You know you have a pigeon problem when you return home from a trip to Istanbul and fondly recall the echoing, early-morning call to prayer, because this is preferable to the ear-piercing scratch of clawed-feet on metal window ledge—when you would rather your alarm be thunderous Arabic than the squawks of invasive birds, who begin their day by fighting over the best piece of your coveted windowsill real estate.
Every morning at approximately 5:10 a.m., three or more pigeons land on Bekah’s and my windowsill in suburban Hungary. While their arrival time has varied based on the sunrise, this has remained consistent: they are there always arrive before we (or anyone) would prefer to be awake. For whatever reason, our window ledge is the pigeons’ meeting spot and congregation point. Despite the fact that all of the window-ledges in our condominium are exactly the same (see also: communism), our fifth floor windowsill is the hot-spot for the daily pigeon rendezvous. I am unable to see the appeal of the ledge itself, as it is made of rusting metal, and only extends about six inches out from our screen-less window. Nevertheless, the pigeons have claimed it as their own. The takeover was inevitable, and the windowsill never truly ours.
My mother, who affectionately describes pigeons as “the rodents of the air,” suggested that we fill panty hose with used kitty litter and then hang these odorous objects from the balcony. A practically foolproof idea, save for the fact that I know no one with a cat, nor do I want my modest apartment to smell of cat poo. Of course, if I did know someone with a cat, I would obviously just kidnap their pet and leave it on the ledge to scare away the pigeons. If the cat jumps to its death, I can always hop over to Istanbul where there are infinite feline replacements. (If you’ve ever been to Istanbul, you know there are more cats than kebabs there. If you don’t believe me: dailycatistanbul.tumblr.com)
So far, our best idea for getting rid of the pigeons involves gluing thumbtacks (point-side up, of course) to the window ledge. We worry that we do not have enough tacks.
Bekah, whose bed is the closest to the pigeon-occupied window ledge, has named them. There is Rudolfo, the leader and also the plumpest. (I recently taught an ESL lesson in which the given definition for plump was “fat…in a nice way.” Rudolfo, you are not fat in a nice way.) Rudolfo’s two henchmen are Gustavo and Harrison, indistinguishable from one another but important nonetheless, as two minions are often better than one (see also: Flotsam and Jetsam, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern)
Usually, though, we refer to them as “the f***ing pigeons.”
A normal morning commute conversation:
Me/Bekah: How did you sleep last night?
Bekah/Me: Oh you know, the f***ing pigeons.
The irony of it all is that pigeons, scientifically speaking, are barely distinguishable from doves, and the two birds even share the same name in some languages. Doves are symbols of peace, are found at weddings, and are imprinted on bars of heavenly-smelling soaps. Doves “coo,” a word which, when applied to human speech, means to talk in a way that is loving, soft, and amorous.
I suppose in a different life, or circumstance, a pigeon could be a joy. I see this evidenced in the undeniable joy gained by the elderly in feeding these birds, a simple pleasure which can be observed in many places across the world, and of course in Mary Poppins.
Personally, I cannot foresee a day when I will ever take a liking to the beasts—but perhaps I shouldn’t pigeonhole them.
Caroline (Higgins) Nyczak (’11) lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she spends the vast majority of her time teaching English Language Arts. You may also find her at barre exercise classes or playing (and losing) at bar trivia. She continues to be inspired by the energy and diversity of New York City and the beauty of that certain slant of light.
