Petit Chien. Grande Porte.

One of my favorite fantasies is that I am not American. I am French. Not an original fantasy, certainly, there are Francophiles on every corner. And I’m sure my fantasy is much like many others.

Of course, since I am French, I speak and write that beautiful, maddening language fluently, and I don’t have to think for long, excruciating minutes before I translate a sentence in my head like “Will you miss me?” Or, “Did you have a good time?” Or, “I got up late.”

And of course, I know all the quirky byways of Paris, the tangled stone streets that head straight to the boulangerie and all those baguettes, brioche, and croissants that accompany the perfect cafe au lait.

I am quite at home on these steep, cobbled lanes and gracefully accept the hot water that suddenly turns cold, the flickering lamps, and the fact that we all leave for vacation on the same day. I make a (yes) perfect omelet and (yes) assemble a stunningly beautiful cheese platter, and have mastered the art of lingering for hours in a corner cafe.

But most especially in my French fantasy, all is “haute.” Coin silver spoons, Belgian linen napkins, fresh flowers, Italian shoes, perfectly cut black dresses, miles of silk scarves, bottles of crisp champagne, vintage nightgowns, haute, all of it. Nothing superfluous or ordinary or common.

This is, for sure, a thinly disguised fantasy about living better: paying attention when I eat my melted cheese sandwich for lunch and not reading the supermarket flier; buying fresh organic produce instead of a tired old head of romaine; dressing each day in clothes that make me really happy; riding my bike to the post office and the library; spending more time with friends; paying attention to the sound of the rain; hanging all the clothes out to dry in the sun; and losing my silly trepidation about dinner parties.

In my French fantasy, I pay attention. I know that every day is a precious one, and every minute, if I stop and linger and attend, is pure, genuine haute.