Hemingway Was A Marketing Genius

It was my birthday last month so I went to Paris and took the train to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls (San Fermin Fiesta). It was something I'd always wanted to do and it was my big 5-0, so I went for it.

Quiche Lorraine and a croissant in the Paris summer morning, a cup of espresso, then hopped the train through the plains of France, past Bordeaux, then the mountains of Spain, the salty sea air near Biarritz, then San Sebastian and you're there. I went straight to the hotel and out into the buzzing streets, popping in and out of bars for tapas and beer, and bought a scalped ticket for the bull fight.

I had a good seat, maybe 7-8 rows up, and on the shady side of the ring. Perfect. The first bull went as expected, but the second bull charged the matador and got too low and stuck his horns in the dirt, then flipped over completely and "poof" a blast of dust as he flopped to the ground. Some gasps and laughter, then a few boos among the cheers. The bull steadied himself and took another charge--and again stuck his horns and flipped over completely, rolling down his backbone and plopping to the ground. More boos, some cheers, but the matador turned and left the ring, and the picadors too. The bull was out there alone, tail twitching, confused, looking to charge. Then a pack of steers was let out, they milled around and surrounded the bull, and the whole group trotted out the gate. His life had been spared since he just wasn't athletic enough to put on a good fight. The only other time I'd seen that was in Mexico, but that bull put up such a good fight that they spared him, although he was covered in blood and panting.

After another bull or two and I left and returned to the teeming Pamplona bars for more tapas and beers.

The next day I flipped on the Spanish newscast and among the rapid Spanish gibberish one name came through clearly, over and over, "Ernest Hemingway."

And throughout the week, his name was bandied about. A writer friend of mine even had several dinners with Hemingway's grandson.

The next day was a big party and the following morning I actually ran with the bulls, (I'll detail that later) but then it was off to Barcelona and Prague for a book signing, and what was the first bar I saw when I climbed out of the subway? A Cuban bar with live salsa and a "Hemingway Salon."

So Hemingway created an image, such an enduring image, that it has been spread and exploited throughout the world -- 50 years after he blew his head off.

Now that's PR!

Tijuana Bullfights

I went to the bullfights yesterday at Tijuana's bullring-by-the-sea. I like the sport of it, the cheering fans, the showy matadors, but I'm not crazy about what inevitably happens to the poor bull. He almost never stands a chance. But yesterday was different.

Gabriel-the-Tequila-Man (he has a tequila factory in Guadalajara) brought a fresh bottle and we all drank up (Jaime, Yolanda, Luis, Isabella and me). Problem was, I'd just had two beers and an overtopped vodka martini. So I was well on my way when we got there. We bought Cuban cigars to smoke while we watched the action from about four rows back.

The bull comes charging out, crazed and powerful, snorting and balls swinging, greeted by cheering fans and taunts of matadors. He's a beautiful half-ton of muscle, soon to become a heap of dead flesh. They just keep sticking him and sticking him in the back until he's worn out and bleeding to death, then a sword is thrust fully into him, between the shoulder blades. Usually the bull runs and bucks a little more, then his legs give out and just as he is succumbing to death, a knife is jabbed into the base of his skull. Then there's a last kick or two and he goes stiff. The vaqueros tie him up and three harnessed horses are whipped and slapped as they drag the carcass out, leaving a blood trail. Groundskeepers come out and rake dirt over the blood and they start fresh again.

But yesterday was different: The last bull gave such a fight that they let him live. At one point, he stopped and stared directly at me. Jaime was joking that he was going to come at me, like Pajarito (see below). We all laughed. I cheered wildly as they let the wounded and battered bull back into a gate.

Finally, a fair fight.

One of the coolest things I have ever seen is the video of "Pajarito" or "little bird" the flying bull. You should see him fly up into the stands! This was only a year or so ago, in Mexico City. The bull landed in a lady's seat -- the only fight she'd missed in years. He ended up breaking his legs in the stands and they killed him right there.






In 1930 Hemingway published a knowing essay on bullfighting in Fortune magazine, which two years later became the amazing Death in the Afternoon. The critics hated it but it was a huge success. In 1959, just as I was being born, Hemingway returned to Spain with, as Michener puts it, "two handsome and charismatic young matadors" who were about to go mano a mano, They were also brothers-in-law. Evenly matched, they battled all summer and put on a show of skill and bravery. Hemingway later used these events for his series, A Dangerous Summer.