This piece made me want to backpack and fly out to Paris, where I lived for two years pretending to write a novel. But most of the time I was out and about, like a boulevardier or flaneur at the cafes. Living on the right bank, only a short walk from Notre Dame Cathedral, gave up some good sightseeing, but not exclusively. One day among the throngs of tourists I spotted an African-American serviceman who bellowed, “Where be that Quasimoto dude?” I laughed out loudest, but not best. American expats spend roughly a quarter of their time avoiding each other in Paris–when they could live in New York and not bump into any.