Jerez de los Caballeros is a long way from the city of Valladolid but not far from the other Jerez, the famous Jerez de la Frontera. The Jerez that brings to mind the images of beautiful Spanish horses with lovely ladies dressed in the style of Andalucia and riding sidesaddle behind a handsome caballero and, great sherries. Jerez de los Caballeros, the other Jerez sits on a hilltop near Badajoz in southwestern Spain, not far from the border with Portugal.
For the few hours of my life that I spent there, it was a lovely village, picturesque! Just the place where the department of tourism would go in the spring to take photos as they flew over the white-washed houses with cobble stone streets winding down to the twisting highway that cuts through the valley, and the village surrounded by the natural warmth of green fields.
"What's Juli doing in a town like this?" Maria wanted to know.
That, was a good question, I thought.
Juan and Maria Barco are a lovely Spanish couple that are "muy taurino" and that means they are very serious about the world of fighting bulls. And Julian Lopez Escobar, "El Juli" is a friend of theirs and one of Spain's best matadors/bullfighters. So why was he fighting in this small town?
I guess she had asked me thinking that because I was traveling with his cuadrilla, his team of assistants, that I might have the inside scoop. I have known "El Juli" for five years and I've always known him to be a young man that considers his position as a torero from the point of view of a professional. He trains daily and his great passion, his desire to be in front of the horns from the age of ten has become legendary. I have always believed that if he could, he would confront animals of fighting stock daily.
From a very early age he knew what he wanted to do with his life, confront toros bravos/brave bulls in an enclosed arena. He wanted to be a matador de toros a killer of fighting bulls, a bullfighter. And he is living his dream, he is very good at what he does and he enjoys doing it! At the age of twenty, within five years of taking his alternativa/graduation to the senior ranks, he is one of the best in the world! Maybe he took this contract to keep in training, to keep his fine edge, just another stop during a long season?
One afternoon in Mexico, Juli had fought five of the seven becerras, young cows that the bull-breeder wanted tested. He would gladly have fought the two that were left but the other matador insisted he leave him something!
At Santa Maria de Xalpa, the bull-breeding ranch where we were spending the day, when the testing was finished the bull-breeder graciously invited us to a late lunch on the patio next to the testing arena.
After lunch when the guests begin to leave, the group shrinks to the hard core, the dedicated few that don't want the afternoon to end and they always gather at one large table. As the shadows from the mezquite trees lengthen, the discussion is intense as the red wine flows, usually something from Rioja. The conversation goes around and around, mostly about the characteristics of the different animals that were tested. And ocassionally someone will passionately leave his chair to demonstrate a pass at an imaginary animal, extending his arm and using his hand as though it were a small cape to give emphasis to his argument.
The exchange became heated, each of the dozen assembled trying to make his point and then Juli said, "Let’s fight them again!"
His suggestion came as a surprise to everyone, "What? No matador! You won't be able to see, the light is fading!"
"So? He said with a shrug of his young shoulders, the moon is coming out! The calves have been fought and they’ll be more difficult, we'll have to be more insistent! They're still in the corral, let's go!"
"Zorrita! The ganadero called out, suéltalas de nuevo! Turn them loose again!"
Zorrita is the caporal of Santa Maria de Xalpa, the foreman. When he heard the ganadero's voice, he stepped from his wife's kitchen with a plate of steaming tacos in his hand.
"What?" He called his mouth half full of tortilla.
"Turn them loose; Juli wants to test them again," said the bull-breeder.
The eyes of Zorrita lit up as he heard the request and the wrinkles of his leathered cowboy face with its black mustache quivered with a roar of laughter, "Better save these tacos for later mama. Pinché Juli never gets enough! Now he wants to fight them in the moonlight!"
And that was the way he had been since the beginning, since the first time I saw him fight when he was fourteen, wanting to fight everyday! But a pueblo in the south of Spain, for one of the worlds top matadors?
The formal season in Spain begins in March and ends in October, more than seven months of corridas. And the more popular matadors fight as often as every other day. As I traveled, crisscrossing Spain that summer with "El Juli's" cuadrilla/assistants, the amount of rooms we had depended on many things. The most important being, were we staying the night and where do we have to be tomorrow?
The necessary rooms were for the matador, for the two picadors a room to rest, bathe and change and another for the three banderilleros. And because we would be leaving after the corrida there would be no rooms at the inn for the rest of us, the common folk.
That's why it was such a delight that Juan and Maria had arrived! They're a pleasant couple to be with and when you have hours to wait before a corrida/bullfight and no place to hide from the heat of the sun of Estramadura, chilled sherry a dark bar and pleasant conversation will help get you through till the sound of the clarin, the bugle that with it's call announces its time for the corrida to begin.
From where we were seated in air conditioned comfort we could watch Diego, the driver of the bus and Luis a helper repack the cases with the capes and muletas. They took turns looking down the length of the swords, sliding the sharpening stone along the edge and then running their fingers along it, trying to fine-tune it as if it were a delicate instrument. And a sharp, delicate killing instrument is what the matador would want in his hand at that special moment, the legendary moment of truth when he would go in over the horns.
As the time to leave for the plaza came closer, the tension in the room infects you in a form so slight that at first you don't notice it and then subtly, it's as though it’s in the air you breathe. You don't need to check your watch, you sense the excitement and know we're getting close, it’s almost time! As more people arrive, some of them with the familiar faces of loyal followers that you encounter in different plazas throughout Spain during the season and others, the locals who possibly not planning to go to the corrida, have come to the hotel hoping to get a glimpse of a matador and maybe his autograph.
And then, a murmur goes through the crowd, "He's coming! Ya viene el torero!" At times all the matadors and their cuadrillas stay in the same hotel so when I sense the excitement in the crowd it's not important to know who is coming. It not important which of them is the first to come down, it's like an alarm going off! The waiting is over, its time for me to be in the car with the picadors! For as everyone has heard about Spain, the only thing that starts on time is the corrida and when its time to leave for the plaza any guest photographers that aren't in their assigned seats, will be left behind! Once the matador is in his seat there is only one word that needs to be said, Vamonos! Lets go!
The corrida ended at 9:30 in the evening and by the time the cuadrilla had bathed and the bus was loaded and with a quick goodbye to Juan and Maria, it was nearly eleven before we were on the road. We stopped for dinner after midnight and then piled back inside the furgoneta/bus and continued our trip around Madrid and north on the highway to Valladolid.
For me, the time the cuadrilla spends on the road is exhausting! Ten men sitting up all night in a midsize bus and even if it's new and the pride of Mercedes Benz, it's still not comfortable night after night and they somehow manage to do it through a long summer!
When we arrived in Valladolid no one knew how to find the hotel and some of the streets were closed for the fiesta of San Pedro Regalado. So we wandered, or stumbled if you can do that with a furgoneta, up one street and down another. Chofers for cuadrillas are a lot like dad's that won't stop to ask directions and they rarely listen to suggestions, but finally we found the hotel and everyone disappeared into their hiding places around 5 am.
With a group that travels and works closely together privacy is essential. Each one has to respect the others space and as I'm the outsider, an invited guest and the least necessary, I trod the most softly of them all.
Except for traveling together in the bus and the corrida, the communal moments of the day are dinner somewhere near a highway in the Iberian night and the midday meal. Usually it's a large table with ten to twelve places arranged and presided over by Armando Gutierrez Galan. Armando is Juli's most trusted assistant and the one who has been with him since the beginning.
In Spain the sorteo, or sorting of the bulls is always at 12 noon. The sorteo is held in the corrals of the plaza where the representatives of the matadors gather and lots are drawn to decide which matador will confront what bull. By the time the banderilleros return from the sorting it’s after one so lunch is usually planned for 1:30. A bit early for most Spaniards but it allows a large party to get in and out before the mid day rush.
Surprisingly, the matador joined us.
It was surprising that he joined us because he usually has a light lunch in his room and then rests until the time to dress for the corrida. It was also surprising because he didn't look well! He looked tired, or maybe a better way to explain his appearance would be to say he looked run down.
The conversation was subdued and I wondered if it was because the others had noticed it too. He ate only a small container of yogurt, drank a glass of water and retired to his room.
The hours between lunch and the time to leave for the corrida are always the most difficult for me. It's difficult to read and Spanish soap operas are at times more passionate but to me as boring as their American sisters. And any attempt to sleep is interrupted by the constant turns I'm making in the bed. If it's humid the air conditioning is too cold and if you turn it off you lie there and perspire. Once I had checked the camera for the third or maybe it was the thirtieth time, the bar was the only retreat.
Today I'm lucky and find Armando there. He has finished his pre-corrida preparations. The matador's traje de luces, the suit of lights is spotless. His shoes are shined. His shirt, tie, stockings and sash are ironed and waiting. The curtains are closed, the room is dark and the telephone has been disconnected! The matador is resting. He will not be awakened or disturbed until Armando returns.
The look on Armando's face lets me know if he wants company. In this we are alike; each of us can find anonymity in a crowd and consider it comforting. But today, he smiles and makes room for me at the bar. We talk of the old times when they first arrived in Mexico and the adventures we shared traveling with a fourteen year old phenomenon throughout the country from nearly empty small town plazas in the beginning, to filling the giant Plaza Mexico, and we talk about the women we know, guy talk. A relaxed conversation between two men who respect each other, each knowing he can joke about the other with the confidence that it won't be misunderstood. Like two hookers on a street corner, professionals. Neither of us would consider trying to tell the other how to do his job.
And we're wasting time, waiting for the minutes to pass, waiting for the haunting sound of the clarin.
During that long summer, I always left for the corrida before the matador with the picadors Salvador Herrero and Antonio Ladron de Guevara. That day in the car there was little conversation. The rumor was the matador had a temperature of 104 (41c) degrees and we were all concerned about the risk to his health but none of us would consider being the one to mention the possibility of his canceling.
A cuadrilla is a small tightly woven group of professionals dedicated to their leader, the matador. The world of fighting bulls is a dangerous business and daily during a long season of two hundred bulls, the matador's life is entrusted to them. He is not only their boss but also their taurine spiritual leader. He is the center of their attention and everything revolves around him.
When we arrived at the plaza the crowd around the entrance made it difficult to get into the patio de caballos, the staging area not only for the horses, but for the toreros. It was the last chance for each of us to relax before the paseillo, the formal entrance when the band plays as the crowd cheers with expectation and the matadors stroll across the sand. But once we were inside the patio, it was calm and orderly as it should be for men that are professionals, men who practice a dangerous occupation.
We heard a commotion in the crowd outside the huge door and then the level of anxiety changed as the people on the top of the plaza who could see down onto the entrance started yelling! And then the top of the matador's furgoneta/bus could be seen between the wrought iron bars above the door.
The door opened and he came through it quickly and walked to the doctor's office with a stream of people behind him befitting the prince of toreo that he is. First came the banderilleros of his cuadrilla; that in moments like this also serve as his bodyguards and then the TV cameras and reporters with microphones in their hands, each wanting something if only a frown.
To me, this is a breech of taurine etiquette! Interviews are done after the corrida. Before the corrida a matador spends his time getting into a mind set, preparing himself mentally and spiritually for what he has to do. He wants and needs no interruptions, no distractions!
Once he was inside the doctor's office and the door closed Angel Majano and Manuel Bermejo, two of "El Juli's" banderilleros took their positions in front of the door dressed in their suits trimmed in silver, their dress capes folded neatly over their forearms, their monteras/hats placed firmly on their heads.
Although the decision was not up to me, and my opinion would not have been asked for or considered, I was still uneasy about whether he should try to perform. Would he be able to maintain the high standard his position in the taurine world demanded of him? And more important still to him personally, the standard he demanded of himself. For a matador as popular as "El Juli" it is always a long season, maybe it would be better to cancel and wait for another day?
I looked at the poker face of Angel as he guarded the door and when he caught my eye, I lifted my head asking if everything was all right. He nodded to me and I knew the matador had decided. There would be no cancellation he was going to appear, the show would go on as promised.
My position in the callejon, the alleyway that runs around the arena was only a few feet from "El Juli" and I could watch him throughout the afternoon. It was obvious by the look on his face that he was suffering as he stood there slumped in his impeccable traje. He looked exhausted, drained!
But when it was his turn he walked out onto the sand and gave me and the crowd a performance that was unforgettable! He appeared to be exhausted in the callejon and gasping for air but now that he was on the sand and in front of the bull his strength returned, the bull's presence had reinvigorated him.
His passes with the capote, the large cape were beautifully timed, leading the thousand pounds of horns and muscle past him in a flowing movement that left its impression on the assembled, moments that allow taurine photographers to capture and record milliseconds of artistic taurine history.
When he came to the barrier after placing the banderillas his face was red and he was breathing deeply, he seemed to gulp the water from the silver cup. He wiped his face with a towel and in the seconds that it took for him to take another drink from the cup, his face was again covered with oily beads of perspiration.
We've all suffered the agony of a fever. With me it's as if everything slooows down, slower than slow motion. My head is plugged and the noises I hear seem to struggle through layers of little balls of cotton that have been stuffed in my ears. The sounds seem to fight their way into the muddled realm of my consciousness and everything hurts! My arms feel leadened and I have to negotiate with my legs to carry me from one place to another. I want to take some magic feel good prescription and lie down; hoping that when I reopen my eyes it will have all gone away and I'll be whole again.
But "El Juli" couldn't be like me, he's a hero in front of thousands of his fans, he couldn't take a break and find a quiet place in the shade to lie down and relax! Instead, it was the bull that was resting, catching his breath and waiting for the matador to return.
The Spanish verb that explains what is done with the cape and muleta in front of a bull is "torear" and to torear well you must dominate the animal. Not dominate him in a physical sense but with your intellect, knowledge. And before you can dominate that out of control mass of fury you encounter in an enclosed space, you must first dominate yourself.
When you torear, you not only come face to face with a monster armed with horns that is bigger and ten times nastier than you could imagine being, but you also face yourself and your fears. Each moment you spend in front of the bull you are on the edge of danger, pushing challenging it! To torear well you must find a place within you where you can hide the fear and panic that would overwhelm us normal human beings in the same situation.
When you're afraid, it's difficult to think clearly. And when you're alone just you and the bull, your most valuable asset is your ability to think. Thinking is essential if you want to survive those twenty minutes on the sand! The bull demands your attention and he is unforgiving! He doesn't care if you don't feel well or if you're hung over. He didn't spend the night driving across Spain or drink too much wine while romancing a lovely lady. He slept well, he's rested and ready to do what he does best, come for anyone who dares to challenge him!
The fear, the trembling the muscles of your legs want to do must be controlled, ignored and locked away somewhere as if you had left them in an old suitcase in the hotel. With the years we live, we accumulate fears and stack them one on top of the other until it's harder to get the lid closed, but once you do you strap it down tight and shove it under the bed before you leave for the plaza. Later you can confront them when you're alone or when they wake you suddenly in the night and the sheets are damp with sweat. But not here, not now in front of thousands! Fear is a private experience, it is one of the few experiences in life that are truly yours and it is not to be shared with others.
Bulls from fighting bloodlines, toros bravos in Spanish, are herd animals as are sheep or Aunt Jenny's cow. In the fields they are tranquil and serious disputes amongst them are rare. They share their space communally and move around in loose groups. But when you isolate them they become territorial!
The bullring must be a bizarre place to them with the presence of thousands of people. So different from the peaceful life they have known. But from the time they enter the plaza they take possession and that small circular area with its manicured sand becomes theirs!
The primal instinct of a fighting bull makes it charge at anything that enters his space, an offensive act that is based on defense, his need to defend himself and his territory from all intruders. From the bull's point of view it's all about territory! Any space where he is, is his! And he will fight to protect it.
He knows instinctively how to "acometer", how to lower his head and use his horns to attack violently and forcefully his enemy. From the time he was taken away from his mother he has spent his formayive years play fighting with other young bulls. And perhaps as he matured he has had serious encounters with full size ones. He has learned to stand his ground and how to use his horns with the strength of his shoulder and back muscles, to parry and thrust to overpower his foe.
What he doesn't know how to do is play the game, how to dance that special dance with the torero, the human we see carrying a cloth and dressed in a colorful costume. He needs to learn how to move to the rhythm of the "engaño" the red cloth that man uses to challenge and deceive him! That's part of the matador's job, teaching the bull where and how and when to charge and depending on the ability of the matador to understand and subtly train the animal while risking personal injury, the beauty of the fiesta brava is based.
In English we refer to these men and occasional women as bullfighters, which doesn't make sense because there is no fighting, not in the meaning that we have for the word fight! But as the concept of being in front of a bull with only a rag to defend you is foreign to those who speak English, why would we need the words to explain it properly? Each bull is different but they easily weigh six to eight times more than the matador. If it came to a fight, a knock down drag out one on one encounter, there would be no contest!
Man, or the matador's task is to provoke, entice, coerce, and train the animal to do his bidding. Man's intelligence triumphing over brute force in twenty minutes and in front of thousands of witnesses, each watching and critiquing every move you make on the sand.
I couldn't decide which of the protagonist's was the most brilliant that afternoon, El Juli or his second bull. Each of them played his part well and together they gave us an all-star performance!
The bull charges out of the stall where he's been held and into the arena looking for a way out, looking for a way to escape. But he also enters with confidence, willing and ready to confront any and all things that dare to be in his path. And in his path he finds a fragile man, a man that has dared to enter his territory!
When a brave bull enters the plaza he is all energy and strength, a solid mass of power! He charges around wildly, striking with his horns at anything that moves and even at things that don't move, inanimate objects like wooden barriers. But with time he stops and looks around, and maybe he begins to think. His movements become more calculated and if you watch him closely you can see him change. When he entered he was pure bravado but with each minute that passes he begins to learn and understand. And with this newly acquired knowledge, he becomes more aware and dangerous.
Each bull is different! Not just in the visual sense, the color of his hide, his size or the style and reach of his horns, but different in his comportment in the way he charges, the way he uses his horns. No two bulls are alike and they cannot be toreado/fought with the same method. They can be from the same ranch, born the same year, even be sired by the same seed bull but each has characteristics that make him different than the others. A matador that attempted to torear all bulls with the same style would have a short career!
A bull changes throughout the corrida, at first he charged from a distance at anything that moved, but now that the first rush of adrenaline has seeped from his body, he stops and waits for his foe to come closer, increasing the chances of catching and destroying him! He was not looking for a violent confrontation, it is because this small fragile man has dared to enter his territory that they have become enemies and it will be a conflict in which the bull will give no quarter, a fight to the death!
The corrida/bullfight has three acts. The third is the faena, the time when the matador uses the small cape, the muleta. The earlier passes were made with a cape that was twice as large and were all flowing and graceful. The passes made with the smaller muleta are more delicate and bring the animal closer to his body, increasing the risk to the matador and the excitement of the crowd.
The bull sees the man and the cloth he is extending to him. Often you will see the bull turn his head to look at the man's legs and then back at the muleta. If the cloth didn't move and the legs did, the bull would charge the legs. The matador has to keep the bull's attention locked into the muleta and not on his body that is only inches away from the reach of the horns and he does that by tempting him with the cloth, subtle movements with the wrist that move the muleta slightly and tease the bull.
Sometimes, on very special occasions you will witness a matador that is so confident of what he is doing, confident in his ability and confident in his understanding of the bull he is facing, that he will torear con las yemas. Las yemas are the sensitive pads of your fingertips. The palillo, a short wooden stick that is attached inside the top of the small cape is held lightly with the yemas, and the passes Juli made that day with the yemas of his fingers were long, slow and sensitive.
To torear with the yemas you must hold the palillo as delicately and gently as if you were caressing a tender part of the anatomy of someone you love. As if you were holding a rose petal, just tight enough that if can't slip from your fingers but not tight enough to bruise it. And then, standing next to a thousand pounds of smelly beast with sharp horns, close enough to reach out and pet him, you slowly gently use the tender touch of the yemas to lead the bull past you.
To torear with las yemas is not a concious decision that the matador makes, he does not approach the bull thinking, I'm going to torear this bull with the pads of my fingers. It is something that happens during the faena, a feeling of relaxed inspiration, of being in the zone. Moments when the connection between man and beast is so perfect that it flows from each of them and each in his way, responds in harmony.
When the faena was finished and the bull had fallen, and with the cheers of the crowd cascading around him, Juli returned to the barrier where we were standing. His face was flushed and the perspiration dropped from his hair as he looked toward the judge's box, waiting to see if his performance would be awarded with the ears of the bull as a trophy.
The judge hesitated as he studied the crowd's reaction and then he dangled first one and then a second handkerchief from the railing in front of where he was seated. Both ears of the bull would be rewarded to the matador for his performance!
Juli made a victory tour of the arena as the crowd applauded and the ladies threw him flowers and then on the shoulders of the crowd he was carried from the plaza. The last view I had of him was as he left through the archway of the plaza waving to the delirious crowd. 
