La Corrida en Miranda, Part 1

The bull seemed to fly right out of hell. The mass of black fur shot out of hiding, rattling the wooden panels separating the audience from the arena. The crowds roared, riling up the dark force of nature. For an animal so large, it should not have been able to move so swiftly. I cheered on the beast, adding my voice to those of the masses. The air buzzed feverishly, adrenaline surely pumping through every body in the stands, and not just my own. My eyes, fixed on the bull, did not dare blink.

This was a whole new level of culture shock. People say that you can experience anything and everything by watching videos or reading a book. But then you go off into the world, and the floor gets pulled out from under you. Familiarity is left behind, and the world becomes entirely mesmerizing. The globe spins more rapidly on its axis, to the point of flinging itself out of orbit and into the next galaxy. This new level is altogether terrifying, raw, incredible. This was a corrida, a bullfight, right in the heart of Spain.

Around the arena the bull ran, dust flying up in it's wake. The arena itself was small, being the town square of a little pueblo named Miranda. People were seated on balconies and make-shift bleachers. Some people stood behind wooden barracks lining the edges of the arena. My host siblings and I sat on a wall, having climbed a rickety ladder to claim our spots. Behind us, a band played classic bullfighting-style music. Trumpets blasted in our ears. 

The people behind the wooden barracks held giant cups overflowing with beer. As the bull neared them, they stepped out from safety, alcohol sloshing out of their cups, egging on the bull. My heart stopped as the bull nearly impaled three men. They escaped out of reach from the deadly horns at the last second, only to return to the open when the bull lost interest. They waved around their own mini red capes.

"Those guys are completely insane!" I shouted over the chaos to my host sisters. Excitement and terror were near bursting in my chest.

Soon, the banderillos stepped out from the barracks, beginning their dance with the bull. 

"The banderillos are helping the matador learn how the bull moves. They tire out the bull, too," said the younger of my host sisters. They held out their pink capes. I took note that their names appeared to be printed on the inside, stamped in black. The beast grew timid at first sight of the banderillos, but soon returned with its initial fury.

After some time came two men mounted on armored horses, with spears in hand. "Those guys are called picadores. They make the first stab," informed my host sister.

The bull charged at the steadfast horse, and the picador thrust his spear into the top of the bulls neck. Out of the fresh wound spurted bright red blood. My body went cold, arms rough with goosebumps. I'd nearly forgotten how this would end. The banderillos moved to the edges, and the picadores left the arena. Now came the matador.

The matador stood in the center of the arena, completely macho in his composure. I could relate to what his mind must have been like, in that one moment in the beginnings of the fight. He was a performer, just like me. He was thinking clearly, but letting the performance instincts take over. It's like thinking without thinking. I could see it in his dark brown eyes.