I arrived in Seville without a plan, or a hostel booked, thanks to the non-existent wifi in my shitty Algeciras hotel room. After leaving the bus terminal, I began following the crowds of people to a main street. I walked for an hour before finding a hostel sign. I was tired and didn't give a fuck if it was good or not. I checked in, downloaded some maps to my phone, and went to bed for the night.
The next day, I went to the common room with my laptop, and met some Dutch girls that were giggling and tickling each other. After the standard questions, about the length of your stay, and what your plans were for the night, we decided to go check out a bullfight. I wasn't really into the idea. I had never watched a bullfight on TV and wasn't sure what to expect. I asked if they wanted to drop acid with me. They turned me down, but, they were cool with me being a little out of my mind. I dosed (~50mcg) on my way out the door and we walked to the arena.
I bought my ticket from a scalper at the door for $20. Only $5 over the face value. We grabbed some beers and found the brick slabs with our numbers. We were in row three. The arena itself reminded me of the movie Gladiator. One large, open pit, filled with sand, with two red concentric circles near the perimeter. All of the men were wearing long pants and shirts. Blue cigar smoke and machismo emanated from every seat. It was like going to boxing match from 1930's photograph. This was something the people took seriously. The acid began to kick in once I heard the brass band announce the first matador.
He couldn't have been more than 18 years old. Dressed in the traditional Liberace costume, he strut into the arena with an exaggerated superhero pose. A grimace of defiance and confidence etched into his face. The band played again, and a bull charged into the arena. The matador didn't move. He had backup for that. Six other matadors, with larger capes, had the bull running back and forth across the arena. I expected a one-on-one fight.
After the bull ran for a few minutes, it was foaming at the mouth. Some of the backup had switched to a spear in each hand. The spear wielders threw up a tough guy stance and waited for the bull to charge them. They all aimed for a spot between the shoulder blades of the bull. Three dudes, six spears. This is when I started to hear the awful noise the bull was making. The sound of an animal that is scared, and fighting for his life.
Finally, the main matador makes his entrance. Slowly strutting toward the bull with a smaller red cape, and a fake sword. At this point, the bull is too tired to charge with any speed. It makes weak attempts at the cape. The matador hardly moves. He plants his feet and sweeps the cape around his body. Everyone cheers for each sweep. Every so often, he feigns a jab with the fake sword. A few more minutes of this and the bull is weak and mostly just staring at the matador. The matador walks to the edge of the arena, and trades his fake sword for a real one.
He attempts to get a few more charges out of the bull before he strikes the death pose. Everyone in the crowd falls silent and waits for the strike. He manages to plunge the steel to the hilt, just forward of the shoulder blades. The crowd erupts like the winning touchdown at the superbowl had just been made. The bull bleeds buckets from his mouth and nose. He's not making noise anymore. He's staggering like a college kid being forced from a bar at close. He falls. The crowd gets louder. Everyone gets up to piss and find more beer. I'm struck silent. The girls I'm with have their hands over their mouths. We all look at each other like we witnessed a murder. We had.
A team of three horses enter, and they strap bull behind them. They drag the bull in circles around the arena before it disappears. The matador takes a victory lap around the arena and waves to the crowd. People throw things into the arena and he throws them back. Some people hand him cards. I don't know what that was all about. We all ask each other if we want to stay. The girls insist there is another event featuring horses and want to stay for that part of the show. After the people have resettled in their seats, we hear the band again. I feel the dull sizzle of the acid in the back of my skull.
Another bullfight plays out like the one before. This time, during the silence before the killing blow, the matador yells and startles the bull. His strike misses. The people sigh with disdain. Several attempts. Several misses. This is much worse. The bull is so weary, that he drops to his knees. The blow is struck, but no blood from the mouth. The bull is struggling. One of the backup matadors uses a small dagger to sever the spinal cord. The legs pop straight, and the bull tips over. The matador still peacocks as if it were part of the plan all along. He doesn't get a victory lap. The acid phases into a body high, and some light visuals.
Six fights in total. Two for each of the main matadors. Two hours long. At fight five, I'm starting to see the sand in the arena as brown ripples. The matador's golden sequins are covered in blood, the beautiful cruelty of humanity on display. The horse show never happens. The horse show is the chained corpse-drag around the arena. The three of us agree that we need to drink to forget the shit show we just witnessed. As we leave the arena, I feel the relief wash down my back. I'm optimistic that alcohol will help blur the memories forged on my neurons.
I follow the Dutch girls from the arena, toward the river. The closer we get, the more people there are. Everyone is congregating along one side near some tents. They ask a passerby why there is such a large crowd outside after midnight. The answer, as I understand it, is a festival for some saint. We push our way into the crowd to look at the tents. Drinks for 1 Euro. Shots for 1 Euro. It's going to be a good night.
We decide on a plan of action. We'll get one drink from each tent. If we're still standing by the end, we'll work our way back toward the front. Tequila. Mojito. Beer. Chocolate Tequila. Fight the urge to vomit. Beer. Mojito. Tequila. Beer. Beer. We reach the end of the line and stop to take a break. I've been mesmerized by the burning ghosts of neon for hours. I look at my watch. Three minutes. Time is being playful again.
I look over to the girls, they've been talking to me. I smile, manage a laugh. We can't really hear each other. Their English gets worse, so does mine. We all sit on the sidewalk, supporting the others. A man approaches and begins pointing at all of us, I ask the girls what he's saying. He wants to know which girl is mine. I look at the girls, they're uninterested in him. I hold them both by the shoulders, smile sweetly, and maintain eye contact with the man. He wanders off, muttering under his breath. The girls inform me he was insulting me. We all laugh and manage to head back through the crowd. Only two more mojitos. We're ready for bed. I look at my watch. 2 hours. 4am. We get near the middle of the tents and encounter a wall of police forcing people back. We duck into an alley, and take the long way around.
We cross the bridge on our way to the hostel. We all need to pee, but everything is closed. We find some trees along the river. They'll do. We each provide cover for the others and admire the graffiti, the short one is stumbling. We arrive at the hostel, and try to enter the common room. Closed. No vending machine food for us. The girls have bags of chips in their room, we eat them in the hallway, recounting the terrible start and wonderful end of the evening. We're all glad, on some level, to have witnessed the massacre. We don't understand why people enjoy it. We'd never do it again.