Earlier today, I was casually disparaging the French as rude American-haters in the response to a post on Facebook when it occurred to me that, in my entire life, I have known exactly one Frenchman. He is married to my first Arizona girlfriend and we spent many an hour playing Boules during the year and a half that they were here trying to start a restaurant. He learned English from a Scotsman, and is completely unintelligible unless he pretends to be John Wayne, which he does almost perfectly. Jean Yves is a great guy, and a very talented chef. Holly is a great gal with an unrealistically optimistic opinion of the likelihood that all the stars will align for her pipe dream of the moment. I admire her, not so much for her boundless optimism and enthusiasm as for her ability to bounce back from repeated failure and disappointment. The restaurant never happened, and they packed up and went back to the Bay area, where, together, they managed to afford the rent on a house, something that should impress anyone who has lived in or near San Francisco. They are now in France, the second country Holly has emigrated to with a husband. The first was Qatar, with the father of her son. I would have advised against both marriages, being 50% pessimist (I got it from my father), but, although I never met her first husband, I have seen enough of her son to know that he is an admirable young man, and as I said, Jean Yves is a great guy. I guess what I am getting at is that thinking about this makes me wonder how much I have missed in life through caution or fear. How many times have I said “I shouldn’t” or “I can’t”, when I should have or could have? <insert three word cliche here>