I am in Paris, one of the cities that long ago captured my heart in thought and then, again, in person. I’m happy to say this place fully lives up to the romantic fantasies the world places upon it. Even now, on this grubby street corner, at this fairly grungy cafe in which I am seated, there is glamour: the waitresses are beautiful, in a wholesome way, with full makeup and doe eyes; the Seine flows a few yards away; a mix of tourists with myriad accents, cameras, backpacks, footwear and lovely sartorial locals pass on foot and bike, and I wonder if they can tell just from looking at me that I am American… Or if I blissfully blend in to the crowd.

I pause over the menu. Am I really staying to eat or do I cut and run? Out of all my trips abroad, this is the first one I’m really doing solo.

The surly waiter walks up, looks bored and then a bit indignant at my terrible non-accent (I really can’t do accents at all). I place an order. Then, serenely, lean back and soak it all in.