Quirk 3...

Neither Michael nor I like birds very much. I mean, they’re fine if they’re at a distance, perched on a feeder or flying high in the sky where they belong. Unfortunately, Italy’s birds do not seem to have respect for people’s personal space, especially in Venice…the breeding ground for pigeons. Most of you have either been to, or know of, St. Mark’s Square. If not, let me try to paint the picture. St. Mark’s Square is the most highly populated place in Venice at any given moment. St. Mark’s Basilica sits prominent at one end, beautifully covered in frescos, demanding center stage. Around the rest of the distinctively large square, cafes compete for business, luring tourists in with their charming orchestras playing “That’s Amore.” But, it’s in the middle of the square where the real action lies. Here, you will find thousands of pigeons waddling around as if they belong there just as much (if not more) than anyone else. The funny thing is, St. Mark’s Square is probably the one place that that’s actually true. One of the most sought after “activities” in Venice (for many people) is feeding the pigeons in St. Mark’s Square. Just a couple years ago, you used to be able to buy bird food right there in the square, but it seems that Venice is wising up and hoping that through the elimination of selling bird food, they will also eliminate the birds. However, it was clear it is far too late for that. Everywhere we looked we would see someone pulling bread or crackers or seeds out of their pockets and then coaxing the birds to come and attack them. If you had food in the square, the birds knew it and within seconds about 50 of them would be huddled at your feet, sitting on your arms and shoulders, and even digging their claws into your scalp while holding on for dear life as the victim would usually scream and toss their heads around.

I’ll admit I took part in this foolish “activity” once upon a time in my youth. But, you do it once and you quickly realize it’s not all its cracked up to be. While we still enjoyed watching others (probably first-timers) “feed the birds,” we both agreed we would not take part in this sordid madness. The crazy wings all too close to our faces, the beaks pecking at our toes, and the mess they leave behind (you know) were reasons enough to avoid this folly.

So it was our third and final night in Venice. I learned the first night that the terrace doors of our apartment were not sturdy enough to keep out the noise of the busy Venetian streets. In fact, I felt like every passerby was in the room with me. So, the next two nights I relied on my trusty yellow foam earplugs to ensure a sound sleep. As mentioned before, we were staying in an apartment, which meant we had a living area with a fireplace and a bedroom. The fireplace, however, was in rough condition. Loose pieces of soot and cement from the inside were constantly falling down from the inside making little clinking noises against the ceramic vase put in the middle of the fireplace in hopes to disguise the ever present untidiness. We quickly grew accustomed to the clinking and didn’t think much about it after the first hour or so. Still, in the middle of our final night I was roused by what seemed to be the fireplace caving in. I took out one earplug to give a more focused listen and the cement seemed to continue to fall at a rapid pace. I heard strange noises and a few bangs and even what I thought to be a “meow.” In spite of all this, I did not get out of bed or even wake Michael. Rather, in my deep fog I thought to myself, “A cat must have fallen down the chimney. Oh well. It can wait until morning. This plastic accordion door will keep it out of the bedroom.”
In the morning, I told Michael that a cat fell down the chimney. He starred at me and didn’t say anything. It was early and I wasn’t even sure what I was saying. As we were packing up our bags, Michael was out in the living area and I heard a very panicked, “Oh my Gosh!” So, I jumped up on the bed sure that there was a cat or rat hiding somewhere in our apartment. “There’s a pigeon behind my bag!” From the bed I looked behind his red backpack. Sure enough, a dead pigeon had sought refuge behind Michael’s bag and breathed its last (after it left its mess everywhere). It was then that I realized outside our accordion door in the middle of the night, it was a pigeon (not a cat) that had gotten stuck in the chimney, fought courageously against it, but in the end the chimney found victory. We cleaned up, put the dead bird in a trash bag, and headed out of Venice. Thank goodness I decided the cat could wait till morning.