Bulls in the Streets
On a drive through Provence it's hard not to stop at every field to gawk at the sights and smells-- grapevines sitting low and lush, olive trees swaying silver, fruit stands bulging with tomatoes and melons. But we drive on, to Eygalières, a tiny town of two thousand inhabitants, a number that swells to eight thousand in August when it becomes something of a hotspot. We make our way through snaky paths of dusty rock to the town, which is in the midst of its annual festival. Signs are stapled ominously to trees along the road: Danger! Taureaux dans les rues! Bulls in the streets! We head straight toward the bulls and even more dangerously, toward many, many rounds of pastis.
Our French hosts guide us down a wide hill and past metal barricades to stand by brave locals who want a real view of the action. Perhaps my French isn't quite up to snuff or maybe the exact nature of the bulls/villager interaction is kept deliberately vague, but I don't know whether to expect a full-fledged running of the bulls or a petting zoo of caged calves (the Danger! signs leads me to believe it’s the former). The streets are eerily quiet and still for the number of people packed onto the sidewalks. I look around to make sure there are shops open if I need to fling myself somewhere.
We hear the first clamor of bells and strut of hoofs nearby. Men on horseback surround a bull on every side and start guiding it through the street. The villagers sit tall and proud in traditional Provençal costume and every muscle tenses against the force of the huffing black bull. I can't quite understand how they keep the bull in line, but they form a tight mass of human and animal, moving faster into a gallop. A group of brazen, and probably drunk, teenagers runs behind the bull, and their mission is to bring him to a halt in any manner possible. They jump on his back, pull his tail, and many of these players are quickly covered in what happens when you spend too much time behind a bull. One wears a t-shirt that says "Keep our traditions alive!" which is smeared in... the local tradition. Different bulls with different guardians, but seemingly the same group of bull-covered teenagers, perform the ritual back and forth through the crowd. The bulls get frothier, the day hotter. We weave our way through the crowd, which now covers every inch of sidewalk and spills into tributaries of side streets. Trumpets boom, games are played, and liquor flows.
We gravitate toward a packed bar terrace, already sticky with late morning pastis, the anise-flavored summer drink of the region. The patrons crowd around small highboys. I am passed a tall glass with a single stout ice cube floating in the milky liquid, and I taste the rubbery-clean licorice flavor. As the glasses pile up on the tabletop, the next rounds arrive in styrofoam cups. Suddenly a whole bottle of the stuff shows up on our packed table with an attendant bucket of ice and pitcher of water to dilute the liquor. The town is intent on working itself into a pastis-pickled lather. The only thing that can break the flow is an even greater appetite for a home-cooked meal outside. No discussion is needed. Our hostess knows the ritual and breaks away to start preparing lunch. The women follow her away from the crowd, leaving husbands, like bulls, swaying in the baking sun.
Our French hosts guide us down a wide hill and past metal barricades to stand by brave locals who want a real view of the action. Perhaps my French isn't quite up to snuff or maybe the exact nature of the bulls/villager interaction is kept deliberately vague, but I don't know whether to expect a full-fledged running of the bulls or a petting zoo of caged calves (the Danger! signs leads me to believe it’s the former). The streets are eerily quiet and still for the number of people packed onto the sidewalks. I look around to make sure there are shops open if I need to fling myself somewhere.
We hear the first clamor of bells and strut of hoofs nearby. Men on horseback surround a bull on every side and start guiding it through the street. The villagers sit tall and proud in traditional Provençal costume and every muscle tenses against the force of the huffing black bull. I can't quite understand how they keep the bull in line, but they form a tight mass of human and animal, moving faster into a gallop. A group of brazen, and probably drunk, teenagers runs behind the bull, and their mission is to bring him to a halt in any manner possible. They jump on his back, pull his tail, and many of these players are quickly covered in what happens when you spend too much time behind a bull. One wears a t-shirt that says "Keep our traditions alive!" which is smeared in... the local tradition. Different bulls with different guardians, but seemingly the same group of bull-covered teenagers, perform the ritual back and forth through the crowd. The bulls get frothier, the day hotter. We weave our way through the crowd, which now covers every inch of sidewalk and spills into tributaries of side streets. Trumpets boom, games are played, and liquor flows.
We gravitate toward a packed bar terrace, already sticky with late morning pastis, the anise-flavored summer drink of the region. The patrons crowd around small highboys. I am passed a tall glass with a single stout ice cube floating in the milky liquid, and I taste the rubbery-clean licorice flavor. As the glasses pile up on the tabletop, the next rounds arrive in styrofoam cups. Suddenly a whole bottle of the stuff shows up on our packed table with an attendant bucket of ice and pitcher of water to dilute the liquor. The town is intent on working itself into a pastis-pickled lather. The only thing that can break the flow is an even greater appetite for a home-cooked meal outside. No discussion is needed. Our hostess knows the ritual and breaks away to start preparing lunch. The women follow her away from the crowd, leaving husbands, like bulls, swaying in the baking sun.
