A Brief Overview of the Botellon and the Toros

BOTELLON, CABRON

Derived from the Spanish word for bottle, botella, “botellon” (roughly pronounced bow-tie-yawn) basically means an outdoor drinking session. “To botellon” is to go set up shop with a bunch of friends somewhere outside, whether under a national monument, in a huge field, under a bridge, night or day, whatever. The only requisite is that you get your drink on. However, to understand botellon, one must experience.

The carnival I described in my post on Cadiz was something of a botellon that integrated costumes and performance, but just last week, I experienced a botellon in its purest form. At least as a visual spectacle, it was one of the more impressive displays of public consumption I’ve witnessed.

Myself and some folks from the Residencia.

Dubbed “Fiesta de la Primavera” (spring party), this botellon was a massively orchestrated affair designed to kick off the first day of spring. My friends and I were unsure of where exactly this was to take place as we had only heard about it through the grape vine. Fortunately, we were easily led there by the hundreds of people we saw carrying cases, bottles, and bags of ice, booze, beers, and other necessary supplies all heading in one direction.

We got there, got down to business, and had a lot of fun. The later it got, the more the parking lot filled with people and cars pumping tunes.

As it turns out, the best way to start conversation with the notoriously "frigid" Spanish women: pick them a flower. As you would imagine, it really sells at spring parties. It also helps if you stick a flower behind your ear and dance to their amusement.

The Spanish ladies were so impressed by my Flamenco impression that I had to have done it on ten different occasions. It seemed like yet another new chica kept showing up that had yet to see my take on the artful Spanish dance, so I would have to do it again.

“Cuantos veces tengo que bailar? Necesito descansar…por lo menos otra cerveza…”

[How many times do I have to dance? I need to rest…at the least I need another beer.]

A video from my friend's digital camera of me having a dance off with a Spanish dude. It ended up turning into something of a dance-on that culminated with me shouting at this 15 year old Spanish boy that I was not drunk; rather, he was drunk. I named him “el quince,” which means “the fifteen.” Before you take me for belligerent, bear in mind this clip is taken out of context, and here it is quite customary to shout expressively amongst friends.

LOS TOROS

Given that the image of the bull is so symbolic of Spain, it seems odd that my first bullfight came so far into my stay here. Actually, we are just entering the bull fight season, and as the weather continuously improves, it makes a good deal of sense.

When we first sat in our seats, the sun was absolutely beaming down. I forgot my sunglasses and wore a long-sleeve shirt, so I was both blind and cooking. Guys were hawking straw hats for 3 euro and were selling them like they were going out of style.

Thinking ahead, the boys and I stopped at the Tobacco store beforehand (of which there seem to be roughly a million here) to pick up some cigars. On increasingly tight budgets, we weren’t looking to pick up anything too pricey, but we suddenly realized that wouldn’t be an issue.

The bitter old white men of America just won’t ever get over their despise for Castro, their virulent anti-communism, that confrontation that almost resulted in nuclear war, and the bizarre strategic attempts and plots gone afoul. As a result, America has, and probably will continue to have an embargo against Cuba. The Spanish on the other hand, lack an embargo and are on very good trade terms with the Cubans. Therefore, Spain has access to a large market of cheap, quality cigars. Hallelujah!

Sipping a cold Cruzcampo and puffing a decent Cuban cigar was certainly the best way to get down with the Spanish way and enjoy the fight. Though I’m not fond of blood and gore (or Cruzcampo, as you know), I was able to dull my sensitivity by working up a buzz.

When the trumpets started to sound, we eagerly awaited the first bull. The first portion of the fight features a dude on an armored horse stabbing away to prime the bull for its inevitable demise. Lovely.

At times, I felt sympathy for the bull. Clearly it was as confused by the circumstances and surroundings as any reasonable creature would be. Though it would sometimes explode with rage, it seemed to do so only out of frustration and self-preservation. The guys and I expressed our hope that the bull had enjoyed his peaceful days out on the pastures and had the opportunity to hump lots of cute cow honeys.

I definitely got some sense of the underlying art form, and the danger the matadors risk in the ring. There seemed to be more skill involved than necessarily met the eye. These guys really could move with form and grace, but from afar it looked somewhat easy and repetitive. I’m sure my impressions would change if I were the dude clutching a red cloth staring down a two-ton beast fighting for its life in front of thousands of spectators.
While it may appear as though a matador is getting run over in the picture, he is not. It happens so quickly, I didn't appreciate how close he comes to getting trampled until I started timing my snapshots right.

As night fell, we watched our sixth bull of the afternoon bite the dust. A few really dragged things out, and that just gets messy. When the matador makes his final stab, the bull is usually completely exhausted and near-incapacitated by wounds. At that time, it is surrounded by all the matadors and executed. I didn't find the procedure particularly honorable, but I still enjoyed the spectacle of it, and its certainly something I needed to see.