While visiting Spain for a summer years ago, I attended a bullfight. Beyond having read Ernest Hemingway, I didn’t know much about bullfighting. I watched and listened as the crowd cheered the matadors and the event finally closed with the defeated bulls being dragged out of the arena. Between the swords, horses and the elaborate costumes, the bullfight felt like an ancient art. That spell was broken somewhat when the woman sitting next to me pulled out her cell phone to update her husband. “Torearon bien, pero mataron muy mal,” she reported.

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