Nevermore

There is no animal that invokes more the spirit of both morbid goths and nature loving, lets-go-beat-things-in-a-drum-circlers than the raven. The tall, noble bird graces much of the northern hemisphere's landscapes and has played intrinsic roles in both Native American spiritual teachings and European mythology. As it rested on the shoulders of the Norse god Odin, many Pacific Northwest cultures viewed the raven as the creator of the earth. The dark, black feathers and large, powerful size gave created the myth that the bird is a vessel that can travel from this world to the next. It is endowed with many supernatural abilities and feats, but in Japan, the bird of legend has become a pigeon's upgrade. In fact, the bird has done so well, it has replaced seagulls.

Trash in Japan is put out in designate areas. Ravens, being well noted for being intelligent and opportunists alike, have semi-weekly feasts with these things. We normally associate the ubiquitous flocks of seagulls with trash dumps, but the ravens have fought off the competition here. Each trash area comes equipped with cages, tarps, or green netting to lay over the refuse. Ravens have been documented as being capable of removing nails individually to loosen boards on old barns and have even formed hooks to fish food from a bottles. Needles to say, the tarps don't offer the best defense.

Perhaps its the winter. Perhaps it's the weather, but I have yet to see seagulls near me. I saw them once, only once about 15km form here on a near-abandoned beach. They just don't weigh up to ravens. They've been chased off the good beaches beaches. No Fujisawa beach is completed with out several ravens lurking about the sands. This wouldn't be too much of a problem, but they seem to have a carnal obsession with my back pack. They are noted as neophobes, a fear of anything new, and may not even start to eat a carrion until they have seen it there, not moving, for up to three days. I guess this explains the grace period that they gave my backpack.

When I would leave my backpack on the beach as I went swimming, I would normally find them curiously hopping about it when I came back from the water. They must have gotten used to the sight after two weeks. They got a little more daring. I returned after an hour in the water to find my clothes strewn about my bag. They actually managed to pull my jacket a few feet to the side to uncover my unzipped bag. I had no food in there, but it never stopped them. My scarf was light, and was laying about three feet from the epicenter of the attack. They were interested in one thing and one thing only: shiny, pretty objects.

I wrap my water bottles in aluminum foil. It has a 300% increase in heat insulation on my water - a vital source of feeling for my toes numbed by frigid waters. I seem to have been not the only one interested in foil. About a fourth of the bottle was attacked, the foil ripped off. Luckily, there was a liter of water inside. It kept them from making off with the whole thing. Foil flakes littered the crime scene.

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In Paris, I've been attacked by pigeons. They seem to have a critical mass. Once the pigeon density increases beyond twelve per square meter, in an area greater than ten square meters, they start to get ballsy. I was sitting, eating a sandwich near the Centre George Pompidou in my innocent, pre-wheat allergy days. I had always been fond of birds. The pigeons picked up on this vibe and sent in the cripples. In every pigeon-laden city that I have been to, there are many crippled pigeons: one legs ends only in a scarred nub. I can only guess that they have been mutilated form power lines; although I'm starting to assume self-inflicted injuries. Read on.

They'll land about ten feet off and hobble forward the rest of the way to the lunch consuming victim. If bread crumbs aren't ripped from the sandwich or chips crumbled and tossed forth, the crippled bird will big to pace. "The poor bird. It would starve cruelly in the wild. A few crumbs is the least that I could do," the hapless victim thinks. A few bread crumbs are tossed on to the ground.

One pigeon from a nearby tree sees the gestures and swoops down. Two pigeons see the other pigeon begin an excited swoop and come too. A whole flock on a nearby building sees the commotion and comes to check it out. Three other buildings are in view of the flock, and another twenty can see those three. In a matter of thirty seconds, once crippled pigeon has become a horde. Critical mass is soon hit. Crumbs are there, they're just not on the ground a bird or two will realize. That is when they attack.

A pigeon actually tried to rip the sandwich from my hands.

I guess if you're hungry and didn't mind the extra additives and preservatives in a city bird, all you need is one sandwich. Heck, with only a slice of bread, you could eat for a month. The birds coming within grabbing distance is an understatement. The buggers actually try to perch on your lunch.

With such an elaborate, devious tactics, you may wonder how crows muscled them out of Kanagawa. The answer is simple: they come from behind.

I'm standing on the beach, admiring the waves in Kamakura Bay. I didn't know if the beach had a rocky or sandy bottom and wasn't too keen on putting my cold, wet rashguard back on to go in and find out. It didn't help that the water was 54 degrees, the air 36 degrees, and small patches of snow still remained. I was taking my time deciding if getting wet was really worth it and munching on some chips instead.

I was getting ready to leave and was taking one last admiring glance at the beach; the chip in my left hand, in a slight pause as I watched a wave break. Something hard, heavy, and relatively pointy came down on my hand fast. My fingers were still pinched together around where the delectable goodness had been, but the chip was gone. I saw no blur, no movement, but it was gone. I looked around frantically trying to figure out what happened. Who threw the frisbee at my chip? Where the potatoes revolting? Did I just get attacked by the hawk circling overhead? Did the nori flakes get too hot and explode?

A raven plodded down about thirty feet in front of me. In his claw rest a nori-speckled potato chip.

Pigeons may attack in swarms, but ravens steal your food, gloat, and then rub it in your face.