Just this once, excuse me while I strive for meaning

After what seemed, for better or for worse, like one of the longest summers on record, I went to France for a week – one final attempt to squeeze the remaining bits of juicy goodness out of my last “real” summer – and came back Sunday. As I was flying back on the looooong plane ride from Charles de Gaulle to JFK airport, I went over some ideas for this, my first Daily column.

I had scribbled a few notes in my Moleskine (how stereotypical can I get?) and planned to write something snarky about my trip: something about how the French actually do eat stinky cheese (which, by the way, is delicious), or about how they really sit around saying things like “Oh la la” and “C’est la vie.” But I looked out the window at those breathtaking, blinding white clouds forming a soft pillow over the Atlantic and started to feel, well, silly.

Maybe it’s because I had been reading a lot of Ernest Hemingway and sitting around at Luxembourg Gardens, or because I had lunch last Wednesday at the caf