It was a very interesting Sunday filled with flightless pidgeons, samurai worshipping, a junk parade and galloping horses.
Around the corner from my house is a pidgeon roost where I recycle all my leftover edibles. Pidgeons will eat ANYTHING. As I was scattering unpoped popcorn seeds (don't ever try to use olive oil in a popcorn pot), an older lady exited a ground floor apartment with a pidgeon cupped in her hands. She set it down gently among the other pidgeons where upon it promptly relieved itself. Then she picked it up.
"Vos gusto los palomas?" she asked.
I answered in caveman Spanish, that yes, I did like pidgeons.
"Mi paloma no avion." Then she pointed to her head.
The pidgeon not only did not fly but it wasn't right in the head.
Continuing on my Sunday walk, I arrived at the Japanese Gardens. It was the usual koi, red bridges, pruned trees, etc. punctuated by stone statues. In front of an immense Samurai statue stood an American woman bowing unselfconsciously to the samurai, then raising her hands in that taking-in-energy pose one sees in Unity churches in the States. Perhaps she was told that one of her past lives was that of a samurai? Or did the stone give off a certain aura she hoped to cash in on? I would never know.
Later in the evening as I walked to a dinner party, I encountered a parade of what appeared to be people pushing junk made into mini floats. Ahh, an art parade. I've seen those in Minneapolis. The junk art pushers had blocked off a street and were shouting chants of which I could understand nada.
I arrived at my destination--a vegetarian potluck--held on a rooftop terrace with a wonderful view of the streets below and the full moon above. I uncorked the Champagne I brought and we toasted the moon.
The night air was suddenly punctuated by the sound of galloping hooves on pavement. Looking down, five mounted police raced by, obviously on a call. "Oh, they're going after the cartenero protesters," commented a guest (carteneros are poor people who collect cardboard from the garbage for recycling).
Well, so much for the avant garde art-junk parade theory.
A truly mystifying Sunday.