Sunlight opened my eyes. I smelled fresh croissants and heard car motors and whooshing bicycles flying past the café where I sat in a wicker chair at a small, round table. A petit coffee and a glass of water had been served by a clean-shaven waiter in a black coat, white shirt, and bow tie who stood at my shoulder and asked in French, “Will there be anything else, Miss?”
Although having taken just a couple of years of high school French, I understood him and the conversations swirling around me.
More amazingly, I spoke perfect French. “Not right now. Thanks.”
The café’s awning read . A black 1940s Citroën pulled to the curb, another honked as it passed. I wore a printed dress
