"...and then a pigeon landed on my head."

There are many perks to living in an apartment where your bedroom has a wall--literally, a whole wall--of windows that open up to the street. In a city like Seville, where the summers can apparently get pretty hot, I'm appreciating the beautiful breeze that flows into my room because my windows are wide open, the sun's streaming in when the curtains are drawn, and at night it seems like I'm sleeping outside without all the mess of, well, sleeping outside.

Until, that is, you wake up because a BIRD FLEW IN YOUR ROOM AND LANDED ON YOUR HEAD.

I think it was a pigeon. Honestly, I couldn't tell you much else except that it was gray, avian, and ON MY HEAD.

Nope, I'm not sleeping the rest of the night. I feel like this was the Sevillian version of a baptism or something. It should have been a tortilla española or something, but they don't fly. Pigeons do.

There was much screaming (or rather, just loud, unintelligible noises--it's 2 am here, after all), arm-flailing, and, thank goodness, flying out the window on the part of the bird. Because if there's one thing that this huge, gloriously open wall of windows is good for, it's making sure the bird it let in flies out. At least Alfred Hitchcock isn't directing my life, or this little incident could have had a much more disastrous ending.

As fair warning, I'm going to end all of my stories with "...and then a pigeon landed on my head" from now on. It's so much more interesting than "...and then I moved" and infinitely more personal than finding five dollars.

Good night, sleep tight--and don't let the pigeons attack you!