I wander toward the door as well, though I am unsure what I will do there. "It's for boys," explains a father, his son in tow, "but I guess you can go if you want to."
Turns out he's wrong. At the entrance young female fans lean over a small concrete wall as the diminutive superstars make their way backstage. Behaving like true groupies, the girls smile and coo but are reduced to shy giggles whenever the matadors toss them a wink or a bawdy word. An invitation backstage is too much for me; already I'm as close to a David Lynch set as I ever want to get.