Hola,
Well to say our time in Spain has been interesting so far is an understatement. The lifestyle is wonderful but starting to feel a bit beyond my advancing years – the sun is still up and it’s still 30 deg at 9.30pm which means eating is late, and drinking even later. An early night is a 1am finish. I’m actually starting to crave an early night in bed watching re-runs of ‘While you were Sleeping’ (Sandra Bullock at her peak). But I guess more nights of wine and tapas will have to do.
Our last update had us in Madrid and on the bus to the Bon Jovi concert. The festival and Bon Jovi concert was awesome. About 80,000 people at a show ground about an hour out of town. Sadly for Krys, a life of male hair products will have to wait. She was not selected by Jon Bon to come on stage and stroke his greying chest hair (which was conveniently exposed by a leather vest unbuttoned to his naval). I had to write that bit while she was asleep – any mention of Jon Bon’s advancing years have brought angry looks and some cruel remarks about my own declining appearance. Jon Bon is untouchable. She actually pulled out a special shirt from her backpack just for her one shot at being the next Mrs Jovi…….
The only real issue we had at the festival was that the beers they were serving were bigger than our heads. And beer refill men were also working their way through the crowd. Which was all well and good but we neglected to consider the whole ‘what goes in must come out’ rule. So there we were in a great spot close to the stage 20mins before Bon Jovi was to start – and needing a toilet desperately. The decision seemed so obvious at the time – one person hold the spot while the other went to the bathroom. Then swap. It was only when I came out of the bathroom and looked out at seething mass of 80,000 raucous Spaniards at midnight on the outskirts of town, and with no way of contacting each other (Krys’ phone was at the hotel) that I realised what a stupid idea it was (maybe it was Krys’ master plan? To ditch the anchor so she could board the Bon Jovi boat untethered?). Anyway I forlornly pushed my way past agitated Spaniards in the general direction of where I left Krys while trying to appease the masses with “sorry – my girlfriend is in there” only to get a gruff response in broken English of “so what – go find another one”. I still have no idea how we managed it, but my rough triangulation of “50m from the front, 60m to the right, and vaguely under some criss crossed cables” had me stumbling across Krys before the opening riff of the Bon Jovi set
The next night in Madrid we went to a bullfight (actually there were 6 in the event we saw), which was an incredible thing to see. About 10,000 chanting and cheering locals jammed into a circular colosseum which looks down upon a dirt ring. The seats are stone (should have brought a cushion) and everywhere is draped in the yellow and red Spanish flag. The atmosphere is unusual; it is like watching the Spanish version of football with well dressed families bringing pre made rolls and pastries to share as they watch the brutality unfold.
The process for the fight was interesting, if a little violent. To start with, 6 matadors with pink capes would come out and run the bull around until it became a bit tired. Then two guys on horseback with spears would ride out and try to stab the bull in the back of the neck a couple of times. Then came two men on foot (the tight wearing ninjas) who would prance around and also try and stab the bull with little spears. Once this was done, out would come the matador with the traditional red cape for some one-on-one action.
It seems the main goal of the matador is to get the bull to continually dance around him as close as possible using the red cape as an irritant. A particularly expressive display is greeted with cheering, clapping and “ole’s” from the crowd. Once the bull was tired, the matador produced a sword which was then raised and driven into the back of the neck of the charging bull with the aim of killing it in one strike. Failure to kill the bull with the first strike meant that the bull was danced around some more before a final stab to the back of the head. The dead bull is then tied to the back of three horses, dragged around the ring as the crowd jeers, then is dragged out (and probably off to the butcher). Men then pour out into the ring, sweep and rake over the blood then the whole thing is repeated again.
What was most interesting about the bullfight was Krys’ transition from concerned animal welfare officer to blood thirsty death cheerer in the space of two hours. The first fight had Krys saying ‘I hope the bull doesn’t get hurt’ and ‘poor horsey’ when a horse was upended by a charging bull. By the final fight, Krys was cheering every wound but lamenting what she considered a poorly executed killing of the bull (apparently the sword didn’t go far enough in)…… I can certainly see the merits in introducing some elements of the Spanish bull fighting to NRL matches. Who wouldn’t love to see Billy Slater stabbed in the back of the neck then dragged around the field by 3 horses? I’d pay big money to see that.
We finished our time in Madrid by seeing some flamenco (those Spanish certainly are a passionate lot what with all the stomping and passionate embracing) before seeking a final drink in a bar. The bar could not have been any further from our expectations. In a back alley we stumbled across a place called ‘Bora Bora’. Sure enough at the bottom of the steps was a Pacific themed bar, complete with cocktails served in ceramic volcano and pineapple shapes, complete with long straws. The bar was filled with a mix of confused Spaniards and the homesick Maori community of Madrid watching ‘Bondi Rescue’ dubbed into Spanish on the surrounding tvs. Alcohol only added to the confusion of this place.
From Madrid it was on to Valencia on the East coast of Spain; it’s another pretty Spanish town with the standard beautiful castle and cathedral, but a lot grittier than San Seb or Madrid. The streets and buildings are darker and dirtier, and the streets around the old town felt like you could come around a corner and come face to face with a Spanish gang (or New Kids on the Block). It felt like the quality of the buskers had taken a significant step down too.
After exploring for the first afternoon, it was time to hire a scooter and ride to the coast. I thought this would be a fairly easy and pleasant experience; a nice cruisy ride through quiet streets to a day at the beach. Didn’t count on Valencia being such a big or busy city. The scooter hire place was very helpful with their instructions – the sum total of which was to hand us a map and show us how to turn the scooter on. So with minimal motorbike experience between us, Krys climbed on the back, held on tight and we pulled out onto the road. Luckily for us the hire place was located in a perfect area to get used to the bike – it sat on a busy 4 lane highway (sarcasm intended). So there we were riding down a Spanish highway with cars and bikes flying past us, Krys with her eyes shut and yelling words that I’m not sure were Spanish or just swear words that I’m not completely familiar with.
But the highlight of the day was still to come. As we neared the beach Krys was half navigating and half holding on when a sharp turn delivered a chinking sound. The sound was Krys’ sunglasses which had come loose, flown off and been sent skidding across the Spanish street, coming to rest in the middle of the adjacent lane. The following scene was one that I’ll remember for a while – was Krys in a pretty sundress and bright pink helmet clomping back up the street as fast as she could in thongs while waving manically at the Spanish drivers in an attempt to get them to miss her stranded sunglasses. Somehow this worked – the sunglasses were retrieved with barely a scratch.
We managed to survive our scooter day and now find ourselves in Mallorca. Its 9.30pm and Krys is keen for an ‘early’ dinner. A hungry Krys is not a happy Krys, so I’ll leave any other details for another day….
Adios.
Trent and Krystal (no Bon Jovi…..)
smallthoughts 