If you had but eyes to see, you'd know everything there is to know about me by looking at my foot. The threadbare sock, the various scars and bumps, the shabby gentility of the old but expensive shoes, the layers of big toenail that speak as clearly as the rings on a redwood stump, the pungent aroma of a fine aged French cheese just on the brink of runniness. Some people hate the French. People we know, people who we would think are perfectly normal, if slightly bulging, absolutely loathe the French. One of the mysteries of life.