Bullfight

My only previous experience with bullfighting has been one Hemmingway novel (The Sun Also Rises?) which definately romanticized the whole affair. I had visions of a spectacle deserving of the adoration of (most of) a nation. I had read of danger and intrigue, of masterful technique and a respect for the beast involved. Hemmingway wrote of master who could place themselves in real danger only to twist and finess and glide out of way; of imposters who never placed themselves in danger but tried to appear so.
What I witnessed on television was an embarassment. Granted I am sure that the experience is much different in person. I saw rodeo clowns in spannish garb distracting an tiring a majestic beast. I saw a matador (killer, in spannish; at least they make no false claims) throw small frilly spears at the bull until the bull was sufficiently injured to be approached. The bloody beast has at this point lost a couple steps and can be avoided easily by the matador. A few minutes of show and pomp and ceremony ends in a half dead bull lunging into the sword of the matador. Where, exactly, is the honor?

Tail Lamps Chasing Headlights

the following was written sunday night (palm sunday) around midnight across from and next to the Arc de Triomf, the site of my architecture project:



The site is asleep. So is most of Barcelona. Palm Sunday has put a calm over this mostly secular culture. The only noise of any consequence comes from passing cars. The occasional pedestrians tap their shoes past. A bicycle or two squeek by. Most of the apartments are dark. They must either be asleep or avoiding windows. Dull yellow lights illuminate the small and empty park a block over. Past trips through the park revealed benches with old tattered blankets on them, proclaiming to the world that those beds have already been claimed and would soon be occupied. The other major source of light comes from the empty gas station (in the states an empty gas station would be a rare sight, here any gas station is a rare sight). The arc is light. There are still a few tourists snapping flash photography. Most of the foot traffic is headed to the metro before it closes. The temporary entrance is intruding on the park while the new entrance is being build in front of me. The empty construction pit reveals parts of the neighboring building that were never intended to see the light of day. I wonder if any transit center or metro entrance could stretch out high enough to cover the nakid sides of its neighbors. Distant church bells proclaim the begining of a new day but the rest of the world seems not to notice.

Approaching the arc reveals completely different scenery. The same tempered activity has spread to a huge scale. Service trucks pass on their way to tend to the various neighborhoods in the area. There is activity here but not enough to fill the space. The Arc de Triomf, gateway to the worlds fair of 120 years ago, stands between a wide tree lined avenue headed to the mountians and a tree lined plaza headed to the Citadel Park. The headquarters for the local gas company sits in the distance, just on top of the trees of the park. Pearly white lamps hung from posts, that look inspired by cranes at a sea port, point to the entrance of the park. They point to the dark mass of trees. The only other light comes from the road just before the park. A steady stream of bright red tail lamps chase dull yellow headlights.

Hacky Sackin Through Fes

The Land of 1001 Scents

I just returned from Morocco tuesday night, after a 6 day stay there. Stepping off the plane, two things struck me. First was the humidity, as it had just rained. Second, related to the recent rains, was the smell, the smell of palm trees or freshness that could never be bottled or sold as "Calvin Klein." It was a smell that reminded me, probably falsly, of the previous trips to the middle east I´ve had.

The trip would be full of smells and aromas, both good and bad, that defined the trip. There was the food, be it couscous or tajine or coffee or mint tea. The streets were full of smells: spices and leathers and fresh feces curtesy of passing donkeys. The tannery was full of the oppressive leather odor. The apothacary shop had plenty of smells, whether it was from powders, lotions, inscence or oil.

Fes was beautiful, and the medina seemed to last forever. Streets curved and crawled and crashed together, be it a market in the street or the open area of a collapsed house. The main stops included two madrasas, a hotel and an arts school. There are three types of housing in the medina: riyadhs (houses opening out to a garden), dhars (houses surrounding a courtyard), or dhweeras (small dhars). I think my favorite part had nothing to do with the architecture. I finally got a haircut by an algerian right near the hotel. I trust my french a helluva lot more than my spanish when it comes to gesturing instructions. It was nice to meet an algerian there but unfortunately I had no idea where his hometown was.

Photos (from left to right): inside a refurbished Synagogue, part of the wall guarding the royal palace, dying stations for the tannery, cranes nesting atop roman ruins