Apparently I choose not to converse with anyone who doesn't speak English. So I told the gorgeous woman on the moped who stopped me on Pont Neuf, I think to ask me for directions. Or, perhaps, she wished to proclaim to me her undying love. I'll never know, much to Porter's amusement.

We were headed in a light rain to l' marche on rue Berlin de Poisses for Coke and biere when this lovely apparition before me appeared, as if she stepped out of a Chanel advertisement. I don't even know precisely what she said before I stammered, to her horror, "No ... parlez-vous Anglais." Of course, what I met to say was either "Do you speak English?" or "I speak English," the latter which should have been "Je ne parle pas Francais."

Instead, I flubbed it big time. I'm fairly certain that it is not a good thing when a Parisian woman covers her mouth and looks away in horror after you say something incredibly stupid. What a colossal boob. She could have been the woman of my dreams; the one with whom I settled down and made babies. Instead I made myself out as the ugly American. Oh la la.