by Carol Weston
Dear Diary,
In New York, when we go to musicals, up close is better than far back. But if you're too up close, you can end up seeing all the spit that spurts out of the singers' mouths, and it can be gross.
In a bullring, if you're too up close, it could be way grosser. You'd smell the hairy bulls and see their sweat and cuts and blood and guts (a disgusting almost poem).
Matt said this place reminds him of The Story of Ferdinand, the book about the nice bull.
It reminds me of a Yankee game. But while a baseball field is a diamond, and a football field is a rectangle, a bullring is a circle—and not a circle of life like in The Lion King. A circle of death!
“For Halloween,” Matt just said, “I'm going to be a bullfighter.”
“Or you could be a dork. Then you wouldn't need a costume.”
He looked kind of hurt and I felt kind of bad. Mean things sometimes pop out even when we're getting along. “Kidding,” I said. “You can be a bullfighter. Or even a bull! You'd be a great bull. You've been practicing!”
“Marc, I don't see any other children here,” Mom said. “Not many women either. I hope this is a good idea.” She said she's never seen a bullfight because Antonio thought they were cruel and barbaric.
“Oh pleeeease,” Dad said.
“Is this going to be fun?” I asked.
“Some consider it an art form,” Mom said.
“Spain has had bullfights for centuries,” Dad added. “This might be interesting, exciting, possibly even beautiful. But no, Melleroo, not necessarily fun.”
A brass band just started playing, and bullfighters, or toreros (Tore Air Ohs), are entering the ring. Uh-oh, the bullfight is about to begin!
Anxiously yours,
Dear Diary,
I expected one bull to bite the dust. But every bullfight has six different bulls and three different matadors.
When the first bull, or toro (Tore Oh), came into the ring, I wanted to name him Bullwinkle, and Matt wanted to name him Buddy. We started arguing, and Dad said, “Kids, do yourselves a favor and don't name him at all. He'll be dead before you know it.”
And he was!
Matt and I felt awful when the bull rolled over, his four dusty little hooves sticking up in the air.
Men tied him up by his horns, and mules dragged him off, and out came Bull #2, puffing and pawing and snorting and stomping.
I said, “I don't want to see this bull get hurt.”
Dad said, “Then, cupcake, you came to the wrong place.” He patted my knee and said I could cover my eyes.
“Do the bulls ever win?” Matt asked. “Or is it a setup?”
“An upsetting setup,” I said.
“How could it be a setup?” Dad said. “It's man versus beast, or once in a while, woman versus beast.”
“I know what I don't want to be when I grow up,” Matt said. “A bullfighter!”
“Me neither.”
I took a quick peek at Bull #2. BIG mistake! Six harpoons were sticking out of the hump in his back. “He looks like a porcupine!” I announced. “He's bleeding! Can we leave?”
Dad reminded me that he asked weeks ago if I wanted to go, and I said yes, so long as we didn't have to sit up close.
Well, the reason I said yes was not because I wanted to see a bullfight. It was because for the rest of my life, I wanted to be able to say that I had seen a bullfight! There's a difference!
I am now writing in you instead of looking at what's happening to Porcupine Bull.
Matt just said, “Mellie, stop writing for a sec and look at Bull Number Three. He really is like Ferdinand!”
You know what? Matt's right! Bull #3 isn't stomping or charging; he's strolling around minding his own business.
“This time, I'm rooting for the bull,” Matt said.
“I don't know who to root for,” I said.
“Whom,” Mom mumbled.
Well, the officials must have decided that this bull is a bore because other bulls just entered the ring and lured Sweetie Pie out.
Matt and I cheered. (We were the only ones, though.)
Now a giant non-Ferdinandy substitute bull is racing in, ready for action.
Matt said, “Hoh” to a white-haired man sitting next to us, and now Mom and the Spanish Grandpa Guy are babbling away. He said he was enchanted to meet me and asked, “¿Te gusta España?” (Tay Goose Ta S Pon Ya), which means, “Do you like Spain?”
I said, “Si, but not bullfights.”
He laughed and said, “You will let me explain?” (Mom translated.)
I said, “Si.”
Grandpa Guy said, “First, you see two picadores (Peek A Door Ays) on horseback. Their job is to poke the bull with long lances and make him mad.”
“I hate the pokador part,” Matt whispered. (He said “pokador.”)
“Me too. I feel sorry for the bull and the horses.” I stuck out my lower lip, and Matt made a matching face.
Grandpa Guy said, “Next, you see three bandilleros (Bon D Yair Ohs) with red-and-yellow-ribboned harpoons. Their job is to stab the bull and slow him down.”
“It's so not fair!” I whispered to Matt. “It's not one-on-one. It's one bull and a bunch of bullies!”
“Yeah, but, Mel, the bull is by far the scariest thing out there! Look at the horns on him!”
“Good points,” I said, but Matt didn't get it.
Grandpa Guy said, “Finally, you see the matador. You know his job, yes?”
In case we didn't, Mom informed us that matador (Matt Adore) comes from the verb matar (Matt R), which means kill.
I used Dad's opera glasses to check the killer out. Here's how he's dressed: in pink socks and bright-bright tight-tight golden pants that stop below his knees and an embroidered golden jacket with shiny shoulder pads. The pants are really really really tight because if they were baggy, the bull's needle-sharp horns could get caught in them. He also has on dainty slippers and a black cap with Mouseketeer ears. Grandpa Guy said the outfit is called a suit of lights. His cape is red, but bulls care about flapping, not color. Bulls are color-blind!!
Mom pointed out the matador's photo in our program. “He's twenty. Isn't he handsome?”
Since when did Mom start noticing handsome guys? Or has she always?
Does she have a thing for Spanish men?
Do I?!
Matt asked, “Do bullfighters make a lot of money?”
Mom said, “A few become rich and famous, like ath-letes and pop stars.”
Matt asked Grandpa Guy if he'd ever seen a bullfighter get killed. Turns out this matador had a famous father who died in the ring! You'd think a son would not follow a dad's footsteps into a bullring, but in Spain, lots of little boys dream of becoming bullfighters.
Dad told Grandpa Guy he was reading a book called Death in the Afternoon by an American named Hemingway. Grandpa Guy's eyes lit up. He said Hemingway is popular in Spain because he makes people think about life and death (who wants to do that?!) and because he understands the drama and passion of bullfights.
Passion?!
I've decided to watch again.
This is the face-off—the final stage of the bullfight. It's down to one bull and one bullfighter—so the pressure is on. I put up two fingers and said, “El toro y el torero.”
Grandpa Guy put up three fingers and said, “El toro y el torero y Dios” (D Ose), which means, “The bull and the bullfighter and God.”
I don't know if God goes to bullfights, but I bet the matador is hoping for any help he can get because he looks pretty puny down there in his tight pants.
He is trying to get as close to the bull as possible without getting gored. He's swinging his cape as if to say, “Here, Bull! Here, Bull Bull Bull!” then standing proud and still as a statue. He's acting as if it's no big deal to be so so so close to a dangerous ton of moving mammal.
Grandpa Guy says he's “confronting death.” Me, I'd be running for dear life. I'd be pee-in-my-pants petrified!
The crowd is standing and shouting “¡Olé!” (Oh Lay), so we are too.
The matador just got down on one knee— as if he's going to propose or something! The bull went flying by. Now the matador got down on both knees!! The bull is circling around him! Now the matador is standing up. Wait! What?! He just turned his back on the bull—on purpose! No, don't do that! Turn around!! Phew!!! Now he's puffing out his cape again, as if to beckon the bull to come and get him. Now he's having a private-public stare-down with the angry animal!!
Aaaaaaahh! I can't watch anymore!
Everyone is yelling “¡Olé! ¡Olé! ¡Olé!”—especially Matt.
“Should I look?” I asked him.
l looked. The matador turned toward the bull and plunged his sword right between its shoulders and right through its heart. The bull fell to his knees instantly and collapsed onto his side! Grandpa Guy called it “a clean and noble death.”
The crowd is losing it!!! Ladies are throwing flowers, and everyone is waving white handkerchiefs and white pieces of paper. Grandpa Guy said the crowd thinks the bull's ear should be sliced off and given to this matador.
“Why would he want a bloody ear?” I asked.
He said it's an honor (Oh Nor), and he could give it to his girlfriend.
Eww! Eww! Eww! I wouldn't want Miguel to give me apiece of bull ear!
Grandpa Guy said the judge has to make the decision. Then he looked over at the judge and said, “No. No ear.”
Now the crowd is mad. They think the matador does too deserve a bloody ear for his girlfriend. Everyone is whistling—even Matt, who is a terrible whistler.
I suddenly feel like a sportswriter.
But I still don't feel like a bullfight fan.
apartment
unbelievably late
Dear Diary,
After the bullfight, we took a quick siesta (Mom made us), and I washed my hair and changed so I'd look as good as possible when we met Miguel and Antonio for dinner.
At the restaurant, at 9:30, Miguel kissed me on both cheeks.
He'd changed too. His shirt was the color of chocolate. It matched his eyes. I was thinking of saying that he has nice brown eyes (ops or Oh Hhho's) but I managed to keep my mouth (boca or Boh Ca) shut.
“How did you like your first bullfight?” he asked.
“My first and probably my last,” I replied.
“I loved it!” Matt said. “It was interestinger than I thought.” He waved his napkin like a cape.
“More interesting,” I corrected him. I didn't want Matt to teach Miguel bad English.
“I don't like bullfights, “Antonio said. “The bullfighter is getting paid but the bull is not. The animal suffers for our pleasure.”
“Oh, Dad,” Miguel said in the same tone I sometimes use with my dad.
“It's animal abuse,” Antonio stated.
“We are not vegetarians,” Miguel pointed out. “We are carnivores. Why is it worse for a bull to be killed in a spectacle than for a cow to be killed to make hamburger? At least the bull has a chance.”
“I like hamburgers and I like squashing bugs,” Matt announced, though I wasn't sure what his little contribution had to do with anything.
“Are bulls an endangered species?” I asked.
“No,” Miguel said. “The kind of bulls you saw, tows bravos (Tour Ohs Bra Vohs), are as different from regular bulls as wolves are from dogs. They are very mean. They would rather die fighting than run away.”
Antonio added, “They are bred especifically for bullfights.” (He said “especifically”—not “specifically.” Dad and I looked at each other but we didn't correct him.)
“Bullfighting is not for everybody,” Miguel said. “But we don't all have to like the same things.”
I looked at Miguel and thought: But yooouuu have to like meeeeee!
Out loud I said, “Gracias for the sweater,” and gave it back before I spilled anything on it. I'm not exactly known for my neatness.
He said, “De nada” (Day Na Da), which means “You're welcome.”
Dad added, “And gracias, Antonio, for arranging the tickets.”
“De nada,” Antonio said. “If I go to the States, you can get me seats to a… boxing match—or an execution. I am kidding, clearly!”
But was he kidding about coming to “the States”? And if he was serious, was that bad news (Antonio visiting) or good news (maybe Miguel visiting)?
Dinner was pork chops. Chop is chukta, pronounced Chew Lay Ta. Matt made a joke about how we could eat them now but chew them later. “Get it?” he said. “Chew LayTa?”
Luckily, Antonio changed the subject to movies because it's Oscar time in Spain and America. He and Dad started talking about two Spanish directors—Bufiuel (Boo Nyoo L) and Almodovar (Ahl Moe Doe Var). Then Antonio said I look like a Spanish actress! An actriz (Ack Treece)! I'd never heard of her, but Miguel agreed, “May Lah Nee does. It's true.”
I smiled and asked, “How did you learn English? In school?”
“School and CNN!”
Grown-ups say watching TV turns your brain into mush, but if you watch in a different language, maybe it makes you extra smart.
Well, it was getting soooo late that in America, people would have been walking out of restaurants, but in Spain, people were still walking in!
Spaniards don't believe in bedtime.
They believe in nighttime.
After dinner, instead of saying “Hasta manana” (Ah Sta Mon Yon Ah) or “See you tomorrow,” we decided to take a walk.
People were cooking paella. Outside! Over open fires!
Valencia was having a paella-cooking contest! At 11:00P.M.!!
I could not imagine Manhattan having a late-night hot dog cook-off.
It smelled delicioso, but it was smoky. Some paellas were bubbling full of vegetables and chicken—yum! Others were full of clams and squid—yuck! Others were probably full of rabbit—sad!
Antonio pointed out a few of the humongous structures that will get burned down tomorrow night.
The streets were so full it felt as if we weren't even walking—just getting pushed along. At 1:30 in the morning (I'm not kidding, that's what time it was), we were in this crush of Spaniards, and we heard a loud kaboom above our heads, and we looked up at—
They call them artificial fires— fuegos artificiaks (Fway Goes R T Fee Syal S). Miguel picked up a flyer and handed it to me. It said (in Spanish) “Night of Fireworks, 1:30 A.M.” Can you imagine anything in New York City officially starting at 1:30 A.M.? I'm going to take it to school so I can prove to my Spanish class that Spaniards are party people who don't like to go to bed.
Antonio said these fireworks are famoso (Fahm Oh So) and some pilots ask for permission to fly over Valencia so they can see them from above.
Famous? I'd never heard of them, so I thought: How impressive can they be?
I'll tell you: They were amazing amazing amazing!
We stood there, smushed like sardines, looking up at the pink, orange, purple, blue, green, yellow, and red fireworks! Some shot up and came down looking like palm trees or weeping willows or shooting stars or soft old dandelions that you blow on. Some squiggled, some zigzagged; some were fast, some slow. Some went up, came down, then went back up again!
Matt said, “My neck hurts, but I don't want to miss any.”
“Same,” I said. Then I asked Miguel, “What are the fireworks like on Independence Day?” I hoped that was a good question.
It wasn't. It was a dumb question.
“We don't have Independence Day,” Miguel said. “We never really depended on anyone, so we never had to declare independence.”
At least he didn't add “Duh.” Maybe they don't say “Duh'OnCNN?
Dad said that centuries ago, explorers claimed a lot of places for Spain. Years later, those places had to declare independence from Spain—like Mexico, parts of the United States, and much of South America. Even Holland used to belong to Spain!
“We are not too
good at holding on to things,” Antonio said. “But we are very good at living in the moment. We make the most of the here and now.” He glanced at Mom.
Fireworks kept going off, and Matt and I kept saying “Oooooh” and “Aaaaah.” Mom and Dad did too. But Antonio and Miguel didn't. They are used to incredible fireworks.
“In New York, we have fireworks on July Fourth— when we got independent from England,” I said. “Also on New Year's Eve.”
Miguel asked, “New Year's Eve?”
“December thirty-first,” I explained. “People go to parties, and before midnight, they give out funny hats, and start watching TV and waiting for a big shiny ball in Times Square in Manhattan to go down down down. When it reaches the bottom, everyone shouts, ‘Happy New Year!’ and fireworks go off.”
Miguel said that in Spain, New Year's Eve is called Old Night or Noche Vieja (No Chay Byay Ha). People go to parties, and before midnight, they give out bunches of little grapes and start watching TV and waiting for a bell in a clock tower in Madrid to ring in the New Year. When it does, bong bong bong, everyone eats one grape for each ring. By midnight, everyone's mouth is stuffed.
“Does anyone choke and drop dead?” Matt asked. Miguel said people are careful to chew and swallow before they shout, “¡Feliz Año Nuevo!” (Fay Leece On Nyo Nway Vo.)
I said, “So you watch a bell and we watch a ball!”
Miguel smiled. “Just so, May Lah Nee.”
It is now 3:00 A.M. (!!) and we're finally going to bed. It is so late that Cecily might already be in her pajamas on the other side of the ocean!!
When Miguel said, “Good night,” and I said, “Buenas noches,” he kissed me again on both cheeks! (I didn't kiss him back or anything.)
Monday, March 19
Dear Diary,
If this were a regular day in New York, my school day would be almost over. Since this is spring break in Spain, my vacation day is about to begin.
I love vacation!
We slept past noon then begged and begged and pleaded and pleaded and got Mom and Dad to order in from Pizza Hut. The Spanish pronounce it Pizza Hot. It was hot—and good!