Pin It

Tweet

Hometown

Malibu, CA

Joie de VIVre

Cooking, eating, traveling and writing about it; building businesses with my husband Bruce, laughing with my children (ages four and seven).

VIV Moment

In 1994, just outside of Guadalajara, Mexico, my husband and I sat on the old stone bleachers of a private bullring while matadors, in full regalia, exhibited their skills to our multinational business group. Whatever one thinks of the sport of bullfighting (justifiable criticisms, to be sure), it held my attention.

The last matador took a stylistic bow, and the Master of Ceremonies announced a call for volunteers. Volunteers? This form of entertainment didn’t strike me as one that lent itself to audience participation.

Half a dozen testosterone-filled contestants scattered in the ring, periodically taking cover behind the barriers, as a young bull ran wildly in all directions.

“You have to get close to the bull,” said the Spaniard on my left. Apparently, he was experienced in such matters. “That way, he can’t pick you out so easily while he is running towards you.”

I looked directly at my husband who knew my thoughts. He stretched out his palm as I peeled off my jewelry and handed it over. The Spaniard accompanied me to the ring’s edge where he could coach me in the art of the cape before I went in.

“Get close to the bull…get close to the bull,” I repeated to myself as I walked towards the animal, contradicting natural instincts to do just the opposite. It was a moment where I put real faith in someone else’s advice.

I looked at this not-yet-full-grown bull and he looked at me. His eyes were soft and a little vacant. Then, lowering his head, he brushed each front hoof back… all bets were off. This was a fierce animal, and we were at war.

He charged at me. I sidestepped behind the flame red cape I held before me and, in the fluid motion etched into my subconscious from watching many movies, I swung the cape as the bull brushed by me.

Raucous applause, shouts and red carnations launching from the crowd emboldened me, a girl bred in the suburbs of Los Angeles with nary a cow in sight. I gained confidence with each successive pass. I fought until the bull backed off indicating his concession.

As I exited the ring, hat in hand, I picked up one of the strewn flowers and presented it to my husband, the guy who knew what I wanted.

Leave a Comment

Name

Email (will not be published)