The internet is not yet invented and I am writing a letter home on tissue-y airmail stationery from my dodgy hotel in Paris, a louche glass of pastis by my side. Sure, it's a well-trod cliché (and, for certain, many other cultures have an "Old World", often with better charms), but indulge me, dammit. The sun is setting and no one has yet announced that smoking can kill you, so it's a must. Ignorance is bliss in so many ways — they're not all good, but in this case, just for a moment...