Coo, coo. Coo, coo.

Pigeons are fat and arrogant in London, miserable in Manhattan, well-roasted in Hong Kong. Since their retirement from letter delivery, they have become flying rats of the metropolises.

But they are perhaps more intelligent, more cultured, than most of us.

They can tell apart paintings by Monet and Picasso, and know that Renoir is more like Monet than Braque. They understand the music of Bach and Stravinsky (Porter & Neuringer, 1984). And they certainly have no interest in whether Britney Spears is pregnant again.

I wonder how many among them are adventurers, flying around the world, studying Gaudi's architectural wonders, or people watching (and croissant pecking) about Parisian cafes, or finding bliss in Amsterdam coffee shops.

I don't seen them often now.

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