Breathe
By Mariana Conde
It has always seemed to me that you can tell a lot about a society by its road culture. Every day I pass by the same street at the morning rush hour, congested by lazy drivers and also by people wanting to cross the street, all in a hurry and wanting to suddenly grow wings like the Batmobile and make everyone else eat dust. I play judge, deciding which pedestrian I stop for, depending on whether they are waiting in the marked crossing or trying to fight traffic in the middle of the street.
This morning dynamic is not short of surprises and today one of the bullfighters hit my chest with one hand, showing me his favorite finger with the other, for not letting him cross half the street. I had not finished marveling at his dexterity in insulting me, carrying in the same hand the cake he was eating while raffling his life, when a shoal of cars came at me with all the power of their horns, just because I stopped in front of a lady who was waiting with her children in front of the well-marked stripes of the crosswalk.
