I dont want no pickle: The return of the Jerkin’ Gherkin

Yesterday was the first day of true spring-like weather which explains the skirt I am sporting today. However, as I got on my bike and started pedalling towards work, I realized that spring does not only bring skirts and t-shirts. It also seems to bring on a sort of unsettled feeling. I have felt it as I am sure you have. It is a potpourri feeling that combines emotions like sex, euphoria and aggression. This commotion of emotion can manifest in all sorts of ways.

This morning I bore witness to its affects. I have spoken often about crazy people I find along the bike lane. And not too long ago I expressed my dissatisfaction that I had not found any of late. Though, like a crocus flower just below the surface waiting for the warmth of spring, they too were hiding - the crazy people that pump my adrenalin in the morning, hiss at me, wave newspapers in my face so that I can't see and nearly kill me or at least knock me off my bike and leave me laying on the ground with my skirt at my neck and my bright orange panties for all to see.

Like every morning, I passed the digital clock that every morning confirms that I am late to work and waited to cross the street. Recently, I have observed an influx of bikers. We can be up to twenty waiting for the light to change green. As we chaotically crossed this morning, everyone trying to get ahead of another, I noticed that a man on foot didn't make the light so he began to run across the street. I knew with the oncoming car traffic my bike lane was his only hope for safety. I slowed down to make way. As I did, a runaway biker, aka the Jerkin' Gherkin, came bolting at me at top speed, swerving not to hit the runner but not taking me into account. As I skid to avoid him, all I could come up with in response is "GEEZ LOUISE". All the way to work I thought, "Am I getting soft?" Geez Louise. Is that the best I could do? Well, at least I shouted it.

A rumble in the rastro amongst the Christna

One of my favourite weekend activities is rummaging through flee market items, finding little jewels that lay among things that I may call junk and others may call treasures. My "jewels" also may be considered by some nothing but trash. However, once I find these things, they make me smile and give me a surge of excitement.

Two weeks ago I found an entire crate filled with old 1950's match boxes. Needless to say, I got down on the ground like a wild bore that sniffed out a truffle and began to scavenge the contents.

This weekend, while in Madrid, I went to the great Rastro: a mega flee market, a cornucopia of cheap lingerie, illegal CDs, caged birds and old chachkahs that sprawls up hill and outward into small side streets. I don't waste my time on the main street where all of the cheap clothes and most usual items are displayed in nice stands. As soon as I can I make my way into the side labyrinths that spill out into plazas of even more stuff.

Part of the fun, of course after the mere happiness of finding an unusual item, is the bargain process. I used to be nice. I would chat with the people; tell them why I wanted the item, etc. A trip to Morocco and a run in with a Berber and an exchange of too much money for a cup of tea and a nice rug, taught me better. Now I know to slightly insult their product, to bid real low and insist that no one is going to buy this piece of crap but me. They will be lucky if I even buy it. By the end of the day, my booty included, three old oxidised sheep bells, part of an old 1950's wind up toy, a little praying Buddha, some hand made square nails and an old wooden rat trap.

When I bargain, I try to do it with a bit of a smile but with tough words so when I heard some guys arguing in Arabic about something, I passed it off as market jargon. I still decided that it would be best to keep walking up hill to keep my distance. On lookers started to group around the men, like a fight in a school yard. That is when the pushing started and some other guys tried to keep it from escalating. Like a second round of row, row, row your boat, I heard chanting coming from down hill adding to the cacophony of fighting men.

A few minutes later the chanting started to get louder and louder and started to overcome the noise of the yelling. It was the Hare Christna. There they were singing "hare hare" and the others shouting their Arabic insults, an ironic juxtaposition. It was such a climatic, surreal moment. I just began to laugh. I looked around. No one else seemed to get the humour. I began to walk up the hill trailing the Hare Christna parade and realised I almost tripped over a dog. He looked up at me; one of his eyes had been poked out. His soket was now just a red hole in his head but I am sure that he too got the absurdity of the situation. I said excuse me, he nodded and I went to meet some friends for wine.

Geriatric Traffic Ring

I usually hit the snooze bar about 3 to 4 times before getting my bones out of the bed. This morning I was dreaming deeply about entering an orthodox Christian church and washing dishes with sand because I didn't have soap. By the time I was awoken, being told, "Shouldn't you be leaving?", it was already 8. I have to be at work between 8:15 and 8:30 and it takes me a good 20 minutes on the bike to get to work. I got up, showered and ran out the door (yeh, I got dressed before running out the door).

This set up of the story is only for you to know that I usually am out of the house 15 minutes earlier than I was today, allowing me to witness what I am about to tell you. The lighting was still crepuscular, perfect for crime. I sped out of the garage and down a street I take as a short cut. The street is lined by a wall that has graffiti, making it a perfect backdrop for criminal activity. About three-fourths of the way down there is a little ally. Usually there is no one in this street but this morning I saw something I think I should not have.

There was a mini bus parked in the dark ally and there were large men unloading a brigade of geriatric q-tips (what the heck can you call these people that is considered politically correct?). One was screaming and he was quieting her down.

I am convinced that this was not an honest dealing. For one, they had the old folk packed in the mini-bus like a bunch of sardines, a bit abusive if I do say so myself. They already have a strange odour of chicken marrow, over boiled soup and asparagus pee which only is intensified when they are put together. Secondly, why were they unloading them in a dark ally if it were not to disorient them? They can't see well as it is. And thirdly, why was the big guy shushing her if not to keep her from drawing the attention of the passing biker?

So I thought immediately that I should contact the families. This could be some type of sick geriatric-traffic ring that is later seen on 20/20 or 60 minutes. Barbara Walters, you're next. I sped down the bike lane, noticing that there were indeed a lower number of old ladies linking arms to block my way. I realised may be it was just this. The families hired the big lugs to take them away. This could make sense...The old bag annoys her daughter in law and no longer can cook potage like she once did. The daughter in law has some extra spending cash and she decides to spend it on elder-disposal; the new treatment that restores your house to the peaceful place it once was.

I suppose they melt them down and make glue out of them or bouillon cubes. Who knows?

Well if you are looking for an elderly person, I have to inform you they may have been taken by the Seville Geriatric Traffic Ring that promises families peace and quiet.

My condolences.

If you are a part of this lethal group, I would like to say your secret is safe here in my blogg. Laurie is my only reader (hi Laurie) and she could care less about Spanish old people.

Exuse me where are you from?..A visit to Istanbul

As I boarded the plane I noticed that slight twinge in my throat as if I were just edging to come down with a cold so I loaded up with vitamins and at every chance I could get I drank orange juice and water. By the time we arrived to the Istanbul airport I had already had that initial sneeze that gives pomp and circumstance to a true cold. However, I am not going to complain because the cold I caught during the time it took to get from point A to point B, was not one of these head colds that deprive you from tasting. Catching a snot attack just would have been pure cruelty.


I tried to eat as many diverse things as possible (I did not find fried lamb balls, a true disappointment): everything from meze (like tapas, the fried Albanian liver was delish and is never to be confused with fried liver of an Albanian) to Gozleme (pancakes) to the famed Turkish delight (love the rose). We even dined at an authentic Ottoman restaurant that prizes itself on historic Sultan cuisine http://www.asitanerestaurant.com/English/index.php.

However, along with the food, it were the key moments of the trip that I am about to tell you about that have made it memorable.


Amidst the snow flakes we visited many of the must-see tourist sites. One of which was the Aya Sophia. Very beautiful. As I was looking around, I spotted someone familiar. I thought "holy kebap" I know him from somewhere. He is famous, yes. It is Vincent Van Gogh. I knew you wouldn't believe me so we stalked him covertly and took his picture. And in case you are wondering, didn't he cut off his ear? Yes, he did but it was the other one.

To warm up a bit we went to the Haman. This is a lovely place where they claim to bath and massage you. It seemed innocuous when we entered. A sweet foreign girl greeted us at the door and gladly took our money. Men and women are separated. You are to disrobe and enter the bathing area where you lay down on a heated marbled surface.

As I walked in I noticed that we were all foreign girls, mainly young. To tell you the truth it was a boy's wet dream: naked girls lying there with their bare bottoms ranging in ethic colours. The women that bathed us, who were not so young and in thier underwear, must have thought that foreign girls were dirty. I watched as they scrubbed the first girl. It must have taken at least a half an hour to get her clean. There were at least 5 women scrubbing us foreign, dirty girls. They cleaned us if we were used cars, letting the suds fall as they may all over and chatting with their friends as if we weren't alive. A mere slap on the arse meant turn belly up. When the woman got to me she smiled and indicated that I should lye face down.

The water and foam trickled down through my legs and I thought how strangly erotic this could be if it weren't Attila of the Hun's sister, Matilda, performing the act. After giving me the denoting slap, she began on my front, scrubbing everything fearlessly, her long large breasts swaying back and forth swishing past my face, each pass a near miss. She washed my hair, rinsed me with a bucket of water and sent me on my way. All of the Attila sisters left at once and left the spanking (and freshly spanked) clean foreign girls to dry off and get dressed. Apparently, in the men's bath, the scrubbers are clothed, scrub you even harder and stand on you while they chat with their buds.

I thought my bath wonderful until I realised that my nipples were permanently irritated from the excess scrubbing. Well at least I was clean (for once in my life).

The next day we set out to find this so called spice market. It turned out to be one of my favourite markets in Istanbul (besides from a more varied one on the Asian side of Istanbul). Before arriving, I was tricked by a shoe shiner. He dropped his shoe shine brush strategically in front of me, just after eying our shoes. "Yes they are leather", he must have been thinking. I went running after him. He "acted" so happy that I "saved" his brush that he offered us a "free" shine. After his friend arrived to "help" the poor foreigners, he accepted our tip but told us he preferred bills over coins.

The grand finale was the show that we went to the last night, that was an all in one show. This included all the dances and music types of Turkey, dinner, transport and the opportunity to kiss a wedding singer. After the Dervish man spun and the belly dancer shook her bootie in front of the Iranian men (they all drilled holes into the table) and they had stuffed sufficient bills in her bijangled bra, a singer that was said to be world famous came out to perform. I have tried to attach a video because I do not think words can describe this moment. He sang Hava Negela and the Greek ladies sitting behind us went absolutely raging mad.

To give time to pass out pictures of those who wanted photos of themselves dressed in Sultan garb, they called the women of the audience on the stage. To be a good sport, I went. Here is where I and the other "ladies" were plainly bullied into kissing the "wedding singer/swinger". After we had sufficiently danced to make our faces red and he had wiped the sweat from his face, he asked our husbands and boyfriends if we could one by one kiss him. Some type of strange fantasy he has had since he was a wee little boy I suppose. I think it would have been a whole lot better had they filled us full of raki (thier famous anise liquor) before getting us on stage. Any way you look at it, it was an eventful end to a lovely trip. After 3 hours of sleep we boarded our plane and set off for the Iberian Peninsula.

Charming sounds

What is it about the sound of a bike wheel spinning that is both so familiar and charming? …like an old reel to reel film set into motion with the audience sitting on velvet flip down chairs, a fishing line being cast off into the depths of the water with a beautiful lure attached to its hook, the slight scratchy sound as the needle drops giving a kind of introduction to the constant static as a record turns….

A Pickletator: Castro Drives an Opel

Tonight a man stopped his car after I indicated in biker talk by sticking out my arm that I desired to turn. I think it is nice to give a nod of recognition of thanks when someone stops. As I gave my usual thank you glance and nod, I looked at the man who stopped. I was astonished as you may be right now reading this… but it was Fidel Castro. What does one do when the Cuban Dictator presents himself in this way? I really didn't know what to do. So I continued to give my nod of recognition with a smile and went down the ramps to my cushy bike parking space in awe.

I'd like to note two observations. One, I would have thought that he would have been driven by a chauffeur but no Fidel chose tonight to drive himself. And two, I thought he would have been driving a hybrid car or at least a motor bike, but no, it was just a regular white Opel.

At any rate, President Castro, thank you for letting me pass. Nice beard.
Very distinguished, I must say.

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.