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A hot Sunday afternoon in Mexico City. The largest bullring in the world is packed with feisty locals. Restless, they
whistle and hoot before the main event when emotions run high and which, surprisingly, begins on time. A quick
ceremonial parade by the human performers, and the first marked bull is unleashed into the ring. Today, three
matadors will tackle six bulls, and for the first time ever, a female matador (from Spain) will perform in Mexico.
In the first act, three assistants to the matador, the banderilleros, in gaudy costumes of the sixteenth century
Spanish courtier, enter the ring and start waving bloodred capes at the bull. Their job is to tire out the proud animal—
weighing nearly half a ton—by provoking him into empty chases. From the flanks, a matador takes note of the
animal’s temperament.
Minutes later, two men arrive on heavily padded horses—the picadores, armed with long sharp spears. The bull
sees red, so to speak, and charges a horse. The man atop, seizing his moment, repeatedly stabs the bull just
above the spinal cord, causing a vigorous spurt of thick, dark blood. The crowd roars, among them genteel men and
women with children, overcome now with enormous anticipation. The bull, wounded and fierce, turns to the other
horse and rams into its well-padded ribs in an attempt to topple the rider, which leads to another wild uproar. This
time the bull is out of luck and merely sheds more blood. The picadores, basking in warm applause, retire to the
pavilion.
Next, a banderillero, holding three banderillas (adorned sticks with spiked ends), faces the charging bull. At least
theoretically, the bull can gore his provocateur at any time. The tension dissolves as the man leaps away at the last
minute, but not before inserting one banderilla into the bull’s neck.
He repeats this twice before exiting the ring. The hubbub in the stadium rises until a bugle blows, and the Matador
de Toros strides in for the solo act.
It is the Spanish woman, wearing the traditional traje de luces (suit of lights). She does not disappoint, playing the
crowd and fooling the animal. In subjugating brute power with human skill, she, too, will be judged for her ‘style and
artistic statement’. She moves with calm and confidence, teasing and dodging with flourish. The crowd screams,
‘Ole! Ole!’ getting louder with each daring maneuver of her crimson muleta. This continues for a few minutes until
she flashes a long, steel sword, the espada, sending shivers of excitement through the stands.
The trick is to aim it and time it precisely. She leaps away from the charging bull’s path, and with one swift move,
plunges the entire sword between the bull’s shoulder blades. A perfect kill; nothing less, it seems, would be
appreciated by this audience. The bull writhes helplessly, hobbling along like a drunk for a minute or so, ornate hilt
sticking out above, and then collapses, as if his knees were suddenly too weak to bear his weight.
A banderillero rushes forth and thrusts a sharp knife into the bull’s neck—the final blow, final as death is—the
victory is complete. The crowd goes wild as the bull lies still under the hot sun. The matador bows, stylishly swings
her Basque cap, the bugles blow, jubilant white handkerchiefs dot the stands. According to a panel of distinguished
judges, she is deemed to have displayed exceptional élan, so she wins an earlobe of the fallen animal as her
trophy, to keep. The picadores return to drag the corpse out of the ring. Food and drink vendors appear in the stands.
The din of conversation rises,
the band bursts into a cheery tune.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

In the evening . . . . .Aztec dancers perform in the Zócalo, in front of the quake-damaged sixteenth century cathedral
that Cortez built, and adjacent to the dug up remains of the capital city of the Aztecs, Tenochtitlan. Amid wild
drumbeats and incense smoke, they dance with fiery abandon to the songs of their ancestors. Beneath their ornate
winged headdresses and serpent-skin costumes are sports bras, but even more conspicuous is the carefree Latin
swagger of the times.
Late evening ushers in the bonhomie of burlesque shows off Plaza Garibaldi. Wage laborers, castaways, and
disgruntled men gather for a bit of fun and loving. Clad only in cheap talcum, the ladies descend into the audience
and good-naturedly fondle the men—who must not reciprocate—as if they were babies, with physical needs that
demand swift attention. Somehow, the dominant sensibility mixes both primal instinct and good cheer. Outside,
Mariachis, with their harps and guitars, hang out late into the night strumming earthy songs of love and betrayal to a
world fast adopting the joys of digital music. The bars around the plaza do a roaring business serving tequila con
sangrita and juicy tamales.
A traveler, haunted by scenes from a bullring, wanders the city. He witnesses high-energy flamenco dancers in
street-side bars; forlorn leftists in Coyoacan cafes, cracked walls painted with murals that scream; a pious lady
cajoling the Lord in low whispers; an old man counting all who might weep at his funeral; young men into the
ranchero look of romantic movies; the timid eroticism of glances adolescents exchange in the park. He sees a
hunched Mayan woman waiting patiently for alms on the sidewalk, staring vacantly at this mad, rushing world.