Dear folks,

I'll start by recounting my side of a conversation I had a couple days ago with Alain, the owner of a lot of boutiques in the neighborhood where my wine shop is located (and whose yet unrealized dream of transforming it into a kind of urban village I embraced): Alain, your urban village is like a ham and eggs breakfast. You know what that is, don't you? That's a breakfast where the chicken can be slightly interested, but the pig is committed. You're the chicken, I'm the pig.

So, we still don't have an urban village, but the wine shop is thriving, and I've just reached the break-even point. A minor miracle after 7 months. I now carry La Bleue Clandestine, a Swiss absinthe, and the accessories: absinthe fountain, spoons, glasses. That gear has fascinated a few of my regulars. I quash the over-enthusiastic by telling them that all that stuff is just hookah and bong for people my age. I've yet to taste it.

I'm convinced that the 3rd district of Paris is overpopulated with loonies. One local, an older lady, came in, looked around, snapped "This is a shop for men," and stormed out in a huff. Or the grizzled gent with two weeks' worth of food stains on his shirt asking for a 6-bottle case of Corbieres and paying with Amex. You know you've made it when the local wino comes into your shop and asks you to uncork her bottle. Evelyne likes to camp out on the front stoop of the building next door or the one across the street. I've given her the nickname "nain de jardin" -- garden gnome. She speaks fairly decent English and hates the AA, the last meeting of which she fled in disgust because everyone had to stand up, hold hands, and intone "In God We Trust" in English. Evelyne has an iPod and a fondness for white wine from the Loire.

L'Ami Louis, "the Tour d'Argent of the checkered tablecloth class of restaurants," is Bill Clinton's fave eatery in Paris. It attracts Hollywood -- the cast of Oceans Twelve had a cast dinner there -- and royalty like Chirac and Robert Parker. It's about 50 feet up the street from the shop. There is some trickle-down, as I get a fair number of L'Ami Louis patrons in the shop, but these patrons are by-and-large freeloaders who come into the shop to kill time while their tables are being prepared. The Americans by far are the worst. A family of six Louisianans took over the shop one evening, compelling me to stand behind the cash desk and bellow, "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is not Wal-Mart and there are no blue lights in this shop." When Mom finally asked for a recommendation for a white wine, I took her over to my whites-for-under-10-euros and began to describe their various characteristics. Just as I finished my description of the Domaine Martin Côtes du Rhône, Mom asked, "Are you an Episcopalian?" Stunned, I replied, "No, ma'am, I'm a non-believer. Why do you ask?" "I thought you might be Episcopalian by the words you were using." I get it: "mineral finish" and "fruity" are often heard in Episcopalian sermons.

Never a moment dull.

And that goes for Barbara, too. She's still fighting off acid flies and malaria in Kinshasa. Latest news is that she has been asked to head up the Procurement section at the mission in Sudan (Khartoum). "Head up" meaning "clean up." She expects action in late July.

And that's the truth, Jill.

Rick