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Long before it was an annoying song and dance, La Macarena was a neighborhood in Seville. The Basilica here is home to a painted wood effigy of Mother Mary: La Virgen de la Macarena. She stands high above the altar wrapped in a volcano of gold and lace and velvet and cries her eyes out all day long, every day. You can tell because you can see the tiny crystal teardrops running down her perfect cheeks. And if you can't see them, there's a stairway behind the altar that will take you to an overlook where you can. A guidebook explains that the "feminine expression of her face evokes an innermost feeling of hope," though she also bears an uncanny resemblance to Leslie Gore invoking the chorus of "It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To."

After my audience with the Virgin, I wander into the small museum attached to the chapel. It looks like the King's closet at Graceland. There's all manner of golden raiment, thrones, elaborate cloaks, rings, an extravagant gilt platform on which the Virgin is carried through the streets during Holy Week, and assorted other Madonna accouterments. The only non-Virgin garments in the place are a half-dozen dusty, worn examples of "bullfighter garb" nestled between two cases of 6-foot-tall engraved silver "flambeau holders" -- Catholic tiki torches. One of the matador suits, a coral pink number, slathered with brocade, belonged to Palomo Linares; another, in an understated dark blue and gold, was once worn by the legendary Manolete.

Bullfighting invariably (and uncomfortably) comes up in conversations with Spanish friends. They feel obligated to explain it, its rationale, its significance in the culture -- and what a great opportunity it is for the bull. "It is the greatest moment of the bull's life, you see," one woman assures me over dinner in Seville. We've just finished eating a salad of green tomatoes, shredded carrot and anchovies. As I listen, I help myself to batter-fried calamari and sardines -- pescaíto fritos. "The bulls are very well cared for and they have a good life," she continues, passing me a plate of eggs scrambled with potatoes, slivered ham and scallions. "Then in the ring the bull can display its nobility and its bravery. Fighting the bull, you must understand, is really done out of love." She tips her glass toward mine to toast the bulls. I want to explain to her that we don't call that love where I come from, but I'm her guest and, besides, the most perfect filets of venison have just arrived, along with a small plate of smoked trout and game bird.

There might have been some fireworks, however, if she'd been there when I was waiting for the train to depart Madrid. As I watched a bullfight on the television in the AVE lounge, my fellow viewers were three bored, road-weary English businessmen sipping manzanilla sherry and scanning the salmon-color pages of the Financial Times. Occasionally they glanced at the tube. The youngest was trying to debate his colleagues on the subject of bullfighting, but the more he raved, the more intensely they stared into their newspapers. And the more I concentrated on scribbling my notes and not making eye contact with him.

"It's indefensible, it's grotesque, it's a throwback to the gladiator spectacles," the young businessman said to anyone in earshot. The bull on TV had a thick saddle of blood spreading over its shoulders. It was visibly weakening and acting disoriented. It was having the time of its life.

"Basically," he said, leaning toward one of his friends who was closely studying an ad for Sterling automobiles, "basically, it's just ritualized animal torture with a religious undertone. You want to be honest about it, get the Pope out there, dressed in gold brocade Capris, Capezio slippers, white tights and a jeweled Coco Chanel jacket. Let him torment the poor beast. You know what I mean?" His associates were memorizing the stock quotes while slowly scooting to the opposite end of the couch.

I don't report the train station incident to my dinner companion in Seville. Instead, in an attempt to put her at ease, I mention my complicity in the recent death of a young pig in Segovia. I didn't kill the wee suckling, mind you, but I didn't protest when it was delivered to my table head first, legs akimbo and well roasted. Its sweet baby gaze was unnerving, while its deep tan made it look like it had recently returned from holiday on the Costa del Sol. But no: It had just come from the kitchen. "Three weeks of mother's milk, three hours in the oven and three hours in your tummy," is how the chef cheerfully put it. Then he held a dinner plate in both hands, used it to chop the succulent baby into a dozen pieces (to demonstrate its tenderness) and threw the plate to the floor where it smashed to bits. At which point the vegetarians ran from the table shrieking and I took an extra large serving. (By the time I finish that account, my Seville hostess has forgotten about bullfighting and so have I.) As my favorite among our group observed at one pork-laden meal: "Ya know, a whole lot of piggies go to market in this country."

What I like about anti-travel -- besides the fact that it's free and I wouldn't have gotten away from home in recent years nearly so frequently without it (not to mention the quality snacks) -- is that it's much like being stoned. After the exhaustion sets in, a dream state overtakes the anti-traveler, and the wine and liquor and being herded about by cheerful keepers and confronted with one fascinating sight after another in rapid succession makes the whole experience start to feel hallucinatory. Soon the writers cease being journalists (assuming they ever were) and liquefy into investigative surrealists. Everything becomes funny or terribly deep or grim or simply confusing. The entire expedition turns into a trip that's like a trip: very trippy, but not what you could call travel.

Next page | Bittersweet, heart-rending, ass-wriggling, feverish movements