>mon epaule droight, c’est la bonne chance, ça?
>as i aimlessly walked around venice’s piazza san marco yesterday, i wafted under the shade of the belltower and watched children feed the bravado-pigeons dry corn kernals from their bare hands. the pigeons trafficked around the generous humans, picking and nibbling while still trembling with fear in their collico-feathers (the ripples in the water were patterned in the deep of their plumage).
some pigeons even flew up to extended arms and shoulders like a pirates’ polly-wanna-cracker bird to feats on crumbled bread. i grew adventurous.
i picked up a tossed piece of bread too big for their beaks, broke it down in my fist, and knelt to the stones. i extended my palm. the first pigeon who dared was the only snow white pigeon of the bunch. his rapid beak poked at my flesh, and i knew then i was still alive.
then more poked the food from my hand and i swelled inside. i sat on the steps of the piazza and voyeur-ed for a bit.
and just when i thought i was calm and safe, it happened.
you guessed it.
a pigeon shat on my shoulder.
i squealed with disgust and begged the tunisian-italian beside me for any kind of napkin.
but as i ran to the public washroom to wipe it thoroughly off (out, out damn spot), i noticed it was my right shoulder. isn’t that supposed to be good luck, according to superstition?
i concluded venice was either trying to bless my travels with fortune, or it was trying to tell me to get the hell out.
so i left.
i am in Nice this lovely morning, where the sun is white hot and the rich people carry their dogs in the bouffants of their hair. my hotel, Hotel Paradis, is posh and classic, with one of those wrought-iron elevators that are encircled by a winding staircase. my window overlooks the streets, and the beaches swim with windsurfers and expensive american cars. i am here for no other reason than to relax for 3 days, and my twisted bronzed body deserves as much.
a robbie williams song echoed through the streets, and i thought of you.