A Sunday Afternoon in Madrid

Hemingway said that bullfighting was one of the three true sports. But before reading Hemingway I had fought the bull in my backyard as a small boy. I had only that ratty towel from the bathroom to use for a cape but I could hear the crowds yelling, “Ole!”, as I fought the ferocious beast. But now I was in Spain, where bullfighting began and I was to see the real thing.

We got off the Metro at the last stop to see the Madrid bullring within view. There was a crowd waiting for the gates to open the bullring whose architectural details were Moorish. There were the usual vendors selling t-shirts and posters and stuff to eat and drink. Plaza Toros de Las Ventas is the most prestigious bullring in the world. Completed in 1929, the ring is almost 197 feet in diameter and has seating for twenty-five thousand. Claudette bought our tickets online and our seats are on the very first row or about six feet from the ring. I think it’s great but don’t mention to her that I’ve seen a bull jump the wall into the front row of seats in a YouTube video. I had done a bit of research and knew that we would see three matadors kill six bulls during the evening.

The bullfight begins with a great fanfare with the band playing as the matadors and their teams enter the bullring. I half way expected to hear the Tijuana Brass version of the “Lonely Bull”. The matadors enter the ring first in their glittering suits of gold braid and sequins reminiscent of a rhinestone cowboy. Each matador, bullfighter, has a team of assistants to aid him. They include picadors, men on horseback, a sword handler, and other men some dressed like matadors. All ten men are paid by the matador.

The crowd cheers as the matadors enter. The most senior matador is on the right as they face the place of honor in the stands. This is reserved seating for the king, mayor or whatever official to whom the fight is dedicated. Soon only four assistants in the brightly colored matador costumes are left in the ring. From our right the bull enters the ring. He is big and black and weighs about fifteen hundred pounds. He charges each of the men. In front of us the assistants jump behind the fence as the bull charges. We feel the splinters from the fence as the bull hits it. He snorts, paws the earth and charges again. One of the other assistants attracts his attention and he charges him. Other assistants attract the bull to charge them as they wave their brightly colored capes in front of the bull. A picador enters the ring riding a horse which is blindfolded. The horse has heavy padding to protect it from the horns of the bull. The bull immediately charges the horse and lifts the horse and rider off the ground. The lady next to me covers her eyes. The picador stabs the bull in the shoulder with his lance. This is the beginning of the end for the bull as he begins to bleed. The matadors attract the bull away from the picador and stab him with short barbed spears. The bull knocks one of the assistants to the ground and attempts to gore him. The crowd screams. He narrowly escapes as the other men attract the bull away and he crawls behind the protective wall.  The Spanish really love their matadors.  In one instance when a favorite matador was gored to death by a bull, they killed the bull and then, they killed the bull's mother. She was giving birth to "killer" bulls they said.

The bull’s movements begin to slow. His charges are no longer vigorous. Now the assistants have left the ring and there is only the matador with the bull. He continues to tempt the bull into charging with the movement of his cape. The crowd shouts, “Ole!” with each of his ballet like moves inches from the deadly horns. At one point he turns his back on the bull who is staring at his back. He confidently walks to the side of the ring near us and selects a sword from his sword handler. Walking back into the ring he tempts the bull to come in very close with his head near the ground. The matador thrusts the sword into the between the shoulders of the bull. The thrust is deadly for the bull and he falls instantly to the ground. The matador doffs his hat and bows to the cheers of the crowd. The crowd also cheers for the bull that has fought a good fight as he is dragged from the ring by a team of three mules.

We watched three more bulls killed. One of the bulls would not fight and booed from the ring. I found out later much to my chagrin that the great fighters fought in the spring. Maybe, the next time I’ll be here in the spring.

The Hug...

“Can I give you a hug?” he asked. “It’s part of my initiation.”

Claudette said, “Yes!” And the somewhat rotund University of Coimbra student responded. The upperclassmen in their long cloaks laughed as I mimicked punching him out!

We were walking to the Coimbra market to get some sausage and cheese for our road picnics when the students approached us. We had only been in this Portuguese city of some one hundred thousand on the Mondego River for a few hours and had seen some of the student hi-jinxs in front of the Monastery de Santa Cruz. The Monastery is a national monument since the first two kings of Portugal are buried in it. We had been relaxing with our 1.5 € beers while watching the university upperclassmen instruct the yellow t-shirt clad freshmen on how to dance in a fountain. The 1.5 € beer was, of course, advertised as one euro but by the time it was delivered to our table it was 1.5. Something was lost in translation, I think.

At the market we bought our sausage and cheese, and then continued to the elevator which would take us to the top of the mountain. We were curious about the fee, but a student was quick to tell us that it was a free ride for old people. We smiled politely and thanked him. We got a great view of the city as the elevator soared upward. The lift shaft and car are of Plexiglas. At the top we were greeted by…cats, five furry felines. Not thrown away looking cats but well fed looking cats with their own food dish. Naturally, I had to take a quick photo of the cat person I’m married to with the cats.

We continued our walk onto the University of Coimbra campus past the anti-capitalism graffiti to the central campus where they were having a fair of some sort with many booths promoting various activities. We were accosted by some pretty female pharmacy students attempting to sell us ballpoint pens which resembled hypodermic needles. They were decked out in the black uniform suits with white shirts and ties and the ankle length black capes. Their English was excellent, and I have difficulty resisting a pretty face. So…yes, I have another pen. Will U. S. Customs have a problem with it? I don’t know. On our ride back to the lower town via elevator one of the passengers was blind, and the lift operator and passengers alike helped him out. It was good to see those fortunate looking out for the less fortunate.

Once back in the lower town we went about trying to find the location of the fado performance. Claudette approached a young man who asked, “French or English?” She answered “English” and he told her the performance called “A Capella” was held in an old church on a lane which was barred to traffic. On the way back to Hotel Dona Inez Coimbra we passed Sao Tiajo church, a small twelfth century Romanesque structure. The simplicity was interesting, particularly after seeing so many elaborately decorated cathedrals.

Once at our hotel the desk clerk got us tickets for the performance and arranged for a cab to pick us up. We took a nap and had a bite to eat before going to the performance. Nothing happens before eight or nine on the Iberian Peninsula. We simply told the cabbie “a capella” and off we went. About halfway up the mountain we drove down a narrow lane and walked a few yards to the small church. It was below street level accessed by stone steps to a courtyard set up for outdoor dining. Although we were early, we were invited in to a table in the front of the performance area. A DVD was playing and projected on the wall. This was our first introduction to fado. The performer featured was Mariza, whose video is below.

After the video a waiter brought us a pitcher of vino verde as it was time for the performance to begin. A guitarist sat in a chair about eight feet in front of us and began to play. I’m thinking,” What kind of a capella performance is this? With music?” He was joined by another musician who was playing what we found out to be was a Portuguese guitar. It has twelve strings and the appearance of a medieval lute. The sound of the music was very interesting and had sort of a “gypsy” sound. A rather good-looking fellow in a dark suit and white shirt sans necktie appeared and spoke to the audience in English, Spanish, and Portuguese about the origins of Fado de Coimbrs and of how the singing had originated from local townsfolk before being adopted by the students of the university. He said that the Portuguese word “saudade” best describes the music and there is no English equivalent. An audience member said it meant “nostalgic”. The guitarists began to play, and his baritone voice filled the chapel with a mournful song. After several songs and a break in which the singer visited the tables and talked with the audience members, the performance continued with the singer teaching us the chorus of one of the songs. We raised our glasses of vino verde and sang a sad Portuguese song in a twelfth century church with the audience. It was great fun. The singer, still shrouded in a student’s long cape, introduced the musicians and the show was over. Outside the chapel the performers chatted with the audience members of which there were about thirty.

We climbed the steps to the street and walked to a waiting cab. The driver was a surly, wiry young man with a shock of jet black hair who seemed anxious to get our business. He slammed the Skoda into reverse gear and backed rapidly out of the street. Claudette cringed. Then we went down a street crowded with students narrowly missing some of them

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way!” she says to the driver. Tires screech and the direction we are traveling is reversed. Upon reaching the hotel, Claudette complains that the fare is more than the price we paid to go to the performance by cab. I convinced her that we would not win an argument against the cab’s meter and paid the cabby. We would have been easily ripped off had we not known where we were. But tomorrow we would be in our rented Opal and leaving Coimbra after a, for the most part, fun filled visit. I took some photos and did some pretty good sketches in Coimbra.



Oh, yes, by the way, I found out that “a capella” means “the Chapel” in Portuguese.

 

A nice little beach on the Mediterranean

Cadaquez:
We went for a walk along the street by the beach, some on the sidewalk and some in the street. It was one-lane with the Mediterranean Sea on our left and various restaurants, hotels and other buildings on the right. The motorscooters and cars were behind us but you could easily hear them over the noisy seagulls and waves lapping the sand. We found a restaurant we liked, Rosa's and ordered some bocadillos, sandwiches. Mine was ham and cheese although they use a different word than jamon for ham in Catalunya. Claudette had a sausage sandwich and the price was right. Cafe con leche was or choice of after dinner drink. The daylight faded into twilight as we watched the boats bob at anchorage and couples in the sand geot dangerously close to one another.
I have found the one true reason to visit Spain.

Cité de l'Automobile

The entrance to the hotel parking lot was through a covered alleyway. We knew the hotel had off street parking but were not prepared for the gated entry with a keypad. As a fan of automobiles I was delighted to see a Ferrari in the parking lot. After all, our purpose for being in Mulhouse, France, was to see one of the most prestigious automobile collections in the world. The hotel was really nice although the desk clerk was rather snooty. Mulhouse was different from most French cities we had visited in that it was more Germanic and this was quite noticeable in the names of streets and businesses. Indeed it had been a part of Germany several times in its history.

We caught the bright yellow tram after purchasing a ticket at the ticket kiosk for our trip to the museum which is located in the industrial part of the city in a former textile manufacturing facility. The museum is of 19th century architecture and covers about 200,000 square feet or a little bigger than a Wal-Mart Super Store but on three levels and is well laid out with automobiles grouped in several categories. The automobile collection was started by Fritz Schlumpf, the textile magnate to whom the building belonged. However, due to the demise of French textiles the collection eventually became the property of the French government. Hence it is known as  Cité de l'Automobile, the French National Automobile Museum. Schlumpf was an avid fan of Bugatti automobiles and had an extensive collection. Here you can see Bugattis from the very earliest to the latest Veyron. Of the 500 cars in the collection, ninety-seven brands are represented, but one hundred twenty-three are Bugattis. Some of the other brands are Hispano-Suiza, Ferrari, Rolls-Royce, Maserati, Maybach, Mercedes, and Porshe of the 400 cars on display. There are 1one hundred twenty on reserve and twenty on loan to museums throughout the world. 

The displays are meticulous. There are cut-a-way displays of vintage Bugattis and displays of engines with explanatory videos. There are the early one cylinder engines as well as the later V-10 Peugeot and W-16 Veyron engines. In the display of the Bugatti Royale the wooden forms upon which the sheet metal was formed are on display. Formula 1 racers are displayed with a giant photograph of a raceway crowd in the background. Other racing cars such as Grand Prix and rally cars are also displayed. Many of the cars are grouped according to year of manufacture. The Bugatti Veyron, the world’s fastest production automobile, has a place of honor. Another interesting inter-active display allows you to sit in a Citroen sedan while it is rotated on its axis imitating a rollover crash. It was inoperative when we were there, but then I’ve done the rollover before in a Ford on the highway. Some history need not be repeated.

It is very interesting to observe the evolution of the automobile through the displays. Here you can see how the primitive three-wheel vehicle evolved into the modern sedan. The museum is very quiet and comfortable, more like an art gallery than a place of greasy mechanical things. (They are not greasy, everything is pristine.)There are some truly historic automobiles such as the Bugatti Royale, Mercedes-Benz SSK and Colin Chapman’s F-1 Lotus. Chapman’s design changed Formula One racing radically. Notably missing is the Ford GT-40, the car that beat Ferrari at La Mans and 1932 Alpha-Romero racer which dethroned Bugatti as a consistent winner. Young Enzo Ferrari was a driver for Alpha-Romero in the early days. Regrettably, I saw only one American brand and it was a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

The French National Automobile Museum was another one of those places I could have spent a couple of days or more. But we had to move on and find the place where my uncle had died in France during “the war to end all wars”.

_____________________________ Additional Information French Auto Museum Mulhouse, France Bugatti My video of the museum ___________________________

Labor Day Delight

Labor Day just was. One thing I always enjoy food wise on Labor Day is hash. Now, according to Webster, Noah or a reasonable substitute, hash is a dish of diced or chopped meat and often vegetables, as of leftover corned beef or veal and potatoes, sautéed in a frying pan or of meat, potatoes, and carrots cooked together in gravy. However, the definition according to the folks I grew up with in the Piedmont area of South Carolina this is not quite the same. My ancestors are of strong Scots-Irish stock and make hash a different way. We do not use leftover meat but fresh from the butcher pork and beef. Usually the only vegetables added are white potatoes what we called Irish potatoes and onions.


The cooking process is different as well. A cast iron wash pot is used, one or more depending on how much hash is to be cooked. It is a long and time consuming process usually about twelve hours or more. It all begins with the selection of meat. Cap’n jack said always use a combination of beef and pork. He, my father, preferred one quarter beef to three quarters pork. Boston butt for the pork, and I don’t know why the shoulder of a hog is called a butt except maybe the people of Boston have some kind of anatomical identity problem. The meat is put into the pot and the fire started and the usual firewood is seasoned hickory or oak. Then begins the long night of keeping the fire burning and stirring the meat so it doesn’t burn. The meat is cooked until it falls apart. Some people actually pull the meat apart and some perform the ultimate desecration of the meat by grinding it. Potatoes in half-inch cubes are added with chopped onions in this late cooking process. As dawn approaches all the hunting and fishing stories have all been told and some of the fellas have taken a little drink from a half pint bottle of spirits to better to welcome the new day. It was also time for the final seasoning of the hash. I’ve seen all sorts of things added, vinegar, butter, hot sauce, red and black pepper, salt, and various spices. Seasoning hash is a very personal thing. My preferences are salt, pepper, vinegar, sage, red and black pepper.

When I was growing up this was always a dish for a celebration, a holiday, a family reunion, or a big meal at the Lodge hall. It was usually served in small cardboard trays with sweet pickles and sliced white bread with plenty of sweet iced tea to wash it down. Maybe it’s a Southern thing?