I was flipping through the glossy luxe Christmas issue of Madame Figaro at the magazine store on Broadway, and this guy started talking to me in French. And maybe what it is is, I just need to be taken by surprise or something—before my mind can kick in and tell me I’m conjugating stuff incorrectly and rap me on the knuckes and make me stumble bumble tumble about helplessly—because this afternoon I sure was able to hold my own. This French speaking, it’s a funny thing—some days it works smooth and easy like pouring cheesecake batter into a Springform pan, and other days it’s like, “Je— je— je— you speak English, right?”