Ex-boyfriends of the world: STOP E-MAILING US, y’hear?

Has anybody else noticed that the age in which one could lose touch with exes is over? I still remember the e-mail address of my very first boyfriend. I could e-mail him right now and tell him how I feel, all the thoughts I’ve had about him and us, my various developments and revelations and hang-ups, along with any accusations or unresolved complaints I happen to have thought of over the years. Yes, bnawolf@aol.com, I could interrupt you and your life and your ridiculous e-mail address (and your wife) right this very second if I felt like it. And yet, I would never do that. Unfortunately, others among us would. I have received e-mails from no less than three exes (two of mine, one of my sister’s), who somehow feel they have been granted cosmic permission to drop me a line and tell me how they’re doing, whether I want to know or not. And as is usually the case with exes, I don’t. But of course I do, and then I have to open the e-mail and read the whole darn lot of it. Which is why I said in the first place: Ex-boyfriends of the world: STOP E-MAILING US, y’hear? What makes you think you can just barge into my life and tell me you were in love with me and that my personality disgusts you and is fatally flawed or that you have gone nowhere since I’ve gone but are nevertheless content and think it’s time to say “hi” or that you’re still pursuing your fabulously bohemian adventures, having returned from Honduras (though you sometimes wish you were back) in one piece and that you just “thought I should know”? HUH? Did it ever occur to you that I might be happily ignorant of your doings, merrily making my way through a life that is no longer, in any way, connected to yours, other than by one unfortunately remembered e-mail address??

Seriously.

Anyway, I was supposed to tell you about France, right? Here is something lovely about France. I found it rather disconcerting at first. I would be standing in line at the bread store (there’s always a line for the 6 p.m. baguette) and some old man would walk in and give a grand ol’ BONJOUR to everyone and no one in particular, nearly causing me to jump out of my skin, and another general AU REVOIR upon leaving. I discovered, however, that far from being the verbal tic of a few senile old men, this custom is in fact a peculiarity of French culture. And I find it rather charming. Imagine walking into McDonalds. You see four or five lines of people transfixed by the glowing script of the menu, discussing the merits of Happy Meals and McNuggets, the workers in their McDonalds visors scooping up crispy, glistening fries while taking orders from the drive-thru and in you walk, and give everybody a hearty HI! …Can you imagine? They’d probably think you were insane (or French)! But here, there is a recognition that people, be it insurance agents or bank tellers or bakers, are people worthy of acknowledgement—that purchasing insurance, depositing a paycheck, or buying bread are not just anonymous transactions in which money changes hands, but rather interactions in which words are exchanged, and glances, and pleasantries.

All I have to say it, thank god some people still haven’t learned to do it the right way (like we do it in America).