The Corrida at Nimes: Bull Fights in the South of France

I watched six bulls meet their demise under the scorching Mediterranean sun. During the Féria de Pentecôte, we went to Les Arènes for a Sunday morning corrida (bullfight)-- the colorful and controversial custom that endures in the south of France. As we approached the amphitheater, the streets were packed with people wearing wide-brimmed sun hats, handkerchiefs tied at their necks.

The Roman amphitheater is enormous, bleached a skeletal white in the sun. Built around AD 100 to seat 24,000 people, the arena is still used today for all sorts of events, bullfights included. The line snaked out of the entrance gate. We bought our tickets ($17) just in the nick of time and then raced up the steep stairs (I lost track of the number of flights) just before the show started-- in all its pomp and circumstance. The passageways are dark, the stone carved with graffiti. From the top of the amphitheater, we could see across Nîmes to the Jardins de la Fontaine and all the Roman monuments, including the Tour Magne.

Marielle was a superb hostess, providing detailed explanations of the ceremony and its cultural traditions. (Most of her family was there to attend-- including her lovely grandmother.) The spectacle is a tragedy of three acts in which the matador and bull engage in a kind of dance before the inevitable killing of the bull. It's quite ritualized. First, everyone involved in the corrida enters the ring to salute the President, parading in front of the crowds of spectators. The costumes are flamboyant and bright. Two dudes on horseback ride across the ring and ask for the key to the door of the pen where the bulls are kept waiting (this is a symbolic gesture). Next, a man walks out in the ring with a placard revealing the name of the matador who was to fight. (We watched three matadors-- each allotted two bulls.) The diehard fans know the reputation and history of each of the matadors, but we had to flip through the morning paper to get the scoop.

When the bull enters the ring, three men with large pink capes goad the taureau in circles. Two picadors on horseback, their steeds protected with yellow armor, are stationed outside of one of two circles sketched on the stadium floor. Armed with lances, they prick the bull between the shoulder blades when he runs into them. Blood poured down the back of the bull in steady currents. Lastly, before the matador works his magic, two banderilleros must stick a pair of sharp sword-like objects into the animal. These men run like crazy across the ring and thrust the two colorful banderillas into the bull's spine, before escaping to the side of the amphitheater.

And then the matador, perfectly attired, steps in the ring and a murmur sweeps across the crowd. The bull charges, the matador maneuvers just out of harm's way. There is a graceful confidence to his movements. Flaring his red cape, the matador forces the bull to the left, to the right. It seems like man and beast almost touch, they are so close. If it's particularly pretty, the President will request the musicians to play uplifting melodies to accompany the scene. At other times, a trumpet will sound a penalty when the matador has taken too long to kill the bull. The matador must force the bull into the perfect position in order to thrust the sword deep into his back and heart.

The bulls are bred to be aggressive (a specific type of animal in Spain) but the first one to hit the ring was so weak, it was painful to watch. Walking, instead of running. He tripped over his own front feet, tumbling forward in a somersault. Watching the blood spurt out of his mouth, staining the dust, I thought about the gladiator combat that took place in the same amphitheater, thousands of years ago. (Of course I also thought about that most famous of bull-fight aficionados, Hemingway. What does it say about a man if one of his great passions is this blood sport.) When the picadors ran out to assist the matador, surrounding the bull and pushing a knife into his brain, I had to turn away. Throughout the two-hour spectacle, I read the entire Sunday edition of Le Monde, cover to cover. A first for me.

But there was a moment when the matador performed perfectly and he was given the two ears and the tail of the bull-- quite a rare occurrence. My heart pounding, I could feel the emotion in the ring, the crowds of spectators going wild, waving white handkerchiefs and throwing objects into the ring in appreciation of his feat. The matador walked a slow circuit, picking up hats and clothes with a deep, proud bow and throwing them back to the crowd.

Guess what we ate for lunch? That's right. Stewed taureau. Back at Marielle's grandmother's house, seated on the terrace under the Cypress trees, we enjoyed a long, lingering meal with bowls of olives and Pastis to start. I hate to say it, but the meat was delicious.

PS. Our tickets were printed with a beautiful painting by Yash Godebski. To see the colorful corrida paintings, click on "Tableaux," then "Theme," then "Taureaux."