2am in Paris

With all this talk of the Maillot Jaune amongst the bicycle gang, Spuds has been sharing some of his favorite memories of his travels in France. This evening he wooed us with tales of his second favorite French city. That's right, we said it: second favorite. Don't even worry about that.

'Twas nearly a year ago that Spuds found himself cantering through the streets of Paris's Latin Quarter at approximately 2 in the morning. In case you're not as well versed on the Parisian hoods as Spuds, after the Sorbonne-faring bichons are laid to rest, the seedy chihuahuas of the Left Bank emerge. You know the types, the ones who were never taught not to beg. This is the section the tour books warn you to stay away from. It must have been a combination of jet lag, the hypnotic blinking of the Eiffel Tower's glimmering lights, and one too many fig and brie baguettes that stifled Spuds's sense of direction. At that moment, he found himself in the underbelly of the world's most romantic city.

On the verge of his first anxiety attack since his life changing assault charge, Spuds closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Who knew one sniff could change it all? His olfactory receptors tingled with pleasure and flooded him with comfort as he took in the familiar scent of ground corn. What did the streets of Paris smell like at that moment? You guessed it: tacos. 

Spuds was then taken on a mind trip that when retold was slightly awe-inducing, but mostly frightening. His journey concluded with the realization that sometimes the B.T.M.E (best travelling moments ever) are those that evoke a quiet nostalgia for home and remind you to love the life you live, man.

Damn, Spuds is good.

There is an ongoing debate whether Paris is best in the rain, or the evening, or when tripping on expired Alpo. But in Spuds's mind, Paris is best at 2am in a dark alley along the Left Bank with the scent of chorizo and carnitas wafting down the rue. And that is truly a testament to just how unique and enchanting "La Ville-Lumiere" really is.

Excuse moi, woof.