T is for Terceira

As a young sailor in the United States Navy, my first assignment was as a Broadcast Journalist on the island of Terceira in the Azorean chain. Volcanic, simple, pure and detached I quickly adopted much of the local culture. Street bullfights, wine festivals, discoteques with all night dancing and plenty of beautiful girls to learn the highs and lows of European romance from.
Being on-air, both television and radio, I was fairly recognizable to many of the Islanders, as they would watch our TV channels and listen to our radio stations, I was invited to a local festival in a small town called Lajes.
I was given a seat on a podium, next to what appeared to be a village elder. The village's high walled streets were lined with people as a parade began.
It was an unusual procession, to me, as instead of motorized floats, there were massive cows deocrated from hoof to tail with roses and streamers and painted trinkets, dragging bells... All very ornately arranged.
They all stopped in front of the podium and the elder gestured to me to sort of choose my favorite. I panned left and right and finally settled on a beautiful speciman, decorated in oranges and blues so deep and bright.
The elder ensured my choice and I said yes. Then a man with a long wooden stake came up and drove it between the cow's shoulder blades, killing it instantly and sending it to the ground.
The next day I came back and had Alcatra for the first time with plenty of green wine.