Listen to me. I know stink.
I grew up in a small house situated across the street from a cow pasture and smack dab in the middle of a town complete with both a chicken farm and…wait for it…a pickle factory. That was my outside environment. Inside, I shared the house with twelve other people plus a cat, a dog, and a spider monkey. OK. That’s not ALL true. You see, the spider monkey had his own garage apartment. But the rest is absolutely true. I told you. I know stink.
And Paris stinks.
Paris smells like diesel fuel car exhaust, cigarette smoke, people pee and canine crap with a dash of fish market and Roquefort cheese added to the mix.
Every stinking time (pun intended) I go to Paris I consider tapping out– I just can’t stand the smell. But then: I find myself in a Paris garden, the scent of pine trees and flowers waft my way. It begins to rain and the stained air becomes at once fresh and clean. Seeking shelter from the delight of the rain, I race toward home but stop abruptly when I catch the undeniable fragrance of fresh baked bread and chocolate tarts.
And just like that, Paris redeems herself.