Baking in the afternoon sun, I breathed in the dusty aroma of the Plaza de Torros. I starred at the empty bullfighting ring not knowing what to expect. The concept of a witnessing a massacre terrified me, but at the same time, I had a feeling that this experience would immediately submerge me into the Spanish culture.

Nothing deterred my entrance into the ring. I wasnt searched for weapons and the mob of protestors I expected to see didnt exist. As an attendant directed to my seat, I noticed my fellow audience seemed of an older generation and adorned themselves in linen and wide brim hats.

These people did not seem to share my feelings of uneasiness. To them, this bullfight represented a form of expression that is linked to ancient honourable ritual practices in widespread use over the Mediterranean area.

When the first matador entered the ring, the crowd set aside their sunflower seeds and bocadillos to stand and cheer him on. Prancing around the arena like an overconfident teenage boy, the matador provoked the crowd with his flagrant motions, until the bull was released into the ring.

The feisty bull, automatically engaged by the matadors red cape, approached the menacing object. The bull aggressively charged the cape again and again, refusing to allow the menacing object to exist. The bulls determination slowly diminished his once feisty nature.

In the next segment, the matadors assistants came out to further wear down the bull. One on horseback and two on foot, the men strategically stabbed the bull behind the neck causing the bull to gleam red with blood in the setting sun. Now almost totally depleted of energy, the bull pathetically staggered around the arena.

In the final segment the matador raised his glistening swords high into the air and drove them into the unsuspecting bull. With a chilling cry, the totally helpless bull crawled into the corner of the ring and fell like a sack of bricks to his death.

As my stomach hosted a three-ring circus sponsored by the slaughter I witnessed, the crowd didnt seem phased. They exploded, waving white handkerchiefs and flags, symbols of their approval and appreciation. The cheers of Ole! echoed throughout the ring, and the proud matador started his victory walk.

A horse drawn carriage pulled the limp carcass of the bull out of the ring while the audience showered the matador with flowers, not showing the slightest bit of remorse for the bull that would soon become dinner for hungry Spaniards.

There were six fights just like the first, and six bulls were slain in the exact same fashion. Each time the audience only screamed for more.

I could not help but sit silently in awe in the ocean of screaming Spaniards around me. For an event of that nature to take place in the United States, it would mean silencing thousands of angry mobs, and being prepared for bomb threats and even worse. But in Spain, a land where masculinity reigns, the bullfight embodies history and culture.

I loved the bullfight. Mind you I will never pay to see such an event again, I loved the bullfight because it represented everything un-American about the country I was about the make my home for the next six weeks. Even though I disagreed with the bullfight, I knew bullfights have a deeper meaning to the Spanish that I will never fully be able to understand. I knew, as I made my way back to the dorm, the Spain was not going to disappoint me.

Even as I passed the crowd chowing down on Big Macs at the McDonalds across from the bullring, I fully understood that I was in a totally new environment. I was ready to be amazed.