Take cheese, for example, which I used to think of as a yellow square wrapped in plastic. [...] that cheese board — on which every gooey, stinky and moldy product was the happy creation of a local artisan — was my invitation into l’art de vivre — the art of living. With five weeks of paid vacation, plus every Catholic holiday ever invented, the French have become experts at living well. [...] my lack of anything like fluency doesn’t matter — the French people value politeness just as much as they take pride in their language. Cooking schools abound in France, offering nonthreatening and personal experiences, including trips to markets. All the stuff that matters to me — taking a good lead off first base, executing a squeeze bunt to perfection, matching up a batter against a pitcher — would be nonsense to a French person. The next time I mortify a French friend by putting a little ketchup on my meat, I’ll just remember that with two outs and a full count, he’ll have no idea why I know the runner will be off with the pitch.