El Toro

I should have guessed that the famous Knossos fresco of a vault over the back of a bull was part of the lineage of contemporary Spanish bullfighting when we saw it in Crete.

 

But at the time it did not occur to me.  What seemed closer to its root was the ancient Summarian tale of Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s epic fight with the Bull of Heaven (this being the oldest known tale in recorded history).  In The Epic of Gilgamesh, Ishtar–the goddess of Fertility–states: “My father, give me the Bull of Heaven to destroy Gilgamesh.  Fill Gilgamesh, I say, with arrogance to his destruction; but if you refuse to give me the Bull of Heaven I will break in the doors of hell and smash the bolts; there will be confusion of the people, those above with those from the lower depths.  I shall bring up the dead to eat food like the living; and the hosts of dead will outnumber the living.”
The tale continues:
    When Anu heard what Ishtar had said he gave her the Bull of Heaven to lead by the halter down to Uruk. When they reached the gates of Uruk the Bull went to the river; with his first snort cracks opened in the earth and a hundred young men fell down to death.  With his second snort cracks opened and two hundred fell down to death.  With his third snort cracks opened, Enkidu doubled over by instantly recovered, he dodged aside and leapt on the Bull and seized it by the horns.  The Bull of Heaven foamed in his face, it brushed him with the thick its tail.  Enkidu cried to Gilgamesh, ‘My friend, we boasted that we would leave enduring names behind us.  Now thrust in your sword between the nape of the horns.’ So Gilgamesh followed the Bull, he seized the thick of its tail, he thrust the sword between the nape and the horns and slew the Bull.

These ancient tales of ritual bullfighting are all linked and appear in various forms throughout the subsequent ancient civilizations–the Persians had their version, the Greeks had another version, the Minoans had theirs.  The ritual killing of the sacred bull–or “tauromachia” found its way into the traditions of the Iberian peninsula through the exploits of the pagan god, Mithras, expressed in the Roman Mithraic Mysteries.

An exclusively male cult of Mithras was apparently popular with the Roman military and seemed to serve much the same function as the killing of the Bull of Heaven in The Epic of Gilgamesh–a ritual path through which man gained fame and respect–a  symbolic conquering of the power of the heavens through a series of trials.  Another vestige of this legend is the astrological bull in our contemporary zodiac.  Taurus, the symbol for the period spanning roughly from April 21st through May 21st, reflects the ancients' representations of the power of the sacred Bull of Heaven– a power that was ripe for the taking.

Bullfighting is still practiced in parts of Spain and France.  In Arles, for example, we saw that the old Roman amphitheater was booked for an upcoming bullfight.  This marries the current tradition of bullfighting with the pagan Roman Mithraic cult practices–they often fight in the same arenas in which the ritual bullfights were practiced in the 1st through the 4th centuries A.D.

Being rather ideologically opposed to ritual slaughters, however, I have avoided the bull ring on principle.  So when we wandered into Seville last summer, attending a bullfight was not on our agenda.  But one thing that was on the agenda was a day trip to the Roman ruins of Italica on the outskirts of the city.

Italica is one of the best preserved Roman sites in Spain and overlooks the small city of Santiponce near Seville.  We headed out to Santiponce early on the local bus which took some time but delivered us almost to the entry gate of the ruins.  The remnants of the old Roman city are not as well preserved as the amphitheater, but the view of the sweeping countryside from the city in its day must have been quite impressive.

Most of what remains are mosaic floors and bits of columns that line the city streets.  The site still seems to be in the process of excavation, so perhaps more of the city will emerge over time.  Except for the poplars lining the roads, the landscape is dry and barren.  But nearer to the amphitheater is a small lake at the bottom of the hill, where there are flowers and shrubs and an army of cicadas filling the air with their mating call.

The amphitheater itself is mostly intact and has an extensive series of access and drainage tunnels that surround the central arena.

One can imagine walking into the massive circle with cheers for the fighters filling the air.

With only myself and the cicadas in the rubble of the tiered stone benches to witness and applaud him, my companion stepped bravely into the arena.

There he invoked Anu, Zeus, Jupiter or any other of the remaining gods of the heavens who still answered the call of man to send the sacred bull to the ring so that he could win fame and glory. 

And with only a humble bandanna he too taunted, mesmerized and vanquished the Bull of Heaven to the cheers and chirps of the entranced spectators–ensuring that his name, like Gilgamesh, Mithras and all other legendary matadors, would be passed down through the ages and remembered by all.

World Cup 2010

Humans are territorial, sadly, so we wage war on each other to stake out our turf.  But we also channel some of this aggression into other less deadly pastimes–like football.  People love football, almost as much as they love war (and in this case I am not talking “American football,” I am talking about football as practiced in the rest of the world).  Football provides a venue for territorial rivalry that actually adds a little cohesion to society, while it pumps up the adrenalin and lets boys be boys.

Last summer the World Cup was following us around Europe.  Being avid sports enthusiasts, we were only first aware of the World Cup games as we were nearing our departure from Portugal.  We were in Mértola at the Clube Nautico the night that Spain and Portugal were facing off–the winner heading for the quarter-finals.  There was a long table set up in the center of the small family owned club that was obviously specially prepared for the game.  The restaurant was still lively when we arrived, although the game was over and Portugal had lost.  But for the Portuguese, the fact that Spain was still in the running was a good second best, since Spain has been part of the Iberian psyche for many centuries.  The party went on, even in defeat.

The game played for the quarter-finals between Paraguay and Spain occurred while we were in Seville.  That evening, after sampling  a number of tapas bars in the old section of Seville, we returned to the first one we had eaten at near Alfalfa square–it was already our favorite.  As we sipped our wine and the delicacies began to flow, cheers erupted from the bar where the waiters were following the game.

By the time we reached Barcelona, the World Cup was into the semi-finals and spirits were running high.  Before our dinner, we saw crowds of people gathered round the big-screen TVs at the bars along the streets–drinking beer and almost frozen in anticipation of the outcome.  Spain hadn’t been in the finals for many years and they were so very very close that they could almost taste it.  The fervor was palpable if temporarily held in check.  At about 22:00, while chasing our dinner wine with an espresso, all hell broke loose. 

Spaniards on the upper balconies overlooking the streets were pouring water down onto passers-by and a very inebriated crowd was gathering in the old Medieval sector that began chanting their victory “whoop.”  We hung back at first, wondering how frenzied it would become–not wanting to be killed in a post-game riot.  But of course, this was not South Africa, it was Barcelona, and there was no rival in sight.  The Spaniards just wanted to party hard in celebration.

We forged our way down into the melee and chanted with the best of them.  It was mob hysteria, but not quite bordering on out-of-control.  The police were clearly worried–while they were smiling and enjoying themselves on one hand, they were keeping a sharp eye out for trouble on the other.  I think the chanting continued for at least 45 minutes.  We grew tired of it after about 25 minutes and wandered up the street toward our hotel.  But we could hear the celebrations from our room until late into the night.

Oddly enough, we were scheduled to fly into Amsterdam on July 11th, the day of the finals between the Netherlands and Spain.  Spirits were rolling even higher in Amsterdam ahead of the game.  It looked to have been a long party day by the debris we encountered along the streets on the way to our flat.

As we walked through the city a little later, an elderly man became rather angry at us for taking photos of all the party residue.  He assured us that Amsterdam was a beautiful city and didn't want us to be documenting the mess.  We told him that we understood this was the kind of liter one would find anywhere in the world following a World Cup final and that we were only photographing it because we found it interesting in a social sense.

On the way to dinner, we saw most of the population of Amsterdam glued in silent angst to TVs everywhere along the streets.

When we returned to the flat we switched on the TV and watched the end of the game.  As near as I can gauge–being in no way well informed on the subject–the Netherlands goalkeeper was amazing and nearly saved the eventual loss, but the Spaniards simply played much more offensively and the Netherlanders were playing it a little too safe–defending more than attacking–so it was only a matter of time.  Consequently, we were there to feel the sting of the Netherlands’ defeat.

But on the upside (as a resident of Amsterdam pointed out), the Netherlands hadn’t played a game as high profile as this in 22 years–since they took the 1988 European Football Championship–so in spite of their disappointment, Amsterdam was still in party mode for the team homecoming.  It was a great showing for the Netherlands–even if they were second to Spain.  They could claim their place as the 2nd best team in the world for 2010, and that is no small accomplishment.

People gathered along the canals for the official parade over half a day before it was to happen–everyone wanting to score a good view of the boats that would be passing by.  The city was again a flood of orange and spirits were off the charts; people hung out of windows, climbed lampposts, stripped naked and jumped into the canals as they killed time waiting for the show.

 

Then as the team passed there was a sea of orange and a din of cheers from the time the team came into view until they rounded the corner of the canal and wove out of our sight.

It was infective and the party atmosphere didn’t abate until the wee hours of the morning.

We couldn’t have planned our trip to coincide better with the football finals if we had tried, even though we had only a passing interest in them.  And although we were actually in the losing country when they were defeated, we really felt it was probably better, since judging by the semi-final win in Spain, the final was probably quite out-of-control.  The Netherlands were stalwart and gracious in their defeat despite their disappointment.  But in any case, I didn’t want to take sides–I was rooting for them both to some extent.  I had loved my time visiting both lands and the people were friendly and warm in both–from a human standpoint, both deserved to win.

Temple of Gaudi

One could argue that Gaudi’s Sagrada Família would seem to be his temple.  When I first approached his cathedral I was just a hair disappointed.  Not because I wasn’t captivated by the lyricism of Gaudi’s forms, but because the cathedral was heavily scaffolded.  “Just my luck,” I thought sourly, “I come all the way to Barcelona and they are renovating the crown jewel of the city,”(reminding me of my two visits to the Parthenon–both times shrouded in scaffolds).

Still I stood patiently in line to enter the cathedral–under renovation or not.  As I finally entered the massive interior I was not greeted with distant Gregorian chats, incense and cavernous silence, but rather, with a choir of drills, sanders and blowtorches ringing through the audacious dust filled nave like some mechanistic demon hidden within the mist.

The experience was no less spiritual for the din; it actually seemed alive with purpose.  One sees that man indeed creates these temples out of the dust of the earth.

Gaudi’s temple wasn’t being renovated, it was being constructed!  After more than a hundred and twenty years it is still far from completion.

But the Sagrada isn’t really Gaudi’s temple, his temple is his legacy.  One need only walk through the terraced paths of Park Güell, stand in the stairwell of his Casa Batlló, or share the rooftop of the  Casa Milà with his chimney soldiers to revere the man’s vision and prowess.

 

Everywhere you stand, everywhere your gaze falls there is another visual melody unveiling itself as you delve further into its sanctum.  You can’t take enough photos to feel that you have captured his genius–no matter how may hundreds you take.  There is always another vaulted hallway, crackled glow of a ceiling fixture, warm polish of a wood banister or brilliant song of a vibrant mosaic.

Gaudi's structures feel more like breathing beasts, ripening grapes and sprouting mushrooms than like the boxes for living that we usually associate with architecture.

 

     

Temples are where we worship the divine–the power and genius of a maker.  The Temple of Gaudi is not a literal place, but a realm of astounding beauty–inspired by natural forms and formidable daring.  Gaudi was an architectural god.

Scaling Mountains

My head is full of winter snowscapes–snowscapes from recent showshoeing treks in the woods, from images I took as a reference to paint and of a vicarious trip to the summit of Everest.  A friend loaned me a new book that documents a co-worker’s Everest summit–quite the astounding feat considering she is a woman in her 60's. She has my admiration!  Although I thoroughly enjoyed reading the account of her adventure, it is beyond me.  I am in reasonably good physical condition, but I have seen Carol Masheter in the gym and she is in superb physical condition.

Nonetheless, venturing out into the mountains is something I often do, just not generally to mountains the size of Everest.  I have a great fear of heights.  I challenge this fear on a mini-scale occasionally by climbing up to a local peak, but usually near the top where an exposed area drops hundreds of feet, I break out into a cold sweat and my knees become noodles.  I lose confidence in my physical strength and coordination and the vacuum of the sheer wall of air seems to suck me toward the precipice.  I see my own mangled body so clearly on the cliffs below that it feels tangible.  That’s when I stop, turn back or move further from the edge.  I don’t have the nerves of steel it takes to scale extreme heights, and I suppose I see this as my body telling me what my psychological limits are.

I chickened out right at the saddle of Gobbler’s Knob, and just contemplating the last stretch of the Mt. Olympus hike makes me feel wobbly.  I once climbed up a “short-cut” trail from the Alpine side of Lone Peak, but couldn’t do the rocky outcrop at the top to reach the peak–it just seemed too exposed.  After walking through a small herd of mountain goats and resting near the base of the final rocky crown, I picked my way back down the mountain the way I'd come - and really, only then did I realize how very steep even that was–how very easily a misstep could have sent me tumbling down the slope.  But this was still a “slope” rather than a sheer drop into nothingness.  It rattled my nerves as I thought about it, but it was late afternoon and I still had over two hours of hiking ahead of me to reach the car.  So I just pushed on–kept my line of sight on the ground ahead of me and placed my feet very carefully until I was down the steepest part.

On the other hand I have scaled some high mountain trails and reached a few more minor peaks where my footing feels secure and the path seems wide enough for safety.

And most often it is an emotional and physical charge.

Several years ago I did a backpacking trek to Machu Picchu, in Peru.  For the most part the trail was very tame, if challenging, due to the sharp elevation rise on a few parts of the trail and a couple of more exposed drop-offs as you descend from the highest part of the mountain.  Fatigue was my nemesis there–that and the weight of my backpack.  At this point on the third day of the trek I  had one of my mangled body visions as I cautiously made my way down a stone stairway from some Inca ruins.

There was a sharp drop to one side of the path and nothing for one’s hands to hold, and  I could feel how clumsy I was becoming due to my fatigue.  I knew I was near my limit.

But I just went into super-caution mode again and I plodded on.  I made it to Machu Picchu on day four without any mishaps.

At other times my fear is simply more psychological.  In Norway we climbed up to the Preikestolen–the “Pulpit Rock”.  I couldn’t bring myself to walk near the edge.
 

At three meters or so from the ledge I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled to about the one meter mark.  There I got down on my belly and scooted along until my head dangled over the cliff.

My fear made me feel physically weak.  But I later hiked higher and further up the mountain.  Where there was a solid stretch of ground under my feet and no sheer drop, I was not at all nervous.

There is something in me - in many of us - that drives us upward to that final knob or ridge where the landscape is spread out like a picture book and the wind swirls up from below. The view from the top never disappoints if the weather cooperates.

Scaling heights partly requires adjustment to the setting I think, but it also makes demands of one’s natural fearlessness or lack thereof. I felt this all too clearly as I clung to the rocks with the bristlecone pines on a bald ridge in Great Basin National Park. I had reached the crest of the ridge through sheer willpower but my nerves were stretched just about to their breaking point. In order to calm the fear I was compelled to just sit for a time, to adjust to the scope of how far I'd come, to how far down it was on any side, and yet also to how satisfied I was with myself for having made it there.

I thought of this as I read Carol's account of moving through the Khumbu Icefall.  She begins the series of climbs through the falls almost paralyzed with fear at a couple of points.  Yet with practice and familiarity she becomes more confident and adept.
        
Across the winter I have been trying to get out of the house and going as far as the local mountains–if not Everest–and into the sunshine.  Snowshoes make hiking in the snow a viable option and escaping the smog of the winter inversions is an added health benefit.

There is peace in the solitude of the snow covered slopes–especially if one is lucky enough to find a trail with few other hikers or snowshoers.  And there is sunshine–a badly needed source of psychological regeneration for me that always is in short supply during winter months.  I’ve been hiking a bit and enjoying it immensely.  On one snowshoe excursion recently we saw a number of animals–we watched a small herd of elk work their way up the mountain not far off and passed very closely by a couple of moose.

Then we sat atop a snowy knoll to absorb the pale beauty of the view.

On another hike we watched the afternoon sun dance through the bare trees in the crisp cold.

I even took a shot at capturing the feeling of the mountain slope in the sun–or at least some sense of it–on canvas.

I love the mountains, but I am a hiker, not a mountaineer, and I am at peace with that.