Paris Smells

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.

A Sign in the Actual Unnamed Town of My Youth

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.


    1. I went back and binge read your blog! I wanted to find the prior posts about your adoption process but I kept stopping and reading other posts. You write very well and I love that you are (quote your sister) “all over the place”. I plan to go back and read from the beginning. Don’t think me a stalker. I just really enjoy your blog. Thanks for the kudos! Oh, and my childhood town was in California. Heard they got rid of the pickle factory recently.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Hey stalker bestie – that’s so nice! It always seems that once a post slips two or three spots down on the list, it is lost, never to be read again. If you want to read the adoption story uninterrupted by my other musings, then you can click on the category “Adoption” and all the rest is filtered out.
        And – at the end of the street I grew up on there was a small road that we called “Pickle Alley” because supposedly there was once a pickle factory there. Another coincidence . . .

        Liked by 1 person

      2. What are the odds? Too funny. I will read the adoption story straight through like a good book (and I already know it ends well!)


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