Madrid New Riverside Park - Madrid Rio.

By Richard Morley.

Six years ago when I first came to Madrid I  had no idea the city had a river. Today’s metro maps feature a zig-zag of pale blue giving an impression of the river’s route, but this doesn’t appear on maps until after 2007. The free street map given away by the tourist office also showed a blue squiggle in its bottom right corner with the word “Rio”, but no actual name. The delights of the Prado, the Plaza Mayor, Sol and Gran via are so far removed from the watercourse that the river hardly registered in the mind. While Paris and London were built on the flood plains of their great rivers early settlements in the Spanish capital tended to be on the high plateau, which was probably much better for defence than confined in the river valley.

While it might have supplied water for a small community, the Manzanares River has never carried enough water to provide for a thirsty city. I admit to having been rather scathing about the waterway in past posts, referring to it, ironically, as the “Mighty Manzanares” and quoting the wag of a couple of centuries ago who wrote that “The Manzanares is eminently navigable by a coach and horses”.

Could it be that the city was a little ashamed of its river?

Certainly the history of the river seems to be one of slight utilitarian use to the city and so little regarded as to be isolated between the north and south bound lanes of the M30 ring road. The river ran, hidden,  between them. In short, compared to the other delights of this wonderful town, the river was far from being regarded as one of  its attractions.

It was the forgotten river.

That has now changed! But it took a while.

In 2006 I made a friend who told me she lived close to the Puente de Pragua in an area of the city I had not visited before. So now I had a new part of Madrid to discover. My trusty Michelin Map told me to head on metro line 5 to Piramides and cross the river by the Puente de Toledo. What a terrible scene of devastation awaited me.

In 2004 a decision had been taken to redirect the M30 underground. Madrid’s alcalde, (mayor) Alberto Ruiz-Gallardón, or at least his advisors, had determined that the motorway was “a barrier to movement in the urban areas it ran through”. The old road was anyway in disrepair and it was thought that tens of thousands of vehicles polluted the air and the waters of the river.

I could have agreed with this. I live on the other side of the city where the M30, all eleven lanes of it, does not exactly contribute to a healthy atmosphere.

Diagram of a section of both tunnel and Park. Walking through the new park you have no idea of the traffic passing below your feet.

The project began in 2005, using one of the largest tunnel boring machines in the world, and was opened to traffic on the 5^th of February 2007. I had arrived on the river bank at about the halfway point in its construction. It was a mess.

I took photos. See the “before” pictures in this sequence.

But now look at those I took a couple of weekends ago. The river banks have been transformed into a rather wonderful park known as “Madrid Rio”. It’s all very new and immature at the moment, but the trees will grow, the stone will develop lichen and the yellow cycle-paths stain.

This project has not been cheap. The tunnelising of this section of the motorway cost €237 million out of a total project budget of €3.9 billion. The actual cost of this new green area seems to be buried somewhere within those figures.

But whatever the cost, Madrid has a new park and the statistics are astounding.

23 new pedestrian bridges have been constructed.

3,200,000 square metres of new green areas have been developed.

26,263 new trees have been planted.

30 kilometres of cycle lanes and pedestrian paths

11 play spaces for kids

6 quiet spots for the elderly

Competitions were run in schools to find out what the kids wanted to have and it truly is a place for all the family. I am particularly impressed with the way the play areas, safely placed under the traffic overpasses have been used to provide shade and how the bridges themselves are used to secure the chains for incredibly high swings and some form of bouncy elasticised activity for which I have no name, but it involves strapping yourself to a bungee cord crucifix and bouncing around on a trampoline. It looks fun.

And very energetic!

 The Puerta de Toledo. Now cleaned and open to pedestrians.

Unfortunately I am no longer a kid. I prefer something a little more relaxing, and the new walkways through newly planted woods and flower gardens provide just that. A walk along the river bank with a friend would be the ideal way to spend an evening.

But the aforementioned friend had other ideas! (And not for the first time do I wonder why I seem to choose my friends from sadists!) “Madrid Rio is seven kilometres long. We should cycle. There’s a place we can rent bikes,” she announced, cruelly.

There is, and you can find it here.

 The Puente de Segovia with the Catherdral and Royal palace in the background.

It’s five minutes walk from the Puente de Segovia. It says on their website you could get there from either Príncipe Pio (Metro lines 6, 10 or R(from Opera) or Puerta del Angel (L6). Trust me when I tell you to only use Puerta del Angel, unless you want to walk what you will later be cycling.

 Not a sight you will ever see again. The author on a bike beside the Manzanares River. Note the upside down boat bridges in the background.

I calculated I hadn’t actually ridden a bicycle for fifteen years, but riding a bike is like, er, riding a bike. You don’t forget how it’s done, even if ones backside has become used to more comfortable seats.

It was a warm, sunny Saturday evening. My friend and I were not the only people to consider a camino along the river bank a good idea. This was disadvantageous to our bike ride. During my first visit, on foot, to Madrid Rio a couple of weeks previously I had thought that the bikers were a little inconsiderate in wanting to cut a swathe through the massed ranks of us walkers. Now the foot was on the other pedal. The walkers were getting in the way of us bikers. For this I blame the ayuntamiento. Whoever decided that allowing pedestrians and those on wheels to share the same space needs seriously to think again.

 The most modern of the new bridges accross the Manzanares. This is, officially, El Puente Arganzuela. It allows crossing between either side of the river in the new Parque Arganzuela. For strength it uses a helix design and so I think it should be known as el Puente del Sacacorchos, or "Corkscrew Bridge".

Spanish walkers spread themselves, as anyone who’s tried to walk along Gran Via will attest. Threading a strange bicycle while still a bit wobbly through years of no practise was precarious to say the least. I did not want a confrontation with a mother, or worse, an abuela, after little Juan or Jauna had been crushed under the wheels of my machine. What should have been done, of course, and has been done on the newly constructed cycle lanes in my part of the city, is to designate areas. A simple painted line is all it would take. Indeed, they have actually made this designation on one of the new bridges, but the pedestrians took no notice.

However, breaking news: Today it has been announced the Señor Ruiz-Gallardón, the aforementioned mayor, has decided that the solution to this is to restrict the speed of cyclists to six kilometres and hour. It will be interesting to see how this is enforced as the cycles we hired did not have any method of measuring out speed so arguments with uniformed park police pointing accusatory fingers could come to an impasse. Maybe we shall have to have a man with a red flag walk in front – or will that just add to the log jam?

But, pedestrian / bicycle gridlock aside, it was fun to ride these new lanes. The main problem is in the area now known as the parque de Aguanzuela, where most activity seems to take place. Once past that and it was almost the joys of the open road, cycling along side the river as far down as Legazpi / Usera.

Now the park is open the sluice gates have been raised and the river has an appearance of actually containing water. It’s not very deep water as exposed sandbanks attest, but it’s a far cry from the polluted days of before. Mother ducks led lines of chicks, a heron stalked the sandbanks and near the Puente del Rey a fisherman looked optimistic.

 While construction was going on the Ermita de Virgen del Puerta was buries in a sea of rubble. Now it is approchable though broad green parklands.

In a two fingered gesture to past criticism, most notably in a twenty year old pop song by the Refrescos which proclaimed the many attractions of Madrid but bewailed the fact it had no beach. “Vaya, vaya, No hay una playa en Madrid”, the song’s chorus proclaimed. This is no longer true. As part of the new park, Madrid has a beach – of sorts.

But some don’t need one. A stretch of grass will do. Crossing the Puente de Segovia one warm and sunny Monday afternoon I spied two bikinied young ladies working on an early tan. Encouragement indeed, if any were needed, to pay Madrid’s new attraction a visit.

Who needs a beach when a lawn will do. Bikinied ladies work on their tan bedside the river.

New Rules for Using the Metro

By Richard Morley.

For the past couple of weeks the Madrid Metro has been hosting an exhibition of paintings which are the work of its own employees. The exhibition, named for one of the paintings, is called, "The Rose that Broke the Vase", which is another way of saying "The straw that broke the Camel's back". Considering that the continuing strike is trying everyone's patience, the exhibition is incredibly apt.

A new publicity campaign, (which is hardly needed - they have a rival??), claims we can travel rapidly and arrive on time wherever we want to go. I really think that those who are holding the working people of this town to ransom have a lot of work to do to win back the support of the public.

A veces (Sometimes!)

For two days last week we had no services at all until the drivers, faced with prosecution, returned to providing the contracted "Minimal Services". To give them their due, they are providing a normal service to allow the revellers of the Gay Pride weekend to get around the town, but this is no comfort to the two million commuters who face another week of threatened disruption.

“Servicios mínimos” is meant to mean only half the usual number of trains on the Metro will be running, so mathematically one could expect there to be twice as many passengers travelling on each train that does run. So why does it seem like much much more? Thanks to the drivers who sit alone in their spacious air-conditioned cabs up front, us poor people behind them have been pushed, squeezed, bent, folded, spindled and mutilated like grilled squashed sardines in a crushed can.

In the light of this new way of travelling I suggest there should be some rules that would make journeys on the metro more comfortable for all.

#1. On arrival at a platform that is obviously already packed from edge to wall, do not try and barge your way through. This applies double if you are carrying, pushing or pulling something larger than a reasonably sized handbag, such as a suitcase, backpack or large overstuffed bag filled with things you think you might need during the day. If you are carrying such items please avoid all stations during rush hour or walk. Honestly, you don’t need all that stuff.

#2. As the train comes to a stop check the inside of the carriage through the windows provided. If existing passengers have their faces squashed against the window it is probably full. If you open the doors from outside and passengers cascade onto the platform in a heap it was overfull. To gain entry to the carriage do not tread on these passengers. Push them gently to one side. Do not kick them. Do not use elbows. Do not use your suitcase, backpack or overstuffed bag filled with items you don’t really need as a battering ram. See rule #1

#3. You will find more room in the carriage if you allow passengers who actually want to get off to do so before you attempt to barge your way on. Nothing is gained if you try to push alighting passengers further into the train. Please bear in mind the law of quarts and pint pots. You are not conquistadores raiding some far off country. A few “Perdones”, “discúlpenmes”, “por favores” and “lo sientos” would make your new fellow passengers accept your presence in a better light, you mal educado zoquete!

#4. Given the fact that you will be standing much closer to fellow passengers than normal please bathe or shower before leaving your house. Before entering the station sniff your armpits. If you stink of sweat, please walk home and desist from using the metro until you have bathed, showered and changed your clothes. The exercise will do you good. Regard this as your good deed for the day.

#5. Vests and shirts that reveal sweaty, hairy armpits, of either sex, should only be worn during athletics practice or while running the Madrid Marathon. If I am forced to have a close encounter with your strap-hanging hairy smelly armpit I would prefer there were at least a single layer of cloth between it and my nose.

#6. If you have just eaten a meal containing garlic, onions or curry sauce please refrain from boarding until a completely empty carriage appears. It would be quicker for you and better for us if you walked. Ever heard of mints?

#7. Metro carriages are public areas. You cannot claim the part you are standing in as a sovereign country. It will not be recognised by the United Nations and so you should be prepared to move to another part of the carriage. This rule particularly applies if you insist on standing just inside the doors. Remember, you are not aboard ship. It is not your job to repel all boarders. Give others a chance.

#8. Finally, spare a thought for the hard-working drivers that have given up their valuable strike time to bring you their personal train. As they slow down along the crowed platform all those on the edge should wave at the drivers to thank them for their efforts. How many fingers you chose to hold up in this salute of thanks and welcome is up to you.

Long-suffering queues on Friday.

I am open to other suggestions ..........?
.

Madrid's Metro Goes On Strike

In the past couple of days I have witnessed great patience and great anger in Madrid. I have seen tired resignation and very vocal frustration.

On Monday employees of the Madrid Metro began what was meant to be a three day strike in protest against a cut in wages. All workers for government departments, both local and national, have had to take a five percent pay cut in the face of Spain’s severe debts. Despite an attempt by the unions of the “funcionarios” to organise demonstrations of protest, which were not well attended, and a day long strike which the vast majority of the civil servants ignored, government departments have continued more or less as normal.

But the staff of the Metro, despite working for what has to be the most subsidized public utility in Spain, do not consider themselves “funcionarios”. They claim that they are employees of a public company, but not a government department. Years ago they reached an agreement over pay and conditions which stated that in the event of a dispute they would continue to operate “servicios mínimo”, a much reduced service which would at least allow the citizens to get to their jobs. This agreement carried the weight of law.

On Monday, this was what happened, and despite grumbles on the platforms, people did get to work. But negotiations between the comunidad, who own Metro Madrid, and the unions broke down. So on Tuesday the workers refused to provide even the minimum service they are required by law to do.

According to comments on Facebook, tweets on twitter, TV and newspapers, Madrid “Colapso”. Well, not exactly. The people of Madrid are made of strong stuff. But when, at a stroke, the means of moving two million people a day disappears, confusion is bound to result.

Yesterday, luckily, I did not need to use the Metro, but I did have to take three buses. I stood at the stop and watched as two buses passed me by as they were already bursting at the seams. One, after failing to stop for passengers had to come to rest a few metres further on because the traffic lights were at red. Some of my fellow would-be travellers rushed to the bus and began pounding on the doors. But you cannot put a quart into a pint pot and the driver refused to open up.

As well as the bus service, which is excellent but subject to traffic delays, Madrid does had the Cercanías, a suburban network of trains that come right into the heart of the city. These were running as normal and today have been augmented, as have the buses. And I would imagine it’s been a profitable time for the taxi drivers.

If I remember correctly Madrid buses have seating for 33 and standing room for a further 66. That’s 99 people squeezed into one bus. There were scenes on last evening’s news that showed that figure was being exceeded in many cases, but I remember the large lady attempting to board a bus at the Plaza de Castilla which hadn’t a spare inch to spare hanging out of the door and expecting the driver to take her. The resulting argument was far too fast for my slow Spanish, but demonstrated that tempers were beginning to flare.

Not the least because the drivers of the Madrid Metro are reputed to be among the best paid in the city. One comment on Facebook yesterday was quite scathing that drivers on €40,000 a year were making life very difficult and creating lost wages for those paid hourly for workers who earned far less. Those of us who have to move about the city to do our jobs were experiencing journey times four times longer than normal, which led to cancelled meetings and lost earnings.

Of course the politicians are getting in on the act. The vice president of Spain, María Teresa Fernández de la Vega, has criticised Esperanza Aguire, the Presisdent of the Comunidad of Madrid, saying, “One has to know how to manage these conflicts”, when all Espe has done is to follow the government’s decree of introducing the five percent pay cut. Giving that these two women are on opposite sides of the political spectrum there is bound to be mud-slinging. The secretary general of the socialist party of Madrid, Tomás Gomez, hold Espe totally responsible, claiming she has been provoking this strike “for weeks”.

The mayor of the city, Alberto Ruiz Gallardón, has reminded the drivers of their “legal and moral obligation” to maintain minimum services. But then no one pays him much attention anyway. It seems this illegal strike will have no early solution.

There had an attempt yesterday. The police were called in to restore service on line 8, the line that runs from the airport to Nuevos Ministerios. The television showed lines of policemen patrolling the station and even one train leaving the platform. But no passengers were carried and they couldn’t find enough drivers. So the attempt was abandoned.

And I am not sure that would be a good thing. Our TV screens have been showing scenes of the rioting in Greece caused by confrontations between the police and the people. We do not want that here.

According to the latest reports this strike will be indefinite. Next weekend Madrid celebrates Gay Pride week. There will be tens of thousands of people on the streets and wanting to move about the city. At a meeting of the drivers this morning (Wednesday) they were asked to return to work over the weekend and resume their strike on Monday. For some of the drivers this was seen as a further opportunity to push their case and if the Gay Pride weekend was ruined, so be it!

However, it seems cooler heads have prevailed and from tomorrow the servicios mínimos will resume. I wonder if the fact that four members of a picket line were attacked by angry commuters this morning had anything to do with that.

Angry comments from both sides have been all over the internet. There are those who habitually complain about the metro, who claim the drivers have an easy job as much of the work is actually automatic. “All the drivers do is open and close the doors”, said one. Another, who points out that drivers can often be seen reading the newspaper as they supposedly control the train (something I have seen!), and that the employees at the ticket counters do the same and never want to serve their customers.

Meanwhile a driver points out that being stuck underground for eight hours a day is no picnic. That they have the stress of wondering if someone is about to throw themselves off the platform and the nuisance of idiots who pull the emergency stop because they are drunk. Often drivers are alone on the train. Some evenings there might be a guard with a dog on board, but a hundred and fifty metres of train is difficult to police. A ticket vendor complained that travellers have ten day to buy their monthly “abono”, a month’s season ticket, but 95% queue up to buy it on the last day and then complain about slow service.

According to some very quickly generated statistics, on Tuesday the EMT, the bus service, carried 2,092,000 passengers. A 45% increase over normal days. And taxi drivers claim to have had a 30% increase in business.

Meanwhile, Espe has stated she “admires” the people of Madrid for their forbearance.

Since 1976 the Madrid metro has had around twenty strikes, only two of them, in February ‘84 and January ’91 have the servicios mínimos been withdrawn from service.

Well, we are back to a 50% service tomorrow, Thursday, and hopefully it won’t be long before the “best metro in the world” is back to normal.

Reading all the comments has been good for my Spanish. Now I know that “Huelgo salvaje” mean wildcat strike. I learnt a few other words too that I could not repeat here. Although I did read one that used good old Anglo Saxon. I can only say that should the author of that comment repeats it here, she will be censored!!!!! But then, of all the days she chose to move house. What rotten timing.

I have my own thoughts. What do you think??

Death on a sunny Sunday evening.

By Richard Morley.

The evening sun cast a half-moon of light over the far side of the arena. Below me, on the sand, areneros were smoothing out the surface and describing two white concentric circles with a machine. Around me my fellow spectators were taking their places. The seating was not spacious; and bottoms competed for space on the eighty year old hard granite terraces. It was possible to hire a cushion for ninety centimos, but I hadn’t bothered. The staircases leading upwards to the terraces were equally narrow, leading to interminable queuing and jostling, but eventually everyone was seated. Maximum seating capacity was a little over twenty three thousand and there were not many empty seats.

I glanced around at the crowd. There were people of all ages, all backgrounds. Ticket prices ranged from a high of more than one hundred euros to as little as just two and a half. Those who sat in the sun had paid less for their seats than those on the shade, although on this cool Sunday evening in May this made little difference.

There were couples and groups, greeting old friends with much back-slapping and cheerful voices. As many women as men. None of them looked cruel, sadistic, or bloodthirsty as they have been described. Just ordinary people who had come to enjoy the spectacle. They took their seats. The men lit huge cigars. The women gossiped. All had an air of expectation. They knew what they had come to see. Me, not at all. I was a newcomer, a novice. I had no idea what to expect, and I felt trepidation mixed with excitement. I was a little fearful, worried about what I was about to see. I was about to watch a killing. In fact I was about to see six, and was unsure of my reaction.

I was about to witness my first Bullfight.

In “Death in the Afternoon”, Hemmingway’s great commentary on the Spanish Bullfighting tradition, he writes, “The chances are that the first bullfight any spectator attends may not be a good one artistically; for that to happen there must be good bullfighters and good bulls; artistic bullfighters and poor bulls do not make interesting fights, for the bullfighter who has ability to do extraordinary things with the bull which are capable of producing the intensest (sic) degree of emotion in the spectator but will not attempt them with a bull which he cannot depend on to charge...”

For nearly three years I have lived just a few stones throws away from the Madrid bullring at Las Ventas, but I had never been to a corrida before. Now a friend had emailed and said she had a couple of tickets. Would I like to go? Good question! I took a while to answer. I am approaching my fifth anniversary of my first arrival in Spain, I write this blog about Madrid’s life and customs and I had never been to a bullfight. Two questions surfaced in my brain: Why not? And why not?

And now here I was, sitting on the cold granite of Spain’s premier bullring that had first opened its doors in 1929 replacing the original nearer the centre of the town, and hadn’t seen much modernisation. What could I expect?

The band above me struck up with the traditional pasodoble of España Cañí, which is such a Spanish musical cliché it made me smile. Apparently the composer, Pascual Marquina Narro, known as the “King of the Pasodoble”, wrote the piece on a train journey to Madrid in 1925. He claims to have been inspired by the rhythm of the train as it click-clacked along the tracks and was originally called “El Patronista Cañí”. But the Corrida is first and foremost about tradition. It would be like going to the circus without hearing “Entry of the Gladiators”.

The spectacle was about to begin.

Below me heavy doors swung open and so began the paseillo, the parade of the toreros. (My dictionary tells me that the term “Toreador” is antiquated and not used.) At the head of the procession came two mounted “alguacilillos”, dressed in black with broad white collars. From their hats sprouted high yellow plumes to signify their position. They were followed by the three matadors who would fight that evening followed by their respective “cuadrillas”, their three banderilleros and a sword-handler, the mozo de espada. Their suits of lights, coloured with bright reds, blues, greens and gold twinkled in the evening light as they walked. I noticed they seemed to favour the strangest coloured socks.

Following them came the Picadors mounted on their horses. Each horse wore a heavy, thick “peto”, the padded leather protection, as thick as a mattress, first introduced in 1928. The picadors themselves also wore padded protection, called “mona”, on their legs. I would soon see why this was necessary.

Last in the parade came four men with a teams of mules. These were the monosabios, three men dressed in light blue with a forth in a darker shade while the mulillas, a team of harnessed mules were decked in bright harnesses and pulled a heavy wooden yoke. Their purpose in the proceedings would become clear as the spectacle progressed.

The protagonistas of the evening’s event processed around the ring. They stopped to greet the president of the corrida, whose job it was to control and assess their performance. On his judgement the success of the evening, and the toreros’ reputations, depended.

The procession came to its end. The ring seemed empty. Around its edges three toreros with magenta capes, or capotes, took their positions. There are two types of cape used in the corrida. The florid magenta capotes used at the start and the more subdued muletas later. The capotes are large and hang limply, needing both hands. The muletas, stiffened with a hidden sword, cap be used with just one hand.

At a sign from the president the “clarines”, a smaller band of musicians with bugles and drums, sounded a single note. Below me a heavy gate swung open and suddenly there on the sand, looking somewhat bewildered in the sunlight, stood a bull. His muscled body, so black it seemed to absorb light, stood still, trying to understand what was expected of him. From across the ring came a flash of magenta. A torero had waved a capote. Another flash from a different direction. The bull started to run, then hesitated, turning his head from side to side, deciding which direction to take. His decision made, he charged across the ring. The torero stood his ground while the bull dashed under the cape, but then ran for protection behind the burladero, a short section of reinforced fenced allowing the toreros some protection against angry, charging bulls. And it did charge. The audible thump of skull meeting wood echoed around the ring. Across the ring another torero waved his cape and called to the bull. It made no difference as the bull persisted in his attempts to get a horn around the edge of the burladero and do serious harm to his original adversary. Even now, several days later, I can recall with heart racing, the anger, the fury and the frustration of the animal.

The bull attempts to get to the torero behind the burladero.

A third torero entered the fray. He did get the bull’s attention and from then on the bull turned and charged at each man in turn, their capotes swishing in a series of “veronicas”. Then the “clarines” sounded again, signalling the end of the first part of the “Lidia”. Now came the picadors mounted on their armoured horses. They took up opposite stations either side of the ring. Each carried his “pica”, a long pointed lance.

The bull’s encounter with the horse is a test of bravery, la bravura. To appreciate the bravery of the toreros, the spectator needs to see the measure of the animal they are fighting. At top class venues, like Las Ventas in Madrid, the bull is expected to charge the bull twice. The picador defends with the pica, digging the lance deep into the neck muscle of the animal in an action called a “Barrenar”, where the pica is twisted and drilled through the flesh. Only really brave bulls will attack twice, knowing that lance and pain are waiting for them. If the bull does not approach the horse it is the toreros job to drive him forward because the second task of the picador is to make the bull lower his head; to humble, or humiliate the animal.

For this, bull and picador have to come in close contact, hence the padding on both horse and rider. I noticed that the horses were blindfolded as I presume that any sensible horse would flee from a charging bull.

And it did charge. With a quite audible thump, heard even from the far side of the ring, the bull’s head butted into the side of the horse not once but many times. The picador struck with his lance. Blood started to ooze from the open wound. Just behind the sharp point of the lance is a ring called an “arandela”. This stops the lance penetrating too far. The enraged bull, sensing from where his injury had come, not only head-butted the horse but tried to get his horns under the animal. He succeeded. The horse balanced precariously on two legs. His rider struggled to stay mounted. And then, with what must have been a mighty effort, the horse was thrown on to its side. The picador was pulled out from under, the toreros danced and flapped their capes trying vainly to distract the bull, who was having none of it as, sensing it had the upper hand, continued to attack the horse.

From the stands came the sounds of whistles, the “pitos”, with which a crowd displays displeasure. Each “tercio” lasts about ten minutes and this was wasting time. The toreros eventually did manage to get the bull away from the horse and with much pulling and shoving the horse was put back on its feet and the picador remounted. But he could do no more as at that moment the “clarines” signalled the start of the second tercio.

The picadors, one probably quite bruised and shaken, left the ring, the horse’s armour smeared with blood. Their place taken by the banderilleros. It’s curious, I have two different versions of the job of the banderilleros. They carried with them the banderillas of their trade; the two barbed, spiked darts, each about seventy centimetres long. These men, junior bullfighters if you will (an aficionado of my acquaintance tells me they are “failed” bullfighters!), have to place the two banderillas, together, in the “morillo”, the hump on the back of the bull’s neck. This has to be done with much style, élan and accuracy. Facing the bull the banderillero raises himself on to the points of his feet. He holds his arms out straight in a V shape with a banderilla in each.

He stares at the bull and the animal stares back, probably wondering what the strange man is doing. The Banderillero must face the bull “poder a poder”, and “without advantage”, meaning the placing of the darts will be done over the head, and the horns, of the bull. The morillo is not large, so his aim must be true. The horns are sharp, so he must arch his body to make the thrust. The spectators experts on this matter and will reward an accurate thrust, a “banderillas al requiebro”, with an “Olé”, a bad one, known as “al quiebro”, where the banderillero approaches the bull from the side, or even from behind, with “pitos”. That evening I heard both, and I understand why no banderillero has a beer belly!

Officially the reason for this manoeuvre is to weaken the neck muscle so that the bull cannot raise his head. Why? This becomes obvious in the third and last tercio. But another opinion was that it made the bull more angry, if this was possible, so that the matador can display his bravery and also to show the bull that there was no way out. He had to fight. As Hemmingway says in the quote earlier, a matador can do very little with a bull that does not fight.

And that was what the crowd had come to see. For the penultimate time the clarines sounded the time. The Matador entered the ring. Taking the applause of the crowd he placed his montera, his hat, on the ground. My rather cynical companion explained that the Matador should throw the hat on to the sand and the way it lands signifies whether he will have good or bad luck. That day, being a little windy, the matador was taking no chances with fortune.

The matador was known to the crowd. They cheered his entrance. Taking his muleta, his cape, he began the “faena”, the sequence of passes, a ballet of mariposas, the motionless estatuario, the naturals, pendulos and serpentinos where the matador dances with death. These first passes are the “tantear”, in which the matador sees how the bull moves, how it charges. A man behind me called out, “Templa, templa”, “take your time, take it easy”. The matador studied his adversary with a series of exploratory passes. But then taking control spun, twisted and posed dramatically as the bull dived again and again, lower and lower towards the descending cape, each time with the torero coming closer to the bull and those deadly horns. This is the “serpentino” where the bull will pass under the cape and be cajoled into turning for quick pass after another.

The bull turns again and again, almost folding his muscled torso in two while the barbed banderillas, firmly hooked in its back, flopped limply from side to side, blood pouring from the wounds, glistening ruby red in the setting sun. At each pass the crowd roar their appreciation, finally, after five or six passes, with an approving, “olé”.

This culminates in the “alarde”, a last flourish of the cape and the matador disdainfully turns his back an the animal and smugly accepts the plaudits of the crowd. Behind his back, the bulls stands and wonders, “What the heck was that all about?”

The matador crossed to the barrera, the sturdy fence that encircles the ring, where his mozo de espada handed him his estoque, the curved sword that will be used in this final stage. Again bull and matador face each other. Again the matador brandishes his cape. Perhaps he will perform a chicuelina, pulling the cape tight against his body, or a brionesa, with the cape help high, which is similar to the pase de la muerte, the pass of death. Whose death? I am not sure, but it looks like a very foolhardy move on the part of the matador. Unlikely, the purpose of these last moves are to make the bull lower its head. We are more likely to see an “arrucina”, where the torero leans into the path of the animal, or a pase por bajo, where the cape is almost swept along the ground, enticing the bull to lower his head still further.

It is important to get the bull to lower his head. The deed that finally kills the bull is piercing the heart with a sword that has to pass through the spine. When the head is lowered the vertebrae are open to allow an easy passage for the sword. If this is not achieved it will not be a swift kill.

Then comes the “hora de verdad”, the moment (or literally, the hour!) of truth. Man faces animal. The matador takes his estoque, his sword. It is slightly curved along its length. Held horizontally, the tip points down. The bull, exhausted, head down, regards the man. Does he know what’s coming? Maybe. Judging his moment, the matador moves forward, over the horns of the animal and plunges the metre long sword through the animal’s neck – right to the hilt. The bull does not bellow. Perhaps it has no strength left. If the head comes up the matador must move fast to avoid the sharp horns. The cuadrillas move in on either side, distracting the bull, flapping their capes and calling, making the bull turn from one side to the other, opening the wound. Blood pours down the animal’s flanks, staining the sand. It might continue to stand, it might attempt a vain escape.

The dead bull awaits collection by the monosabios while others clean the blood from the sand.

But suddenly its forelegs buckle. The bull drops, the momentum causing the hind legs to falter. It crashes onto the sand – and dies.

Some bulls are made of sterner stuff. Something in its “carácter” wills it to continue against the odds. Then the matador must use his “puntilla”, a short dagger, in what is described as a “decabello”, the coup de grace, which done skilfully is plunged into the back of the head. The bull dies in an instant and drops to the ground.

Five hundred kilograms of dead bull is a lot to move. Now the “monosabios” enter the arena with their three “mulillas”. They attach a rope to the carcass and drag it away. Behind them a long smear of blood marks their passage in the sand. Before the next bull the “areneros” will have removed the blood-stained sand into buckets and restored the pristine surface.

The monosabios prepare to drag the dead animal away.

While this was being done the crowd stood as one and facing the president’s box waved 23000 white handkerchiefs. This is the crowds way of exhorting the president to award the matador for his skill. The president, who has other, more professional advisors, might or might not accept the crowd’s opinion.

That was my first bullfight. I have tried to tell the story objectively. I know for many people the corrida stirs passions – way one or the other. I have tried to be dispassionate. For two thousand years bullfighting has been part of Spain and its culture. In various forms it has been performed in many other countries. Even in England “bull baiting” was a very popular pastime.

But, it is impossible to watch a bullfight dispassionately. It stirs the emotions. It is exciting. There is a battle of life or death going on right in front of your eyes. Yes, in the vast majority of fights the outcome for the bull is a foregone conclusion. So it has been decreed. In the 1920s it was ruled that due to deaths and injuries among the toreros no bull would ever be used in the ring a second time. It seems they are capable of learning. In nearly all cases this means the bull will die. Only a very few bulls are granted an “indulto”, a pardon for exceptional bravery, and are allowed to live out the rest of their lives in peace and breeding more bulls.

During that evening I learned much about the corrida. It’s certainly not a “sport”, but it does have an art, a pageantry and a tradition that I found fascinating. I learned to recognise a well-placed banderilla and to cheer some spectacular passes. I also saw some lazy bulls and some sloppy work by the toreros. And with six bulls to watch I must admit to becoming a little bit jaded towards the end of the evening. And perhaps I was with the crowd here. In the five fights I had seen so far the first had an award of honour to the matatdor, the second had been met with “pitos”, the loud, whistling displeasure of the crowd, and the third was a divided opinion. The forth gained an “Ovacion”, but the fifth “Un silencio”, an ambivalent judgement, but it was a bull who didn’t want to play with a matador who couldn’t make him. A very disappointing affair.

And then came Argelón. At five hundred and ninety-seven kilos, he was the heaviest bull of the evening. He was also the eldest at nearly six years. I could tell immediately this was a different animal to any that had gone before. His body rippled with muscle and he was big. Right from the start he was trouble. He charged at everyone and everything. He charged the picador’s horse as if its very presence annoyed him and with very little effort picked up both horse and rider and tossed them against the barrera and continued to drive the horse into the heavy woodwork. The cape waving cuadrillas were totally ineffectual. The crowd whistled, the toreros attempted to right the horse, and still Argelón battered relentlessly against the, luckily well-padded, underbelly of the horse. This went on far too long. The clarines sounded for the banderilleros, but they were not ready.

And the banderilleros were very wary of this bull. Only one managed to stick his banderillas home, and then disgracefully from the side. Another did pierce the flesh, but the bull just shook them loose. At this unfortunate scene the president called the clarines to sound early to finish the stage and to bring the matador on to finish it.

Bull and matador stood their ground. The bull pawed the ground, which from years of watching cartoons on TV I assumed was a sign of anger. Apparently this is completely wrong and, according to what aficionados tell me, is actually a sign of a cowardly animal. I’ll let you make up your own mind on that when I tell you what happened next.

Pawing the ground the bull looked about him. He seemed to be making up his mind what to do and which of those cape waving hombres to charge. The matador, posing bravely, calling to the animal and jabbing his muleta at the bull was achieving nothing. The bull looked one way, then the other. The matador came closer, which probably decided for the bull that the matador was the most annoying, and the animal went from a standing start to very fast indeed in no time at all. The matador just managed to swerve out of the way. But now there was a contest.

The bull spun, as did the matador. Again and again the bull passed under the cape. Again and again becoming more frustrated that he had hit nothing solid. The crowd called out “olé”, but they were premature. Nearer and nearer man and bull closed in on one another – and the matador blinked first. He stumbled, lost his footing and crashed to the sand, his cape falling as limp on the ground as the man. The bull turned, lowered his head and horns and went for the man. One horn pierced the lower leg while the forelegs battered a rain of blows onto the supine body. The man tried to roll over to protect his face, but he was trapped. Toreros moved in, trying to pull the matador out from under and to distract the bull, who was having none of it. He moved back, scooped his horns under the man and disdainfully tossed him a full five or six metres across the sand as if he were a wet rag.

Unbelievably, the crowd who had witnessed the wounding and death of five creatures already that night, could not watch the spectacle in front of them. I saw many avert their gaze away from this scene of the bull’s revenge. Four attendants, not waiting for a stretcher, grabbed the wounded matador and rushed him away. The bull looked around, regarded the mayhem he had caused and calmly trotted away to another part of the ring.

The crowd were on their feet. The man behind me who had earlier advised the matador to take it easy, now screamed to forget the art, the time honoured tradition, but to kill the bull any way possible. The president called for a “sobresaliente”, a substitute matador, who came on looking very determined. He raised his montera to the crowd, who roared, wanting their revenge on this bull who had injured one of their own. There were to be no more flourishes of the cape. The new man at once took his estoque and approached the bull.

The animal raised its head. Another banderilla fell out. A torero kicked it away. Two metres apart two pairs of eyes regarded each other. There was “shushing” in the crowd and an expectant silence fell. The matador waited. His sword ready. Tired, the bull lowered its head, presenting the back of the neck. The matador moved forward and thrust. The crowd roared. But the bull lifted his head and the movement had closed the open vertebrae and trapped the blade. The sword had only penetrated a short distance. The bull charged the man, who quickly swerved away. The movement though, dislodged the sword, which was picked up by another who wiped away the sand encrusted blood on his cape and returned it to the matador.

Man and animal once more took up their positions. This time, at the lowering of the head, the aim was true, the penetration deep to the hilt and the crowd screamed their approval. The cuadrilla moved in, forcing the bull to move, to open the wound. Blood cascaded down the sleekly muscled flanks, but it stayed on its feet, warily regarding the three men dancing around it. It tried to escape, but it couldn’t go far. The matador followed and taking his puntilla, dispatched the animal with a single thrust.

The crowd on their feet as Argelón collapses to the sand.

I will admit to feeling sad for the bull. That bull. My companion of the evening said that she too has mixed feelings. But I will also admit much admiration for the skill of the toreros and I can definitely see what the Spanish see. There were times that evening my pulse raced; when I could not take my eyes off what was happening even if I had wanted to; when I literally shook with excitement, in the true meaning of the word. As to its cruelty, if that’s what you think, I have seen worse among animals themselves in the wild. I remember an African buffalo being dismembered piece by piece by a herd of hyena over many hours while the poor animal screamed in its agony. I won’t excuse or condemn.

In Death in the Afternoon Hemingway wrote: “About morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after”.

I didn’t feel bad.

The blood-stained concrete outside the cutting room where the bulls are prepared for the table.

Esta es la Via - The story of Gran Via, Part 3

By Richard Morley.

The past two post have been about the construction of Gran Via, from it’s 1910 beginning as the first demolitions opened the way off the Calle de Alcalá, to its completion in 1929 when it arrived at what is now known as the Plaza de España. It’s conception was punctuated with miscarriages of political, legal and financial indecision and its growth to maturity marked with the growing pains of changes in architectural style and building techniques.

The beginning: The Grassy Building by day and by night.

A walk along the Gran Via shows a progression from the elegance of a latter “Belle Epoque” through Art Nouveau to “Block Functional”. The grandiose, almost refined, first stretch of the original Calle Peñalver, built in stone, become flirty and a little gaudy as we reach the Boulevard. The Teléfonica building excepted, there is something of the whimsical here, particularly in those buildings built for entertainment. It is as if the restricted childhood of the first section gives way to an uninhibited adolescence. Then, in the last section, from the Plaza Callao to España, we see changes of style and attitude with the introduction of the new reinforced concrete and the philosophy that buildings can have multiple uses.

The Architect's Plaque on the Grassy buliding showing its date of construction - 1916

This starts with the very first building in this last section with Palacio de la Prensa which was designed from its inception to contain a cinema, retail outlets, offices and residential space. It’s architect, Pedro Muguruza, openly admitted to “importing” the “New American Style”. A paper from the Faculty of Geography and History, Universidad Complutense de Madrid by Luis Enrique Otero Carvajal, (et al) Professor of Contemporary History (in 1999), states that in this third section the designers deliberately renounced any temptation to be “Consciously Historicist” with their plans and were certainly looking towards a Brave New World of (then) Contemporary design.

Decorative Facades of the early years.

Ornate doorways and entrances.




One, slightly ironic, opinion of Professor Otero is that the opening of Gran Via presaged for the greater development of the Calle de la Princessa that leads into the Arguelles district and onwards to Moncloa, allowing it to become the shopping street that Gran Via should have been.

Taking that into consideration, do we have to consider that Gran Via is a success or not?

It is undoubtedly a major thoroughfare. It fulfils its original conception as a “Great Way” to join the east and west of the city very well. And it is certainly regarded as an icon of the city. It is never deserted. All human life is there and while apart from clothes shopping there does not seem much else to do (and I take the typical masculine attitude here that shopping for clothes is a necessity and not a pleasure!), the hustle and bustle continues unabated. But I suspect all those people are going somewhere – not stopping to shop or eat there, except for the final descent towards the plaza España where there are some excellent bars and restaurants.

El Mesón el Jamón

All this is really a preamble for a series of photographs I have taken as I walked the Gran Via and which I could not fit easily into the previous two posts. What I think they demonstrate is that the street has two faces: its day face and that of the night, and this being Madrid, the evening is when the street comes alive. The famous multi-coloured Schweppes sign casts its ever-changing light down onto the “Boulevard”, the pierced and tattooed, aging, punks meet, drink, smoke and, in the descent towards España, the bars and theatres radiate noise and light – and life – into a sometimes dismal daytime street.

Let's meet in Gran Via - then go somewhere that sell good coffee!

Many thing are sold in Gran Via - This being one of the oldest.

The junction of Gran Via and the Calle de Montera is famous for its ladies of negociable affection. Every city has them, but they easy to avoid - if you want to!

The other thing for sale at Montera

No trade for the shoe-shine men.

But plenty for the Lotterias y Apuestas del Estado.

The photo above shows just a small portion of the queue waiting to buy their tickets for "El Gordo", the grand state run lottery at Christmas that promises to make millionaires - but rarely does. Many people won't buy their ticket anywhere else. The queue stretched around the corner of the block for about two hundred metres.

The Teléfonica Building looms over the city by day but seems to cast a benevolent glow at nightime.

Once called the "Boulevard", then the "Avenida de Pi i Margall" and the "Avenue of Shells" - the explosive kind - the central part of Gran Via.

At night, the traffic never stops.

Outside a theatre one morning : to sleep, perchance to dream ...

Or write poetry to sell

The pavement poet sits outside El casa de Libro, the flagship bookshop of this Spanish chain. Arguably the best bookshop in Madrid. Its selection of books in foreign laguages, including English, is very good. Down in its basement you can buy books to learn any language.

The Capitol Building, housing a cinema, residential apartments and the huge Schweppes advertisement that flickers like a beacon over Gran Via at night.

Photographed from the Plaza España, the final section of Gran Via, once known as the Avenida Edyardo Dato.

And at night.

This final part of Gran Via has become iconic in its use in the Spanish Film "Abre los Ojos". To my non Spanish readers this might not be familiar, but they will certainly have heard of the Hollywood remake, "Vanilla Sky" and its famous scene of Tom Cruise standing in a deserted New York Times Square. Below I reproduce that scene from the Spanish film, much better in that it did not star Tom Cruise, but the scene was filmed from the top of the slope looking towards where the picture above was taken.

The scene from Alejandro Amenábar's film Abre los Ojos - Open your eyes - made in 1997

And with that, I am about done with Gran Via. It has been interesting researching the history and the problem has been more about what to leave out than include. I hope you have found it as interesting as I. At the end of Hemingway's "The sun also rises" the street features as it does in Georges Conchon's 1959 novel "La Corrida de la Victoire", translated into English as "The Hollow Victory". For a wonderfully researched account of Madrid just after the end of the Civil War I could suggest C.J.Sansom's evocative "A Winter In Madrid". Great description, but I found the story over long.

Thank you for bearing with me.
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