In the City of Love

I got caught up in reading my scrapbook from my first visit to Paris when I was 17 tonight. It's interesting what I remember, what I've completely forgotten, and what I remember incorrectly. 

Here's an excerpt:

I headed towards Notre Dame and on the way I somehow picked up a puppy dog named Karim. I passed him and he smiled at me. The next thing I know he's following me. I went inside the cathedral and sat down, figuring that if I "studied the architecture" long enough he'd get bored and leave. He stayed. One nice thing was that he took me up in the towers of Notre Dame at his own expense. The view was beautiful and worth every step up. We all stood under the bell and the guide hit it with a metal bar. It didn't take much to create a loud, resounding ring. Karim made me take a picture of him on the very top of the cathedral. So I took one . . .

I could have sworn this happened when I returned the following year for study abroad, and I thought his name was Hamid. But Hamid was a different boy altogether. He worked at the hostel where we lived as students and wrote me sweet notes like this on the days I was sad because there wasn't a letter (especially from my boyfriend) in the mail for me.

I don't suppose when I go to Paris next week--my first visit since college--I'll get attention like this. And when I don't, I'll blame it on the fact that I have much shorter hair this time.