When I wake up, the sun is still hidden behind the buildings of the city, but the sky slowly turns to a pinkish hue as it lights up. It’s cold, but I’m protected from the harsh gusts of wind of the grey sea. It’s a rainy day. It feels like every Monday is a rainy day. But it won’t last, it never does here, as the wind pushes the heavy grey clouds away inland, and brings in a fresh blue sky. That’s Le Havre for you. Everyday there’s sun, every day there’s rain, but it never lasts for long. I heard in the tropics, far South, wet and dry weather alternate every six months. Here in Le Havre, rain and sun alternate every day, so the city is always wet. I like wet. I’m born to live out at sea, to have droplets of water caress my white and grey feathers, to have the marine air fill my beak. My ancestors fed on fish, but myself, I prefer feasting on a half-eaten kebab I find in a rubbish bin, or better, a full Burger King meal stolen from a group of young humans. I like staying around young adult humans, they always leave stuff behind: raw chicken breasts, kinder bueno wrappers, empty coffee cups, lots and lots of them. It’s funny how they scurry around that large blocky grey building. They arrive there every morning, and stay until the sun has set. I always follow them; they seem like funny little characters.
When I arrive at the building, around 8 o’clock, some of the humans are already there. I say humans, but they’re not all fully grown. I know some are still finding out who they really are, just like I am. I can relate to them. My seagull friends are there too. Right in time for breakfast! A few coffee cups lay at the bottom of the rubbish bin, I pick them out with my shiny yellow beak. I always need a coffee to start the day, otherwise I can’t concentrate. I want to learn more about the humans, about why a flock of so many different ones stick together in this sad coastal city. They’re like a weird family, sometimes friendly, sometimes fighting, but always together.
After breakfast, I peek around the windows on the right of the building. There, an older human is telling the others about stuff. I cannot comprehend everything; it seems jumbled up. One class is about the Silk Roads, a large route of trade and cultural exchanges, spanning half of the globe. I wish I could visit all these places that the wiser human is talking about. It seems beautiful out there in the world. Other times, it’s a different older human talking about a different thing. They talk about how groups of human’s rule over other groups of humans, and the rules around this governing. They explain why and how groups of humans interact between themselves. It’s a peculiar sight to see all these young humans learning about things from their own world. But alas, I, humble seagull, am unable to fully comprehend the complexities of human society. Who could, really?
When lunchtime arrives, I stand in front of the building and wait for a human or two to come back holding food in their hands. They rarely feed us. They don’t really like us, actually. Some say we’re scary, that we may hide secrets or govern the world. Hilarious, really, when you observe what humans do to our homes. Some don’t like us because we feed on rubbish. But we simply finish what they have left off. Some just don’t care about us. Why should they, they’ve already got so much on their minds. In any case, there’s always a sandwich or two left in the rubbish. We fight over it with my fellow seagulls, it’s food enough, but the best parts are highly convoluted. The humans watch us fight sometimes. They point at us, they laugh. But when lunch is over, they all return back in for a next round of classes. Sometimes, some leave early, their day probably finished, but most stay late at night in a strange two-levelled room. Often, the central hall is decorated, and the humans stay there, talking, and sometimes, not a sound is made in the whole building.
In the afternoon, I fly up to the green rooftop to observe the humans working in small groups. They look different up there, more attainable. Most of the time, when I peek in the rooms, there are only a handful of humans, typing on computers, shouting at each other, or repeating what another older human is telling them, in sounds that I do not comprehend. I watch as my seagull friends fight or have sex on the rooftop, and how the humans look at them, fascinated, disgusted, or laughing. How peculiar is it that I could be observing the humans observing my own species. Maybe they are like me, perplexed at the way of life of other species, wondering to what extent we resemble each other, or not. Some days I fly to the other side of the building. There, they also work in small groups often with an older human looking over them. It seems like they talk about the same topics as in the big hall, only more confused, and noisy. How strange they are, with their computers, and phones, watching a screen display. Doesn’t the life of a seagull seem more attractive? Just chilling and feeding all day, hanging out with friends. It sure seems more appealing to me than being locked up in a room in a sad grey building all day to learn seemingly useless mountains of information I have trouble seeing the usefulness of. But they are humans. Humans are weird.
Over the seasons, I’ve noticed a pattern. Every 2 cycles of seasons, half of the group of humans leave and a new flock arrives. I don’t know where they go or where they come from. From what I could gather, they all go their own way, to places far away. Some never come back, and some do, but I never see them again. One day, maybe I’ll understand, but for now, I’ll continue to wonder why a small group of humans choose to stay together for two season cycles only to split at the end. It’ll remain a mystery.
As night starts to fall, I peek through the blinds of the book-room where only a few humans remain. All concentrated on their computers, some with empty coffee cups lying next to them, face between their hands, hand on their foreheads. They seem tired. They seem overwhelmed. I’d love to help them, but how could I? I’m just a simple seagull. What do I know of human society? I do wonder if the humans themselves know, or if they are as perplexed as I am. But for now, I simply wait for the few humans dressed in black to push the young humans out at nine o’clock. I’m just a seagull, sure, but I’ve witnessed those humans work all day, climb up to the fourth floor worried or annoyed, to speak with older humans. I’ve seen them sing, dance, and act together. I’ve seen them cry and laugh, shout and whisper. I’ve gotten to know them, and one day they’ll leave, and I’ll never see them again. Never. I hope one day it’ll be my turn to see the world, to follow the humans to the ends of the Earth. Maybe that day, I’ll finally understand what human society is all about.
Read more: A Seagull’s Day in Le HavreRomain YBORRA, 3a is nostalgic and shares here his fond memories of LH and the campus by putting himself in the shoes of the seagull.
Le Dragon Déchaîné 