Precariously standing on a thin strip of concrete, four feet above an angry bull, I wondered what my insurance deductible would be if I slipped.
Earlier in the morning I had driven down to Lienzo Charro Regionales de la Villa or as I prefer to call it a ‘Mexican Rodeo.'
The charros (Mexican Cowboys) are the real deal. Mexican Rodeo is equal parts theater and machismo. With big boots, broad belts and horses all around, I felt as if I had stepped into a Marlboro poster.
Kids walked around selling Coca-Cola in glass bottles and deep-fried doughnuts with everything on them. Men got their boots polished by shoeshine boys in the stands. And women opened delicious-smelling lunch boxes they had brought from home.
It was also the only place in the world where you’d feel out of place because you didn’t wear a 10-gallon hat and couldn’t lasso a horse with your eyes closed.
It was dusty and the sun was harsh, but I also took pleasure in the fact that I wasn’t freezing my butt off in a New York November.
I managed to befriend a couple of charros and they gave me full access to the stables, where I spent the afternoon with chilled cerveza and my camera.