The only thing that redeems a bullfight, really, is the agility and strength of the horses. The brass band finishes its opening number and the horses burst out from behind wooden gates, dazzling the crowd in the little round arena with their tricks. The horses move on command, dancing in time with the music, able to run sideways and spin in 360 degree circles at top speed. Each horse has it's mane dressed in colorful fabric, an embroidered saddle, gold tinged, and it's rider, the bullfighter, wears a coat of gold, a three pointed hat and tights. Just to watch the horses is to see a magnificent, dramatic show, it's breathtaking. But there are bulls here too.

He is a beast, snorting and running. But then the bull gushes with blood and is stopped, dazed, his horn-tossing, wild anger suddenly halted. Then with a fresh horse and a new weapon, the bullfighter appears invincible. It takes an enormous amount of skill to ride a horse the way these fighters do, and even more to be able to stab the bull just so, over and over, but, suddenly, the whole show was just like high school. And the popular kids were ganging up on the fat kid.

The guys in the matching outfits hop effortlessly over the wooden wall and into the arena; right in front of an angry, bleeding bull. One takes tentative steps forward. He walks with swaying hips and a tilted head in a suggestive and silly way. He is taunting the bull. He puts on a funny green cap and his exaggerated steps make the crowd laugh. We all know his fate; he is bull bait.

The jester has finished his dance and the bull is watching him, snorting and huffing with effort. Suddenly the bull comes storming forward, throwing his horns. He takes the jester squarely and costumed boy is airborne. When he hits the arena floor the bull is on top of him. But the other jesters are there to save him; they all grab the bull, by the horns, piling on top of him, until he is disarmed. And then, like a dance, the jesters rush off, get to the wall and leap over in a graceful bound.

With six spears hanging from his haunches, blood soaking his body, the bull is drawn back, through the wooden gates and away. He has not been killed on the arena floor, but he will be killed tonight. I'm left feeling overwhelmed with the spectacle, enchanted with the showmanship, the horses, the costumes, the riding and the action, but feeling indignant for the bull whose life, at it's end was all to be taunted, to be poked and laughed at, to be surely killed. It is as if we lust to see torture, and lust to see something so big, powerful and magnificent downed by a dashing hero.

The bullfighter, at the end, after vanquishing his enemy with barbed lances, now takes a few victory laps on his horse, then dismounts and walks the circle of the bullring triumphantly. He holds up his hands and smiles to the crowd. The crowd goes wild, as if they are a gang of teenagers at a heart-throb concert. They scream and whistle and toss their clothing down on the bullfighter until it is raining down with shirts and roses. The bullfighter gallantly collects the garments and throws them back into the stands. He clutches his roses and holds his arms up to display them. I watch him collect a shirt, sniff it, mop his brow with it - then he pauses to look at it before beaming up at the stands and throwing it back to a waiting, screaming woman. I suppose the sweat of a great bullfighter is a prized possession.

Wandering the bullring, we found ourselves backstage during the bullfight. The gates swung open and a snorting steaming horse stormed through wearing his gaudy bullfighter. Both of them were panting and dripping with sweat, they came to rest for one minute before the bullfighter jumped off the horse and swung up on to a waiting, fresh one. The bullfighter - behind the scenes - looked tired and a little terrified; his brazen stage smile gone and the sweat running in streams down his cheeks. The horse, however, is triumphant, with rippling muscles and blaring nostrils he is a creature who never loses.