who represented art’s major patrons), the art historical cannon would look nothing like it does today. Maybe it’s the effect of a Jew like me looking at so much religious art over the last few months that he’s now able to identify Saint Sebastian and John the Baptist within seconds (I’m sure there’s a Jew joke to be made about it not being too challenging for me to identify Jesus on the cross). But standing in the Vatican Museum, it was striking the ties between religion and art; it was practically all that was being produced in the middle ages, and once art rediscovered its roots and got realistic and figurative in the renaissance, it happened to have exploded throughout Italy and strikingly on the ceiling of the Sistene Chapel.
Now comes the point where I recommend you see the Agony and the Ecstasy, if you can find it on anything but a dusty VHS. It’s a real throwback to the days where people still had attention spans and actually watched movies about art history, but entertaining nonetheless. Charleton Heston as Michaelangelo duking it out with Rex Harrison as the Pope (yes, he also appeared, less holy, in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) is how I wish the Renassiance really happened.
Although I missed the Pieta inside the Vatican itself, the chapel’s ceiling is not too bad for a sculptor–whose other famous work (among many, many examples), the David, captivated equal attention. For that, we traveled to Florence, a beautiful city in itself. That’s where Italy keeps it’s big guns, art-wise; the Galleria degli Uffizi and the Accademia di Belle Arti Firenze.
Jesus, what a city. Uffizi holds Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, several Da Vincis, Michaelangelos, Rembrandt self-portraits and a slew of religious artwork. What struck me a lot of the time (and it happened in the Academia as well) were the pieces that, next to their descriptions, said “property of the Uffizi museum since 1582″ or something like that. Where else? Art is admittedly about much more than the brushstrokes on the canvas, and walking around a museum as old as the modern era with that feeling in my head was truly a unique experience.
The Accademia was plain hilarious. Although it was founded way back in the 1500s by Cosimo de Medici, it almost seems like an afterthought of a building next to the Uffizi–much smaller, and much less busy. But it holds, among several other unfinished Michaelangelos (really cool to see works in progress from the masters), the David. No matter where you see it, it’s an anatomical feat to behold, but seeing it in the museum’s main atrium (it seems practically designed for the piece) was something truly special. It’s a rare moment in life when you experience awe like that, and I’m glad to have had it; at the risk of ruining the experience for anyone I won’t go into too many specifics but the intersection of its scale (about 8 or 10 feet tall), incredible craftsmanship, and historical significance really take your breath away. One of my favorite moments from this fall quarter abroad, hands down.
Thank you, readers of the internet, for allowing me to indulge my art-related nerdiness. More engaging, less-lofty content coming soon.
I joke that going to Belgium was a pilgrimage of sorts for me, being an unfortunately obvious beer snob. But I don’t think I fully embraced how much Belgium resembled my own Mecca until I got there.
Important in any pilgrimage is a reason for going, often in the form of an important place or experience. For some, that is seeing the Sistine Chapel (done that! More on that later–now that was a religious experience), visiting the tomb of a saint, or praying at one of the world’s largest holy sites.
For me, that place in Belgium was the Délirium Café. It won entry in the Guinness Book of World Records in 2004 for having over 2000 beers, more than any other bar. It’s essentially three floors of glory, resplendent with beer-sign kitsch, plenty of fellow snobs around, and 20-odd taps (that’s probably more than quadruple your local watering hole).
But the number wasn’t what interested me–it was the quality. Délirium stocks some of the best beers in the world, which I had the privelege of sampling. It stocks most of the world’s Trappist beers (there are 6), which are beers brewed by Monks; they ran out of ancient Latin texts to transcribe, and having a mandate to produce something tangible beyond their religious commitments, they thought beer was a good choice (so do I). They stocked the beer I came to love during my time in South Africa; they stocked banana, coconut, and raspberry beer (that last one’s a framboise, a special kind of fruity beer, popular in Belgium and worth a try at least once), and they even stocked a hometown favorite–Brooklyn Lager. They are also the producers of Delirium Tremens, the beer in the white-speckled bottle that you may have drank at a hipster cocktail party or something. Believe me, that one’s wonderful, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg.
But enough about that. How can you expect to make a pilgrimage without enough food to last you the journey? That’s where Belgium shines. The progenitors of French Fries (a delicious, delicious misnomer), Waffles, and some of the most delicious chocolate I know of, Belgian chefs have struck gold. Wikipedia’s entry on Belgian has now become my favorite, based on its opening alone:
Belgium has been called a nation of gourmands rather than gourmets: a country, in other words, where “big cuisine” comes before “fine cuisine”. It has been said that Belgium serves food of French quality in German quantities.[1]
It’s true. When I heard their national dish of sorts was Moules Frites, or a pot of steamed mussels with a bed of french fries, I swooned. There’s something great about their waffles too–incredibly doughy, but not in the raw sense; perfectly cooked and served with powdered sugar. Nothing more is necessary, and they’re a street food to boot.
But beyond that all, it’s the Church of Beer’s doctrinal differences that I admire. There’s an incredible ethos to Belgium, and Brussels in particular, that allows the country and city to both take itself seriously, take great pride in what it does well, and laugh at its own idiosyncrasies. For example:
• Belgium is home to the European Parliament. ‘Nuff said–it’s taken seriously on an international scale as a place of business and is not as readily dismissed as this blog post might have suggested.
• Now-famous Belgian Adolphe Sax, in 1841, invented the saxophone. From what I can gather, that speaks for itself in terms of coolness and national pride.
• The official city symbol of Brussels is the Manneken Pis. It is exactly what it sounds like–a statue of a small boy pissing, visually aided by the fact that the statue doubles as a fountain. It was also put in its current location in 1619; a long history of not taking itself too seriously. There are a handful of heroic piss-related stories surrounding the statue’s origins (I kid you not), and yes, since you asked, there is a museum dedicated to different hilarious outfits the sculpture has worn over the years–oh, and from time to time, they hook it up to a beer keg for the refreshment of passersby. Not to be defined by chauvinism, Jeanneke Pis was created in 1987, and she now squats happily opposite the entrance to Délirium Café.
• On a tour of a brewery in Bruges, our tour guide explained to us why Belgium has so many beers: “We want to make one for every kind of palate.” To me, such a kind sentiment. People aren’t grossed out by beer there, nor do they live in fear of its caloric content (MythBusters #1: An average beer is a bit over 100 calories–but hey, so is that Rum and Coke you’re nursing over there while you explain how beer just tastes bad and makes people fat). The fruity beers, bitter beers, Trappist and dark beers, wheat beers and light beers (table beers, or, “those are for children,” as our tour guide said) all contribute to a pantheon of beers not too dissimilar from the rest of the world’s fetishism of wine. Except without the incredibly high-minded, exclusive connoiseurship that wine espouses. Though with beer, there’s plenty to talk about…
Visiting Belgium was a calling. It was as intoxicating as I hoped it would be, and were it not for the terrible health problems that would result from eating too many waffles every day, the generally idyllic surroundings that would prevent me from getting any serious work done, and an unsustainable beer habit given the proximity of Délirium Café, I could get to like living there. They’re quirky without being off-putting, beer snobs without the pretension, and have a great sense of humor (and a killer taste in food). In other words, the kind of people I like to hang out with in the States.
One thing I love, the more time I spend in Spain: The moments of universality, of goofy sameness that makes us all relatable.
Tonight was one of them. My señora is out of town visiting a relative, and so it’s just us tíos; José María, the (host) father, José María, the (host) son, and me, the holy spirit? No, that can’t be right. It is confusing, though, living with two generations of the same name and no Junior or Roman numerals to make things clearer.
Anyway, I know it might hold less weight in a country known for its machismo, but one of those universal moments dawned on me as we three watched the F.C. Barcelona v. Real Madrid game.
In stark contrast to the somewhat elaborately prepared, always two-course meals that my señora makes each day, for each meal, my host father ended up cooking. Made a perfectly serviceable chicken stewed in tomato sauce, accompanied with french fries and a bit of soup. Definitely spartan cooking though, in the style most men are proud of–letting meat smolder for a while on the stove while you pay attention instead to the boiling oil in front of you, totally frying the hell out of those freeze-dried potatoes.
We ate in the kitchen–none of this tablecloth, place-setting formality for us (although that was mostly because the only TV in the house showing the game was the one next to the stove).
We ate in silence, hunched over like monks studying religious texts, watching FC Barcelona wailing on Real Madrid (the score was 5-0, a killer game by anyone’s standards). The occasional gasp, as necessary, confirmed that we all agreed a shot was close or a penalty was unreasonable, as is befitting of most beings with testosterone and a TV remote.
Just dudes being dudes–no frills, no bullshit, and very little art to the act of living. I suppose one could be accused of worse. But I loved the notion that, no matter how far you get away from home, the act of watching sports without any women in sight still resembles the dumbest of American beer commercials.
Los Pueblos Blancos from Jared T. Miller on Vimeo.
If you’ve got a few days in Sevilla with nothing to do, I’d recommend you get out, as soon as possible. Preferably, to somewhere like the Pueblos Blancos that dot the hills of Andalucia’s southern regions.
Uniformly painted white, the towns exist in or around Sierra de Grazalema National Park–making them appealing to me in particular, in that a trip there let me indulge my interest in hiking. The last time I spent a few hours on the trails was years and years ago, back when my parents and I had a stronger “roughin’-it” tendency.
Traveling recently, taking a “hike” has offered more than initially promised–getting my nature fix is usually the point and usually fulfilled, but the trip there is a hike in itself, with scenic drives, winding roads, and adorably claustrophobic European streets to squeeze through, ducking into doorways to avoid passing cars. Literally–there’s not enough room, and standing in the road gets you squashed.
The Pueblos Blancos were no exception. Maybe it was the fact that the trip was one of the first few non-university-mandated excursions out of Sevilla, our first taste of freedom, or maybe it was just because the towns are so damn cool, but the whirlwind tour of four cities in two days was one of the better quick-fix trips I’ve taken.
We started out from Sevilla, bare already-harvested farmland passing us by as we approached the hills south of the city. The first was Zahara de la Sierra. Like most of the towns we visited, it had a singular claim to fame that made it worth the visit, and in this case, it was Zahara’s old tower. Climbing up the tower, free of tourist information or context, felt much less contrived than some of more common visits we’ve been on as a group; it had the feeling of genuine discovery rather than the horse-with-blinders feeling of tourist trips.
Not long after, we moved on to Grazalema (the favorite of the weekend). But not before eating some tapas–gambas (shrimp) that came to the table still boiling (featured in the video), and the coolest jamón con melon I’ve ever had. We’re not talking cubed melon with a bit of cured ham–we’re talking a big honkin’ slice of honeydew-like melon (really great here) with serrano ham draped over it like a throw rug. Absolutely delicious, and pictured below.
Grazalema was great–proving the weekend’s theorem that the smaller a town got, the better the experience. There wasn’t any particular claim to fame, as far as I was concerned, but the fact that it was located within its namesake national park meant that there were several short trails to hike on, branching right off its main road. The drive up, too, was more loopy than the rest, giving a feeling of seclusion. It felt untouched; hiking nearby found us sharing the mountains with goats and vultures flying overhead, a sign that the trails weren’t used often enough to scare the wildlife away.
We arrived in Ronda by nightfall, planning to shack up for the night and explore in the morning. The hostel we stayed in, located in the poligono industrial (I like thinking of it as an “industrial polygon” for the cheap laughs that result–it really was a particularly dismal area), tainted the experience of that city a bit for me. Ronda is famous for its bullring, the oldest in Spain and historically significant, and its truly epic bridge, with an almost comically tall arch at its center. This had the adverse effect of making it particularly tourist-y, and although the older section of the city was enjoyable, I wouldn’t recommend it highly unless you’ve got time to spare–the spectacular views of the bridge can be seen from outside of the city as well.
We finished the trip with a visit to Arcos de la Frontera. It sort of split the difference between Ronda and Grazalema (the two extremes) of tourist development. Fortunately, though, we were visiting on a Sunday and also bypassed the newer sections of the city. We wandered around on some of the narrowest, steepest streets I’ve seen, and some children tossing a ball on the street drew my admiration–if one of them missed, the ball would end up rolling a few hundred meters before it hit anything capable of stopping it, turning a quick game of catch into a round of ski-ball). Passing old churches in the relative silence of a city’s day of rest gave exploring it a particularly intimate feel. It also gave ample time to reflect on the saccharine-sweet Sultanas we bought at a bakery (Macaroons for my Jews out there; sweet mounds of coconut for my gentiles who still have trouble with the ch- sound) as well as the rabbit-meat tapas we had. They were delicious–the region is known for its game meat and I now know why.
Heading home from Arcos, whether due to our indulgence on good food, our weekend of independence, or the thrill of a four-city whirlwind tour of a weekend, we felt satisfied. Touring the Pueblos Blancos has the feeling of taking a tourist’s road less traveled–whether true or not–and was a beautiful backdrop for a first experience away from Spanish city life.
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Music notes: I of course wanted something Spanish, evoking thoughts of Flamenco, Don Quixote, and similarly colorful stereotypes. But I actually ripped the rhythm part from a passing guitarist on the street–it cost me a euro to ask about it and have him show me how to play it, but I’m not complaining.
On the western side of the river, in an office park just before the world ends, lies a monastery that holds most of Sevilla’s modern art and will make you question your existence.
Let me explain. With a few hours free this Friday, we decided to head to the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo, assuming we’d see some relatively unknown artists (in the international art world at least) at a run-of-the-mill museum.
The trip there set the stage well. The museum was situated on the same side of the river as the neighborhood I live in, and so I figured “north” was a specific-enough set of directions to go on. As we walked up the main streets of Remedios, my lively neighborhood, and Triana, historically the source of most of Sevilla’s intricate tile work and ceramics, the scenery became bleaker and bleaker. Pricey tapas bars gave way to abandoned storefronts and supermarkets, and eventually to new real estate development.
As we passed by the city’s final bridge across the Guadalquivir, the took its turn for the surreal. To our right, construction sites and newer office and industrial parks; totally out of place in a city where even unimportant buildings tend to have intricate tile work or brightly-painted façade.
And to our left: Nothing. Literally. At that moment, it made sense why Christopher Columbus was one of the first people to convince us the world was round when he set sail not far from Sevilla over four centuries ago—once you pass the outlines of the city’s last buildings, only about a block away from where we stood, the city ends abruptly. The only thing visible for dozens of kilometers beyond was scrub brush and a four-lane exit road to the west, with mountain ranges far off in the horizon. No elaborate system of suburbs and exurbs—just nothing, like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
After wandering through confusingly similar office buildings, we finally made it to the museum. Arriving at the museum was no less bizarre. The former monastery was practically vacant mid-afternoon, and was laid out in the classic Spanish fashion (as I interpret it): A tremendous walled compound, constructed as if to safe guard the bare land it sits on as opposed to using it for living space. A peek around the corner of the main gate revealed one of the few humans there, who sold us tickets and instructed us to follow the small red arrow signs that would guide us through the labyrinthine monastery.
What lay inside was even more bizarre. One doorway might lead to a 16th century Catholic altar, replete with statues of saints; another, to a particuarly frightening Louise Bourgeois sculpture (one of a couple of American artists showing). One actually led to a room full of sarcophagi of an apparently important Catholic family, of course free of any sort of explanation. The whole experience was surreal—sounds from a few video installations reverberated off the vaulted ceilings of an old chapel, and macabre sculptures by new artists were surrounded by walls with aging mosaics by older artisans.
It seemed a good idea to take a walk after making it through all that, so we wandered through the orange grove conveniently located behind the museum buildings. As I was about to remark on how weird it all was, the steely whine of someone playing a Stratocaster, soundchecking across the road from us, broke the silence—with the hook from Prince’s Purple Rain. Walking around the walled gardens, I made the connection to the acid-trip scene from Easy Rider: Disparate snippets of life in grainy, overexposed glory. The last bit of weirdness before we left was stumbling upon an old Arab tower, where entering the main room (with no discernible purpose of its own) required swimming through a two-story wall of beads. We did the whole disorienting thing in reverse as the sun began to set on one of the weirder afternoons I’ve ever experienced.
. . .
I feel like by writing about the experience literally, I sucked some of the life out of it—throughout the whole thing, I had the oppressive notion that “this is the weirdest freakin’ thing I’ve ever visited.” Walking around the monastery had the shocking, but not necessarily frightening (in this case) feeling one gets when wacthing a horror movie—never knowing what to expect each time the camera pans around a corner.
But overall, it pointed to a feeling that had been building over the last few weeks of guided tours and day trips; the notion of a disjointed, cobbled-together legacy of a country that often manifests itself physically. Many of Andalucia’s most beautiful cathedrals and castles are former mosques and Muslim palaces, sometimes built atop of Roman ruins. The country’s history reads like a tale of various defeats, with Columbus’ voyages and Spain’s golden age of Catholic domination sandwiched between Roman, Visigothic, and Muslim invasion and occupation, and the near half-century dictatorship of Franco on the other side.
It’s a strange feeling, in a country that’s also fiercely (and notoriously) proud of its heritage. The landscape here is made of cobbled-together victories and defeats—much like my day-to-day life here—and I still don’t quite feel at home. We’ll see. Classes and a particularly insane (but blog-worthy!) travel schedule begin in a few days.
Maybe the piecemeal architecture will be the right scenery for my only-one-half-of-a-senior-year-end-of-school-job-hunt-euro-trip-carch-course-in-speaking-Spanish-study-abroad-experience after all.
As the title implies, a tiny post–I’ve got a video, some photos, and my general impressions of a weekend trip headed your way.
But, before we left Friday, we ended up going to a tapas bar that actually felt Spanish, on the recommendation of my host family: La Primera del Puente. Though some of the entries on the menu were translated into English (always a bad sign for authenticity), the clientele was heavily spanish.
I’m liking the tapas culture–the two-plate lunch/dinner is nice, but the prices never are. On Friday, we ordered some killer fried Bacalao (translated as Cod, but way more flavorful), an ensaladilla de pescado with nicely fresh shrimp, and one of the cutest plates of Paella I’ve ever seen. Washing it down with a tinto de verano (wine with either seltzer/club soda or your choice of lemon or orange soda–sacrilegious in the states, maybe, but with plentiful wine here it’s actually a refreshing drink) cost about 12 euros. Split between two people, not too bad a price for the quality.
I was definitely digging the tab, written in chalk in front of your plates each time you order another tapa.
Fuller, more insightful post coming soon. But for now, giant Ham Pringles!
My fellow sevillano and 195-er Josh Brechner already did a great job covering the events of the bullfight we saw this Sunday, so I won’t over-saturate you with stories of gored novilleros and the particularly gruesome death rituals of bulls (I hope my funeral doesn’t involve being dragged by horses before calling it quits for good).
Rather, in the way most becoming of bloggers, I’d rather share some of the more interesting, nuanced, and challenging issues that I’d been thinking about, while attempting to keep you interested with pretty pictures.
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I had come to the bullfight on Sunday expecting the obvious. Sure, there would be somewhat of a slaughter going on, but I hoped the art of the event plus a sort of sociopathic temperament gained from shooting photos and videos of all sorts of odd and unjust things would keep me insulated for a while.
Things started off great. What you’ve read or seen in that Bugs Bunny cartoon of the bullfight (guilty!) is true; there is music, courtesy of a live orchestra, and it is wonderful. As I later learned, they only play when the action is getting good, usually when the big-name torreros are in the ring. So most of the novilleros did their work to the sound of a hushed crowd.
After being primed by a few stabs from a horse-mounted picador (a tradition that, until the horses were given armor, used to result in a higher mortality rate for horses than bulls), the banderilleros (“flagmen”) emerge capeless, with the brightly-colored banderillas that hook into the bull and continue to draw blood.
The first bull didn’t put up much of a fight, which made it all the more distressing to see it hauled out of the ring, chained to a couple of horses, bloody and stiff. Men with whips snap them at the ground while running after it, drawing attention to the conquest.
And, as Josh recounted, the goring incidents were particularly horrific. Rarely was the matador the victim of the attacks. Often, the two or three bandilleros, put in place to taunt or distract the bull after a successful encounter, were the ones being rushed out of the ring. One we had all thought had been hooked on the jacket is now in serious condition, but expected to recover. Another, from what I could tell, got nailed in the legs by the bull. He was rushed out as blood streamed down his legs, but not before sprinting faster than ordinarily possible away from his attacker.
I try to have a balanced view of things. It’s a Spanish tradition, exported around the world (parts of southern France, as well as many places in Latin America), and is in no way more inhumane than the Romans we love to admire. That’s not to say you should take your animal-rights-activist arguments from people for whom murder was a sport (and a crowd-pleaser), but bullfighting isn’t anything without precedent. And as I spoke with my host family, my Señora said she couldn’t imagine Spain without bullfighting, no matter the protesting in Barcelona and the surrounding region, the ethical issues and the increasingly antiquated values it represents (it doesn’t exactly account for vegans, or “going green” or anything like that).
And as I watched it, I immediately realized its appeal. It entertains and evokes emotion like no movie ever could – you’d be hard pressed to leave that bullring feeling nothing, even if it’s satisfaction in the case of some locals in attendance. It establishes a direct connection between what you see and what you feel, and is incredibly raw. Even the most entertaining of live events often require some mental processes to occur before you fully enjoy them.
At one lull in the action, one of the crowd members yelled “¡Ey! ¡Estamos aburrido!” (“Hey! We’re bored!”). It’s a unique fusion of art, sport (though never a sport if you ask a Spaniard) and mortality, and it has its followers.
I was particularly interested by the details: The infrastructure it requires, the lifestyle it imposes upon the people who make it all work and the network of vocabulary that exists to describe the nuances of bullfighting.
When a novillero is still training, attending bullfighting schools like the one we passed on our way back from a day trip recently, they pay for that privelege. And bullfighting is not exactly a meritocracy–more experienced torreros take notice of the newer ones’ progress, and adopt them into a sort of apprenticeship. When the novice liberates his bulls of enough of its ears and tails, both having symbolic significance, he is then considered his master’s equal.
There is money in winning a bullfight, but it is only a gold mine for the best torreros. Their suit, the traje de luces that is named for the embroidery that makes it shine (“luces” means “lights”) as the torrero does his work, can cost up to 24,000 euros. It also must be cleaned after each match, which requires dissasembling the delicate embroidery–a job one of our professors’ friends has, a seamstress solely for the clothing of bullfighters. Raising the bulls is a lifelong job, with constant demand, and there are countless other jobs surrounding the enterprise that keep thousands employed in a region (and country) where unemployment is soaring.
And then there are the more subtle implications. There are surgeons who specialize in vascular surgery and are rewarded with high demand in the hospital nearby the plaza de toros. There is the montera, the traditional bullfighter’s cap fashioned from the hide of a bull. And there is the estoque, a sword deliberately engineered with a barb a few centimeters from the end, denoting the depth of the thrust that must penetrate between two of the bull’s vertebrae–the bull does not suffer when this is done correctly, and it is the mark of a superior matador.
It’s a culturally indicative art form, with little room for prudishness or compassion for the animals involved. But it’s also difficult to sustain, as the physical and economic price of continuing the practice continues to rise, with smaller returns and shrinking crowds.
At its best, it is a beautiful image; my professor asked “¿Por que hay música? La sensacion es que el toro esta bailando con el torerro.” (Why is there music? The sensation is that of the bull dancing with the bullfighter.)
And at its worst, it is a barbaric sport, art that comes at a steep cost and has opponents throughout the country.
But as my Señora said, it’s impossible that bullfighting will disappear from life here. Whether brutal or beautiful, it’s Spanish. It’s part of who you are.
Day One, Sevilla from Jared T. Miller on Vimeo.
The above video is a decent summary of my first few days in Sevilla– frenetic and rough around the edges.
Which is not to say it wasn’t a great decision. But in introducing myself on The 195, I remember considering this fall as an educational opportunity to improve my Spanish speaking abilities, with space for a bizarre version of “Fear and Loathing” in various European locales.
Surprisingly, the easiest part of the whole experience has been speaking Spanish. Factoring in jetlag, lack of sleep, and the general disorientation that comes with beginning a (temporary) life in another country, I’m surprisingly able to articulate myself. I only really become incoherent when I have to use some tough combination of verb tenses, but hey–that’s what you get for learning English without paying attention to the way the language actually works.
For a New Yorker like me, Sevilla has been a confusing city. Much of the streets near me exist for about 100 meters (the size of a football field, for all you English system-loving fans out there), and then end abruptly at a tapas bar. Or worse–change names three or four times before you reach your destination. Its the thing that makes Europe so romantically adorable to your average tourist–alleyways and narrow sidewalks–but makes it easy to look stupid when you have to be somewhere with your body still functioning on Eastern time.
Though I feel like I’m getting the hang of it now, the first few days living in a homestay had been similarly rough around the edges. With a limited means of expressing thanks, problems, or anything else, it felt for a while as if I took two steps back each time my Spanish took a step forward. I would praise the deliciousness of the food, only to be told to clean my room (to be fair, I had just unpacked my suitcase and my clothes were sitting on the floor, neatly folded–I guess the limited space in the house is at a premium, even when it’s technically mine to use for the next few months). Forgetting simple courtesies, which is usually my stength, feels more essential to making a good impression than it might otherwise be. But then again, I’m American–if I pronounce my double l’s and don’t make too much noise, I think Spaniards consider that a decent first try.
The video also has two important implications:
1) Expect more of it. Assuming I don’t have to cop the “Barber of Seville” theme on my guitar every time, the music will seem more appropriate. And I don’t think I can do Sevilla justice, in terms of how beautiful its scenery actually is, quite as well as my camera can.
2) This place is pretty good-looking. To say the least–it’s got architecture that’s centuries old, and the University took the place of an old tobacco factory. But you wouldn’t know it–apparently, una fábrica de cigarillos, means “palacial” in English.
Oh, and I’m living with a dog for the first time, interestingly named Blackie (though I wish it was spelled Blaquí). Please excuse the non-dog-owning only child in me for now.
