Frozen dog shit everywhere in the snow...that's what I remember most about Paris. Except for the snow, it's no different than being in San Francisco walking my aunt's dog.
Stopping an elderly man for directions to the nearest post office to send off post cards to my niece...he stalked me for the next two weeks I was there. I've never been terrified by another human before and was afraid to leave my hotel room every time I pulled back the curtain and saw that he was outside looking up at my window. Turned me off on love and romance. Snuck off to another hotel and met one of the coolest Tunisian person ever who looked after me like a daughter who was going to go through life broken hearted constantly for never listening to advice.
I recall visiting many cathedrals and not really believing in God simultaneously. Just liked that the architect inspired a sense of awe. But it wasn't only within the cathedrals that I believed a sense of wonder, it was the city itself: I did the hommage to Pere du Chaise in search of Jim Morrison's grave, but fell madly in love with the Egyptian style sarcophagus of Oscar Wilde. I was turned off by the Americans who were visiting the Morrison grave as they seemed like stereotypical dead heads trying to resurrect the spirit of Morrison as the dead heads would do Jerry Garcia.
I faintly recall climbing stairs to get to my favorite view of Paris in front of the Sacre Coeur Basillica. Then, walking down the cobble stone streets and somehow arriving to the cemetery where Edith Pilaf was. It was such a small cemetery, I think, compared to American cemeteries. I passed by the Moulin Rouge and felt like I was walking down the seedy side of the Tenderloin back home in San Francisco.
Memories of Paris, San Francisco, and now the countryside of Anseong, South Korea...I think I prefer the stink of cow manure over dog shit. Romantic, aren't I?