Warning: the following post contains graphic or disturbing images and content. Viewer discretion is advised.
Toreros at work during the tercio de banderillas, one of three stages in a bullfight. Plaza de Toros de Pamplona, Pamplona, Spain.
The Plaza de Toros de Pamplona, Pamplona, Spain.
My initial desire to go to Spain grew from a budding obsession with The Sun Also Rises, and its author Ernest Hemingway. His descriptions of fishing in Burguete, with quiet afternoons spent in lounging dappled light, drinking river cooled wine, and the repetitive pleasure of cast and recast sharply mirrored my experiences as a child; and his main character's impassioned explanation of cape work in bullfighting to a wide-eyed heroine seduced beyond the page. One of the most romantic nights of my life was spent watching fireworks in Pamplona, hot on his trajectory. Surrounded by families sharing bocadillos by starlight, we nuzzled in the grass waiting for the show to kick-off. Later, we sipped sangria out of carton in the plaza, talking and laughing among festival-goers. It stood in marked contrast to a past fireworks experience, where people on a grassy hill raged at those who wouldn't sit on pavement beneath them. Here, mellowed by July heat and, of course, death in the afternoon, fathers lifted tired sons onto shoulders.
Toreros entering the bullring as a part of the paseíllo (opening parade) in the festival of San Fermin, Plaza de Toros de Pamplona, Pamplona, Spain.
A torero turns around during a paseíllo (opening parade) at the Plaza de Toros de Pamplona, Pamplona, Spain.
I stood confused in the upcoming weeks at the centre of Ronda's bullring, widest in the world. Tracing handprinted filigree on a burladero (the wooden guard for the bullfighters to hide behind), I vowed to read further. In the attached museum, I poured over black and white photographs of famed matadors, seemingly timeless paragons of masculinity despite 17th century clothes. Hemingway stared back arm-in-arm. Years later, having scoured novels, short stories, and personal letters—and created deliberate mirrored experiences, including hard-drinking, cigar-smoking in Cuba and marlin fishing—I found myself thinking of Ava Gartner naked in his pool and his death alone in Idahoan summer.*
1 of 3. A matador during the faena of muleta (display with the cape) in the final stage (tercio de muerte) of a bullfight. Plaza de Toros de Pamplona, Pamplona, Spain.
2 of 3. A matador during the faena of muleta (display with the cape) in the final stage (tercio de muerte) of a bullfight. Plaza de Toros de Pamplona, Pamplona, Spain.
3 of 3. A matador during the faena of muleta (display with the cape) in the final stage (tercio de muerte) of a bullfight. Plaza de Toros de Pamplona, Pamplona, Spain.
The other man who drew me to Spain has now also died. On his advice, we waltzed into La Tana, Granada, met the stereotypical traveled American businessman. Over platters of perfected sliced tomatoes like encapsulated sunshine, and thinly sliced Ibércio ham his young date wouldn't eat, we talked politics, respective journeys, his divorce, estranged kid. With heads leaned in, we split caviar and cava as she rolled her eyes at his overtures, bravado. Stumbling home heady with wine, my husband and I exchanged affirmations it was the best meal we've had. Because of their strained companionship. Because it was a scene from a novel.
A matador raises two banderillas during the tercio de banderillas, Plaza de Toros de Pamplona, Pamplona, Spain.
We've followed Bourdain to other countries, other meals (Los Angeles, Mexico, Rome). His reliving the unfettered sensuality of his first oyster in Kitchen Confidential caused me to relive each of mine; his choice of knives reaffirmed my own. Now, the storyteller with a rockstar's cavalier has left me wanting, left reliving each taste bittersweet. I think of him fondly teasing Eric Ripert into eating spicy food, and of him selling prized records in the throws of addiction, and of him alone in the hotel room without Eric.**
It's been said, 'god don't create lonely girls', implying some men, at least, are islands. What of my decision to live largely like these men, traipsing from place to place, living from hotel room to battered suitcase?
But I am a girl, after all.
A matador engaged in his own banderillero work in the tercio de banderillas, Plaza de Toros de Pamplona, Pamplona, Spain.
A girl stands alone on a balcony after watching the running of the bulls during the festival of San Fermin. Pamplona, Spain.
*Ernest Hemingway committed suicide in his home in Ketchum, Idaho, subsequent to years of deteriorating health.
**Eric Ripert was a close friend and colleague of Anthony Bourdain's. Ripert had been filming with Bourdain at the time of his death and discovered his body following his suicide.