I remember this period in my life so vividly. I can still smell the air as I walked out of the salon—the cigarette still cooling on the pavement, the hint of algae from the lake, the diesel oil leaking from the Benz parked right in front. I can still hear the “clack clack clack” of my slingbacks as I strode to the cafe. The jingle of bells as I pushed open the sea-green door. The smell of yeast enveloping me like an unrestrained embrace, the kind I’d had so few of in my life. The kind that made me at once wistful and uncomfortable. “One croissant and a cappuccino, please,” I’d tell the young woman over the glass display. And already, I was playing a part: “Paris Joanne,” even though I couldn’t speak French. Even though I’d never dream of actually going go Paris. Even though I hadn’t the faintest clue of whether Parisians actually ate croissants or whether this was just something you see in the movies. It didn’t matter. For the next couple hours, I could live in this tiny little world ...