Shit Luck in Santiago
It is fabled that when a bird ordains to shit on you, good luck is on the way. I was moving to my new apartment in Merced in Santiago yesterday evening when this pigeon, which I had neither seen nor foreseen in my travel plans, intervened in my personal matters by shitting prodigiously all over my personal effects, primarily on top of my special Superman hat, and producing a splash pattern across my shoulders, into my mouth and over several of my rucksacks. Obviously my good luck came rather quicker than I was expecting.
Naturally I stopped, but before I could commence even the tuning exercises for the public screaming fit I had in mind, the loveliest little lady came scuttling up out of nowhere, waving a bag of Kleenex at me and insisting that I must absolutely stop right now at once and allow her to scour me and all my accoutrements of the shit splashed upon them. Naturally I did, thanking her profusely as she unloaded all my bags from me and first swabbed down my big backpack, then my Ralph Lauren carrybag, then my Country Road carrybag, and finally my Dora the Explorer knapsack. With all my paraphernalia now satisfactorily clean, the kind lady insisted that I turn around so she could have a crack at the poo on my back.
“That was from the pigeon, and not from me,” I advised her in Spanish. “I am impeccably clean.”
A kind gentleman arrived around this time to calmly superintend the process. He was so personally invested in my scouring that he even took his knapsack off and placed it on the ground by his side, in order to free up both hands for more adequate direction giving.
We may see that this good Samaritan was very satisfied by the progress being made by the fact that he quite shortly picked up his knapsack and strode away from the scene.
“Buenas nachos!” I called after him, extremely thankful for his help. I looked up to wave and as I did, I noticed the familiar face of a vaguely Asian pint-sized itchy-foot on his back. And this is where my shit luck really came into force.
“Senor!” (“Sir!”) I hollered to get his attention. “Par de senos!” (“Stop, sir!). Not only did the man yield me his attention, but so did the rest of Merced. “Incapacitado!” (“Excuse me!”) I called, and several onlookers nodded their agreement.
“Look here now, good sir, that rucksack you have there, with bold Dora the Explorer upon the back, I believe that rucksack is not yours. I think this rucksack is the one that belongs to you,” I said, running up to him with his own rucksack, which (and I don’t mean to pry into this Good Samaritan’s personal affairs, although we can quite safely assume that he is an undiagnosed diabetic) felt like it contained nothing but several bottles of water.
“You are obviously having a hypoglycaemic fit, and so this is an understandable mistake. Here you go!”
“Qué pasó?” asked the kindly lady with the Kleenex, trotting up beside me.
“This gentleman here has very nearly taken my knapsack in place of his own, which would just have been a disaster for all of us, had I not observed his mistake (“falo,” in the Spanish) as you were bending me over and scouring the shit from me, making me clean (“virgen”) again.”
“Violador! Violador!” (“Rapist!”) shrieked several onlookers.
“Sí, sí, voila!” I agreed.
“It’s alright, you can stop now thank you, I’m not David Copperfield or anything.”
“Cop a feel!”
The gentlelady and the gentleman looked at one another other, their eyes met over a wad of Kleenex and, obviously discerning that a mutual sympathy had arisen between them, they immediately dashed off into the alleyways of Merced, running side-by-side like a pair of newlyweds.
My own shit luck is clear in this story: I kept possession of my Dora the Explorer knapsack and all the goodies I have packed in it, which are of extremely great sentimental value, and which will prove invaluable if I should ever fall homesick during my stay in Santiago.
But the shit luck went beyond just me in this case, extending even as far as the diabetic Good Samaritan, who I imagine would have grown quite thirsty at some point and, upon opening my Dora the Explorer rucksack to gain access to one of his water bottles, would instead have found himself face-to-face with four Agatha Christie novels; a handful of Craig David mixtapes I made when I was 15 and Rachel broke up with Ross on Friends; several photos of my pets (past and present), mostly dressed up like animals of different species; a small jar of Vegemite, 20 Butterscotch Snaps (one for every week I am here) and a limited edition wall-poster of the Prince Phillip-Princess Mary Royal Wedding, signed by Sia (who, I must tell you, is considerably older in real life than she is in her video clips, not to mention extremely shy, and indeed I had to chase her halfway across Palm Beach before she even consented to sign my wedding poster); all of which would prove entirely useless for his purposes and I imagine the Good Samaritan would have died of thirst and, if not, probably of shock.
In addition to averting this unfavourable course of events, I also introduced him to a kind and selfless lady, with whom he shared an obvious and immediate chemistry. I myself enjoyed the privilege of being a matchmaker in their affair, and may they live long and joyously together!
It was indeed a day of shit luck for all of us.
Cover via Huffington Post
Similar: The Bird Shit Blessing