Against a tacky florescent pink backdrop of candy swirls and cartoon stars, clowns with faces caked in white pumped their pantyhose-wrapped legs to stationary bikes; one wiggled his plastic red nose and waved to the children as his lips ripped into a grin.

Muffled carnival music screeched behind the funhouse, all orchestrated to rumpus happening inside; the red-yellow-green-blue light bulbs on the facade blinked in sequence, desperately trying to divert attention away from the sign that screamed “JUMBO” on top of all this madness.

Despite the annoying activity, memory of the carnival remained photographic stills in my head: what I could recall best was the excruciatingly sweet aroma of cotton candy, popcorn and pastries that plagued the damp Parisian summer air and thinking to myself, “It might rain tomorrow”.