My encounters of the French kind.

How lucky. I'm sitting next to a middle-aged woman from Paris on my American Airlines flight from Chicago to Paris. I suspected she was French. Right from the start. Before any conversation. She was reading a French book. I was trying to be courteous. And didn't interrupt her much until 90 minutes into the flight. When she had difficulty opening a well-sealed bag of pretzels. So I became the gentleman. And ripped open the bag. On the first try. Adeptly. Like magic. She has children. And grandchildren. Several. Living in the U.S. They are considered true blue Americans. Not French, she tells me. Mainly in Oklahoma. I feel like getting into a discussion of politics. American politics. French politics. But I think better of it. I sense that this woman may not want my probing on such matters. And maybe she's apolitical. I allow her to go back to reading the paperback book. I think it's a romance novel. Meanwhile, I size her up. She looks French. Ordinary. But pleasant. A short haircut. Brownish hair. Looks intellectual. But may not be. Her reading glasses give her a erudite look. She's got a big, ornate ring on her left hand. Another ring on the right. Anyway, the next time we talk, I mention that once I arrive in Paris, I have to catch another plane at an airport in Beauvais, 55 miles north of Paris. How am I gonna get there? She tells me by bus. And that she'll help me make a connection when we arrive. But she didn't. Maybe she forgot. And I didn't mention it again. I wasn't worried. Because I had a 12-hour layover. And I'm confident enough with my pathfinder abilities. Even if it turned into an adventure. Which would be all the better. Anyway, I took a taxi from Charles DeGaulle Airport (costing 45 euros) into the heart of Paris. Where I had a Sunday brunch at a sidewalk cafe. Watching the French pedestrians pass by. Some carrying and munching on baugettes, thin, long loaves of French bread. And I marveled at the gaunt demeanors of many French men. In sharp contrast to Germans and Italians. I wonder why. There's no shortage of amazingly good food in France. And economical, too. My brunch cost only 5 euros. Or about $8. The French women wear lots of tight dresses. Most men dress casually. But I'd see some in three-piece suits reminiscent of the 1970s. Who knows? Maybe the three-piece suit is making a stylish comeback. In Paris, that is. With the rest of the world to follow. -Jim Broede