Every possible scenario that could happen in a bullfight happened. A man got trampled and hurt and the matador did, too (though he just stood right up).  A bull wouldn’t get “mesmorized” by the cape so it couldn’t be killed in the fight and had to be herded off the field by these white with brown spots–he was malo or plain stupid with ADD-like tendencies.  (During this fight–because there are actually 6 within the event, 3 per matador–someone was so frustrated they threw a shoe in the middle, raising more controversy.)  People protested against the fights during a transition period (because half of Spain supports them and the other half thinks it’s low culture or cruel) and were swooped away by the police.  A new matador also won his first ear and paraded around the circumference to wave and blow kisses at his adoring fans who threw fans and hankies that he would retrieve and throw back.  (This honor is granted by the approval of the crowd via standing ovation or waving white hankies. )

Thanks to the help of the Spanish man I sat next to, I was able to understand a lot more. That, and studying the tradition with all its corresponding controversies, made me really appreciate the event. I wasn’t expecting I would like it (it does come with a lot of blood and brutality) and only went because my dad encouraged me to do so, but at the end of the day (well, semester) I would go back.  They are dirt cheap, too, so that’s all the better.  In fact, there are also bullflights in South America that I would love to see when I get down there to hear “good” Spainsh…someday.