Vinosofia - Presentation
THE FIRST GLASS
The clerk of the hotel La Perla snorted the muggy heat of July. Unbearable. He heard a noise down the stairs and turned lazily. Here comes another. The American went down slowly, handed him the key of 205 and stood before him. He was a boy, a little more than twenty. Convinced that the job imposed precautions he took to observing. Since it was not for him to appease the fantasies of the guests distracted and curious, he repeated what they wanted to hear without enthusiasm. Another one who knows nothing of bulls, bullfight, blood and wine. Another idiot attracted here by the popular fury that each year alights Pamplona, to witness the spectacle of the great tradition. He did not tolerate them and repeated the same words, wrapped in a story of fears, dreams and greed. He took the key, sighed announcing the scenario. For the feria of San Fermin turn left, after hundred meters continue straight ahead, there you will begin to meet people but beware, you do not know the bulls, the momentum of their race, the popular madness that turns this into an event sacred and pagan, life and death .. in fact it can also be dangerous. This is what these assholes wanted to hear, and what he told them. He added: be careful, in the fury, there are people dying there, ending trampled, who no longer understands what is happening. Watch out for the bulls, be careful in the crowd, be careful with the wine ... He always had to repeat it, but the other had already left. And who cares, I cannot take the part of his parents. The American did not know Pamplona, nor Spain. That yellow heat, the intensely spoken words, those dark and sudden shadows had pleasantly surprised him. He passed the spire of a large church, turned and threw the eye into a courtyard filled with a surreal silence, suddenly broken by the cry of a child who seemed to die and instead was playing, playing .. it was just a game. Continued. Suddenly. Towards him came rushing black haired men, light-hearted and tanned, and women, fluttering, which suggested firm legs and thick thighs underneath their full skirts. He straightened himself. He liked it, he liked the noisy Spain. He walked right into the sun, to the center of the noise of the crowd, the center of everything ... As if there could be a center of something, in this small town. But what on earth was destined to happen? Currently there was nothing going on but the white and red. White, white as chalk on the houses, white like the sun not yellow anymore but blinding white like all the clothes of the people celebrating, women and men in the Lord's Day and to celebrate the Saint, tourists in white trousers and shirts. Red, as the red geraniums that flooded every balcony, red as the scarves around the necks and around the waist of the people celebrating, humanity ready to celebrate, the colour of wine and blood that would soon be colouring the streets bright red. The boy shuddered. He loved it, God he loved it. The American knew that something was about to happen. The air was tense, electric, took to stomach and head. The men, young and old, silent or already screaming crowded along the sidewalks, preparing for the violent ritual. Some snappy, virile, with proud eyes towards their woman or contemptuous looks toward their friends. Others mature, swollen, desirous of renewed youth. Others still drunk with love and wine, wavering, unsteady on their legs, to demonstrate their strength. White and red too, clean and dirty, happy and desperate, all together waiting for the beast. And finally the beast arrived. He, too, when he arrived, he found himself there in the middle, in this whirlwind of love and death, holiness and blasphemy, of perfume and vomiting. The bulls were running madly, driven by howls of derision and violence. Symbols of power, humiliated and despised animal before being killed, occupied the whole street chased by men who went after them, avoiding, overcoming, throwing their hips, grotesque screaming. And women, even more monstrous bulls and men, deformed faces and mouths shouting vulgar words, aggressive, abandoned in a collective ritual liberating and cruel ... I did not know their language but I sensed the deep sense watching those hips shook, the hands that went up to heaven, lips and eyes wide with desire, pleasure, fear. It was ecstatic. Overwhelming. Drunken crowd, life, violence, love. He threw himself on the small bottle of leather that someone offered him, drank and redrank, drank while before his eyes in a flurry of hooves, horns, legs, screaming already ran the first blood on the road, or perhaps the first wine, or maybe it was all the blood and wine ... He was dripping, dripping with sweat and drunk when he arrived at the plaza de toros. And still drinking he admired the Old Rite. Death, it was for the bulls to die. Mercilessly. But respecting the beast, his blood, his wine. He was finally dragged out, pushed by the crowd that already came back to invade the narrow streets of the village. He wandered among restaurants, local shops. He ate with his hands, grabbed meat and vegetables, drank and redrank. Danced, danced until dawn and then was seized by fury. Should he. Now he had to, had to. He had to leave something of the Fiesta. And he wrote: "... all of a sudden people started coming down the street. They ran close. Passed and disappeared into the arena, then behind them other men ran faster, then came a few islanders who really ran. Behind them there was a small free space, then the bulls galloping, rolling the horns. Everything was out of sight around the corner. A man fell and was pulled apart, remained not moving. But the bulls went on and ignoring him. All units ran. " Now, only now he was really exhausted. He picked up his hands, bones, the sheets of paper. He could not even remember how he ended up in front of the hotel La Perla. He asked for the 205 went up, vomited. Then he fell asleep. When he came down he was perfect, flawless in sky-blue shirt, and smiled. The bill, por favor. The clerk sighed, took note of the room, opened the register of customers. Your name, boy? Hemingway. Ernest Hemingway.