To moor myself to life and maintain order in my world, I create traditions and rituals. Some of them are small: my daily salutation, “Good morning, world!” or my weeknight dinners with a fully set table. Others are larger: Thanksgivings and Christmases in New Orleans, and my summer migration to Martha’s Vineyard with boxes of books, foodstuffs, and the inevitable crate of squalling, screeching cats. The most important and inviolable ritual in my life, however, is one that happened by accident.
It began in January 1998, when I took my mother to Paris for her eighty-fifth birthday. The trip fell seamlessly into a break in my academic calendar, and in the downtime after the intensity of Christmas and New Year’s festivities—a perfect chance to regroup and reenergize in
