Today, sitting outside a Starbucks (yeah, I know -- and there are 29 of them in Paris now!), I was shat upon by a pigeon. SPLAT! Right on the shoulder. Fortunately, my not-very-tasty coffee (small Americano, woefully overwatered) was spared, but I was left with a very nasty feeling after I had wiped the greenish-white goo from my shirt, such that I didn’t derive much joy from my prime people-watching spot on the boulevard Saint-Michel.
Nonetheless, I was very excited, having long known that pigeon poop brings good luck. So as soon as I got home, I changed my shirt, and went out to buy a lottery ticket. I excitedly explained my situation to the guy at the cash register and said that I wanted something that paid off immediately, owing to my lucky circumstances. Naturally, I sauntered out of the store confident that I'd be picking up the champagne tab tonight.
But something must have gone wrong. I scratched off all of the scratchy spots on my lottery ticket, and ended up with zilch. I came one number from winning 10,000 euros, but unfortunately that wasn’t close enough. Perhaps the pigeon poop was just lucky enough to get me my numbers that close, but no closer. Maybe it was the wrong kind of pigeon or something. I was sitting fairly close to a woman with a lot of shopping bags. Could that lucky pigeon poop have been meant for her? Or maybe I was fated to have some terrible accident on the way home, and my lucky pigeon encounter averted it.
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I have been converted to believing that pigeon poop is no longer the bringer of good luck. When I am unlucky enough to find a parking space under a tree, the consequences the next morning are systematically unfortunate.
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