Fezzik In Paris

Two Americans, three cats, and too many places named "de Gaulle"

We are currently in the Upper Normandy region, in Rouen, having embarked on another one of our short jaunts out of Paris. The Purrito is currently asleep (I’m the earlier riser, having developed a demanding internal alarm clock), so I’m sitting here, near the front door of the hotel room, furtively tapping on my Surface, so as not to awaken her.

This plan, however, is in the process of failing; there is at least one pigeon sitting on the upper sill of our window (we’re on the top floor, and the roof is inclined), and it’s amazing how loud one damn pigeon is capable of being. The obvious course of action would be to open the currently-drawn shade in hopes of spooking it, or to thump on the window, but either of those courses of action would produce a noise louder and more immediate than the warbling coo that the bird perched on our window is currently omitting. Rationally, I know that he’s probably not that loud in an absolute sense, and that it’s because they coo at less easily attenuated lower frequencies (known to my mechanics of vibration prof as The Central Avenue Effect which, if you remember Burque during the heyday of ridiculous automobile sound systems, I don’t need to explain) that I can hear him so well, but my god, it’s like there’s an avian bagpiper sitting there playing the song of his people.

This bodes ill; I think the one man band is in the process of gathering an orchestra.

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