A Pamplona Style Pickle

Every morning I pass by the same intersection in front of the Virgin Macarena Church. It is said that the Macarena protects bull fighters so it is to her I would like to send a shout out, "hey Macarena, aye." If she is reading my blog, I also would like to thank her for this morning's near death miss.

Directly in front of her church is where the "corrida" breaks out. There are multiple cross walks that pass over the bike lane and no real traffic lights that tell a biker when and when not to proceed. At this hour, hundreds of people are scrambling around trying to get to work. Here in this tiny corner of Seville there is much less order than in a bull ring, yet all players seem to make it out alive.

Today, as many mornings, I starred as the bull, slightly tired from fighting the "picadors" found along the ride up until this point. As I pulled up with flaring nostrils, I saw him, the Matador. His real name is probably Juan or José and he passes out free newspapers. His theory is if he stands mid cross walk he can hand out more papers than if he stood a few feet to the left. He swings them around like a bright red "capote". People either avoid him or take the paper.

I was turning up dust when I got to him. Steam may have been coming out my ears. Every morning he stands there in front of me with his "capote". Today, I was able to dodge all the people, or so I thought. He lifted his cape, and there they were, the evil swords that one day will kill me, teenagers crossing out of the cross walk. My wheels squealed, my eyes rolled towards the Virgin Macarena Church, and then to toreador Juan.

Like a Toro Bravo, I turned my bike around and went for him. I was not going to let him think he was going get the crowd to say "olé" for his guile manoeuvre, oh no, they were waving white handkerchiefs before I was done with his sorry ass. Lucky for him and for me, the Macarena looked kindly on all of us.