Los Torros (the bulls)

14...13...12... Occasionally, there comes a time at the end of a basketball game when I look up at the clock and painfully realize that the game is out of my control.  I feel completely helpless, as if I have just been slugged in the stomach and am buckled over desperately waiting for a gasp of air.  I watch the seconds tick off at a sloth’s pace, fighting until the last whistle, knowing full well that my efforts will make no difference what-so-ever.  It was one of those shoulda, woulda, coulda games that makes me feel just sick afterwards and knowing that we had an 8 hour train ride ahead of us did not help, either.  

Sarah and I, our first time in Barcelona!

We had a steady lead of about 6 points during the whole first half, but it was one of those weird feelings because I felt like we should’ve been up by 15, but whenever I glanced up at the scoreboard it was brought to my attention that we were actually a lot closer than I expected.  We have a history of slow second half starts, and Saturday was no exception.  A thrown clip board and a few kicked chairs were additional members of our last timeout, Charly was not happy.  We’ll see how his mood is today.

 The bright side of this past weekend’s game was the opportunity however short it might have been, to drive through part of Barcelona.  Our AVE train dropped us off at the Barcelona train station and from there we boarded the bus and drove about 30 minutes to the gym.  During this 1/2 hour drive I was delighted to see the sea, a glimpse Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia church, the stadium in which Ricky Rubio plays, and my most favorite site of all, the Torre Agbar. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Torre_Agbar.  During my Sophomore year of college I took a Spanish History class and was required to give a presentation about some faucet of the history of Spain and I chose architecture.  I had several slides specifically dedicated to Torre Agbar.  I must have looked like a 5 year old during his or her first plane ride.  My hands and face were pressed up against the windows of the bus, my mouth was a jar, and my eyes were alive and bright as I happily recorded the moment into my memory for safe keeping.  My teammates have now started to call me “la japonesa (the japanese woman)” because I take pictures of everything;)

Torre Agbar shot from the bus.

Now, I wouldn’t necessarily put the Torre Agbar sighting and the 8 hour train ride home in the same category of “brightness” but I do have to admit that a slight upwards turn of my mouth occurs involuntarily, when I think about our sleeping conditions.  I said a prayer to God and thanked him for my 6 foot frame as I laid on my back with my legs outstretched, almost to full capacity.  The steel walls of our cabin felt hard as my feet propped up against them, I couldn’t imagine being any taller.  I looked around at my teammate sleeping an arms length across from me and my 4 teammates in their beds beneath me and felt as if I was in the army sleeping in the barracks with 5 fellow soldiers. 

Crammed in on the Sleeper train!

We arrived back in Madrid around 8am on Sunday morning where my roommates and I quickly entered our apartment and crawled right back into bed.  When I woke back up around noon I wasn’t completely sure what the second half of my day would behold.  A few hours later I was sitting quietly on the metro reading a book, surrounded by people from all over the world.  In Spain, if you ever wish to take a trip on the metro when the most tourists are bound to be right there with you, go on the day of a bull fight.  The metro stopped at Las Ventas and nearly all of us got up to leave.  Once again the thoughts of finding my friends amongst the throngs of people weighed on my mind, but as I took the last step up and gazed to the right my mind was put at ease as I saw his blonde curls coming towards me amongst a sea of brunettes.  There he was, my friend from High School, Tom Veazey, along with his sister, brother and another friend.  We waited in line for a brief while, bought 5 tickets and made our way into the stadium.  

Now, I’m not exactly sure what I had imagined a bull fight to be but it was definitely a better image than the one in which I walked away with.  The stadium’s capacity is 25,000 and perhaps 1/2 of it was full.  We picked seats in the shade and waited for the trumpets.  There were 6 bulls in total, however, we only stayed for the first 3 and that was enough for me.  Each bull was unleashed into the stadium and unknowingly given about 20 minutes until it would no longer be charging, huffing and puffing like it once was.  There were several men dressed up in the most masculine North American threads you’ve ever seen, complete with spandex leggings, hot pink knee-high socks and bedazzled jackets. I’ll try and give you a quick version of what I saw next.  A man referred to as a Picador comes out on a horse.  The horse is wearing protective armor and is blinded with cloth.  The Picador is also carrying a long lance.  Then the bull approaches the horse and runs, full throttle right into the horses side.  On occasion the unsuspecting horse is knocked off balance and brought to the ground with a hard thud while the bull's horns are threatening the horses belly.  Before horses were allowed to wear protective armor, there were actually more horse deaths than bull deaths.  The picador then spears the bull in the back in hopes of wearing him out a tad before the matador faces him.  

After the picador completes his task, he and the bull leave the arena.  Next come the Banderilleros.  There are three of them and each of them has the task of jabbing two “razor sharp sticks” into the bulls flanks.  By the time the three of them are finished, the bull’s fur is matted with blood, yet he continues to fight valiantly.  Lastly is the showdown between the matador and the bull, however, the matador has such an advantage that it’s not even a contest.  The bull is completely focused on the red cape and even though the matador is standing right next to the cape and completely exposed, the bull never once thinks to charge the human.  As the bull starts to fatigue the matador sashays his hips, tauntingly in-front of the bull drawing as close as an arms length away.  Then, the matador drapes his cape on the ground grasping the attention of the exhausted, unsuspecting beast.  The naive bull obediently lowers his big, boxy head towards the cape.  

The Ring.

Dragging the bull out of the ring:(

Meanwhile the matador takes his gosh darn time, raises his arm, aims his sword at the bull and then plunges it directly between the bulls shoulder blades en route towards the aorta.  If all goes according to plan it should only take one fell swoop of the blade, however, 2 of the 3 matadors were not so skilled and proceeded to stab the bull 9 consecutive times until the poor animal crumbled to it’s knees in defeat.  After each gruesome stab, the bull continued to lower his head and stare at the cape, giving the matador yet another free shot.  Once the bull has collapsed, another man enters the ring and viscously stabs a knife into the neck of the bull in order to sever its spinal cord.  Lastly, the bull is tied up by its horns and dragged out of the ring by 4 small horses, meanwhile most of the spectators are cheering gleefully and waving white handkerchiefs.  The bull is promptly brought to a butcher and sold off to the surrounding restaurants.  The tail is a specialty. 

I guess I just thought that there would have been more of a even fight between the bull and the matador.  Perhaps that sounds incredibly awful, but the animal seemed doom from the very beginning and the whole spectacle was just sad.  The bull was physically more superior than the man, but what the man lacked in strength he made up for in brain power, so much so that it appeared to be one big, sick, cruel, disheartening, completely unfair game.   The 5 of us walked numbly out of the stadium with despondent looks on our faces.  In reference to the stadium, I believe Tom’s exact words were “arena of death.”

Ok, sorry for the depressing previous paragraphs. Now, moving on to “Leslie’s Loose Ends” 

-Wednesday, Sarah and I set out early with the wind at our backs as we searched Madrid for shoe stores with specialty sizes.  I need to stop getting my hopes up, size 11 just doesn’t have a place in this society.

-Spent an hour with Maria and Juan on Wednesday and at 6pm when they went off to catechism two of their next door neighbors took their place, Mario (8) and Alvaro (10).  I sat and had a full blown english conversation with a 10 year old.  Alvaro has been attending an english immersion school since the tender age of 3.  No, this is not a misprint, 3!!!!!

-Cooked and ate dinner on Wednesday night with a high school friend of mine, Tom Veazey.  Besides spending quality time with Tom, we were accompanied by his sister, brother, cousin, and two other friends, one of whom attended elementary school with me.  How much smaller can this world become?

-Found out that I have been calling my teammate, Maria Espin de Sancho, a porcupine.  Her last name is Espin de Sancho and so many of my teammates call her, Espinette.  I thought that this was just another term of endearment like Sarita (dear sara, or little sara), instead I found out that it meant porcupine.  Perhaps this is what was making my teammates giggle every time I said it.

Savored the taste of red wine on Sunday night with Tom and Alana.  Our paths cross occasionally during the summer months since college and now since graduation, but to be together and enjoying each other’s company on a terrace in Madrid was a beautiful gift.

Alana, Tom and I spending time together out on Alana's balcony.

I discovered a pizza place with crust as thin as the tissue paper from a gift bag. One more reason why europeans are slim and trim.

Approaching page 4 is a sure sign that this e-mail needs to come to an end.  Have a wonderful week, everyone!  Keep your updates coming, I love hearing from you all.

besitos, Leslie