This will be a typical travelogue. I will start with a description of the scenery, move on to a personal anecdote, and conclude with description of a cultural practice. I am told that by adhering to this format I can both tug at heart strings and change minds, which are things I enjoy doing. Let's begin.

Dijon is a small town of 150,000. The streets, which boldy ignore every known method of organization, are full of people and cover the valley. Despite this, people are constantly and accidentally running into friends and lovers (France is very open-minded, it's difficult to tell). This happens with such frequency and against such odds that I wouldn't rule out some kind of conspiracy – probably government organized to make the tourists feel welcome. All the buildings, new and old, fit into an architectural motif found in the middle ages; I know this because ye old tanner's workshop is perfectly situated for a side-by-side comparison with the apartment complex finished in '98. Each an every building here would be a curiosity in the states – the row of gift shops at Six Flags is actually modeled after a street here in Dijon, hand to god.

My first day here in Dijon – note the shift in tone, the personal anecdote is more low key than the mise en scene – I got lost. Being the adventurous spirit that I am, I decided to wake up early to visit the weekly market scene. Finding it was no problem, and once there I blended seamlessly in with the crowd and bought a wallet in which to put the bills that are no apparent reason a quarter-inch taller. Then, being the adventurous spirit that I am, I decided to explore a bit further. Then a bit further. Then a bit further.

I did, however, have plan: once finished, I would set my left side to the sun and head south to the central road in Dijon, from which I could reach my rendez-vous. It was a good plan, and like all good plans it should have worked. What I did not know was that the Rue de la Liberte ends, quite suddenly and with little fanfare. And so I walked past it, all the way down to the souther corner of the centre ville. And then, then I thought, “The greatest generals make opportunities: I know where I am, I shall north-west until I reach my goal.” Unfortunately, this was also a good plan. With a skill that wish I could wield against someone other than myself, I deftly chose the route around and between each and every landmark I knew, including, most unfortunately, La Rue de la Liberte, which ends, quite suddenly and with little fanfare, on the western tip as well. All told I made two complete circuits of the road before I finally was able to follow the directions I asked of 3 different people and have since resolved to carry a bus map with me at all times; it is unfortunate in the extreme that the French make such bulky bus maps and such tight pants.

I do enjoy America. I feel we do many things very well – processed food, for example, is available at prices and in quantities unmatched by the Old World. There is, however, at least one aspect of our culture that the French do better, and it is a practice I will detail here and encourage everyone to adopt. When the French throw a party, the host and/or the guests buy a selections of booze and food, clip the receipts, and throw them into a jar. Once all is tallied, the sum is divided by the number of guests and everyone, no questions asked, no complaints listened to, pays an equal share. I am not a communist. I believe the tragedy of the commons. But this works.