The Birds!

This morning I woke up a few minutes before my alarm went off and lay in bed trying to piece together where I was and what I was suppose to do next. Eventually I rolled over and drew back the curtains... and froze. The hood of my car and the surrounding ground was covered in seagulls. It was like Alfred Hitchcock peppered the Jetta with breadcrumbs while I slept. Finally I had to turn the car on and had their feet been tied to my bumpers, the sheer number of them could probably have carried my car away.

I've been doing a lot of writing about American Nomads for my independent study class and, no offence, I'm getting pretty sick of us. In my paper I'm arguing that we are an independent subculture, which is tough to prove when there is no info on us besides what we ourselves write. Every other country in the world recognizes their nomads as a distinct culture, but Americans don't even acknowledge nomads exist.

In 1888 a Spanish missionary mused on the disposition of a traveling band of gypsies. “This life” he said, “seemingly so wretched, has its charms for these outcasts, who live without care and anxiety, without a thought beyond the present hour, and who sleep as sound in… ravines amongst rocks and pines, as the proudest grandee in his palace at Seville or Madrid” (Borrow, 1888).