Spain

“The important thing is that you never lose sight of the bull’s face,” says Maripaz Vega. “Never.” Vega is a phenomenon that couldn’t have existed throughout most of the Spain that Ernest Hemingway knew. She is Spain’s only woman bullfighter. During Franco’s dictatorship, women were banned from attending a bullfight, to say nothing of...
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We drive across the Pyrenees through the Basque Country, from Biarritz, on the French side, to Pamplona, on the Spanish side, passing through scattered villages of ancient farmhouses made of stone that look like they were carved out of the mountains themselves. Low clouds hang in the mountains and their air smells moist and...
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Why am I in Idaho stalking the ghost of Ernest Hemingway? I’m asking myself the same question. I don’t hunt. I don’t fish. I don’t even bullfight. We’re hardly kindred souls, manly man Hemingway and scrawny man me. I’ve found myself drawn to him, though, through place.
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