On how I managed to look anti-French even though I was riding a bike and had a baguette slung over my back

It’s the latte. No French man or woman would take their coffee on the run like that, or rather on the ride. In spite of past experiences that should have taught me lessons on how not to ride a bike uphill (with a skinny mezzo, extra hot), there I was again, sweating and cursing and holding on to that precious latte during my rendezvous with B, continuing with my resolve to make this a (virtually) car-free summer.

If you’re going to sell lattes in a bread store, you’re going to tempt me, that’s all.

At least I remembered to preset the speed. By the time I got home I thought myself to be so adept at this, that I even took occasional sips, looking very cool, riding and sipping a latte with that bread cheerfully bopping up and down over my back shoulder – cool, but not French.