A dull pencil is greater than the sharpest memory. - an English proverb
The death cart was late and I was in a devil of a hurry. “¡Que diablos!” I cursed and shouldered my way through the gawking crowd. “You’re blocking the street,” I said to the idiot driver, and gave his broken cartwheel a good kick.
Knowing my father likened tardiness to stealing, I wanted to blow past the stuck cart. I covered my nose from its stench and counted: uno, dos, tres— But jostled from behind, I turned and confronted an enormous, grinning mustache. “The Son of Columbus!” the man proclaimed like I was found treasure.
“Si,” I nodded, and gagged on the cart’s putrid stench. My hand went to my mouth. My morning porridge spewed over the cobblestones. The mustached man backed off, and joined in the general laugher of the crowd.
What an adventure is Seville. I bent over, hands on knees, and spit, “I hate Seville!”